A Thousand Reasons

by Mariah Dietz

  “I wasn’t drinking for anyone. I was just having a good time.”

  “Wasn’t it you preaching to me just last weekend that drinking isn’t necessary for having fun, and if it was necessary to drink in order to have fun than I needed to find new friends?”

  “You’re seventeen, Luna. I’m twenty-four.”

  “Exactly. You’re twenty-four and have never gotten drunk, and the first time you hang out with this guy, you were so wasted you couldn’t drive yourself home.”

  “This wasn’t the first time I hung out with him!”

  Her eyes brighten. “But he’s just some guy?”

  “He’s not Clay.” The moment her ex’s name leaves my lips I regret it, but it’s too late, and really, it probably needed to be said. Wes is nothing like that guy, and I knew that within seconds of meeting him. Clay was fake and sneaky, and he judged us for living in a trailer park. He saw Luna as being easy, and she felt special because he paid attention to her, and the concoction became a lethal dose for my sister’s reputation.

  “You hope he’s not like Clay, but you have no idea. No one knew he would do what he did.”

  Pride makes me want to say that I did. That I knew he was bad news and had warned her of as much on numerous occasions. She continuously chose not to listen because she wanted to believe I was wrong about him being an entitled asshole who was going to use her. But he used so much of her, I know that throwing this in her face won’t make her see reason or sense, but instead just push her farther in the opposition. So, I nod. “I do hope he’s nothing like Clay.”

  Luna shakes her head. “Rich guys are all a recipe for disaster. Trust me, you don’t want to waste your time on him.”

  Tears burn my eyes and I try to take a deep breath in attempt to stop the rush of emotions that have been firing off like a geyser.

  “You’re supposed to be the smart one,” she says. “Act like it.” Luna swipes her cell phone from the bed and leaves, slamming our bedroom door behind her.

  My heart is pounding in my chest, bringing too much blood to my brain, making me too warm and for my thoughts to turn too fast.

  When did I start to see one’s worth based upon finances rather than principles?

  Tears begin flowing, and I can’t stop them. One after the other, faster and faster until I finally succumb and allow myself to cry. I don’t know if it’s the fear that she’s right or how hard I’m praying she’s wrong that has me so emotional.

  When Mom comes in a couple of hours later holding a cold can of off-brand pop, I struggle to know whether to play up the sick angle some more or pretend I’m miraculously better and get ready for the tutoring sessions I have scheduled.

  The reminder of Wes suggesting I take the day off and call in sick seems even more tempting, and I don’t even have anything to do with my time. Nothing except mope and be angry with myself. And then the realization that I lied to him about where I work ricochets through my building remorse, adding a new level of mockery. I could have told him I work at the sandwich shop and discount store. I could have told him a more generic response. Instead, I bold-faced lied to him because I was too ashamed to admit working in a place he likely has never even shopped at.

  “How are you feeling?” Mom asks, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

  “Better,” I reply, though I don’t. Now, I’m emotionally exhausted and so confused and conflicted, I don’t know who to be more upset with, myself, Luna, or her stupid ex-boyfriend, Clay.

  “You don’t look like you’re feeling very well. Do you want to try taking something?” She won’t offer for me to skip a day like Wes had. She can’t. We rely on my income as much as hers.

  “I’m okay.”

  “Who brought you home?” she asks.

  “Just a friend.”

  Mom smooths my hair with a gentle swipe. “He had a kind smile.”

  Once again, my cheeks warm. Mom laughs softly. “You guys go to school together?”

  I nod. “We have a class together.”

  “Do you like him?”

  I shake my head, wishing to tell her about last night. Discuss my fears and concerns with her. Ask her if she ever feels inferior because we meet poverty level. But it’s been too long since I’ve come to my mom for that kind of advice. Now, I fear burdening her with even simple problems. “We’re just friends.”

  “Who were your friends that borrowed your Jeep?”

  I stare at her, my unease becoming confusion. “What are you talking about?”

  “Your friends dropped it off.”

  “What friends?”

  Mom’s brow furrows. “Those blonde girls. They dropped it off and then got into a truck that was following them.”

  “Oh!” I cry, feigning understanding. “Duh!” I bop myself in the forehead with an open palm. “Sorry. I think this food poisoning left me too tired to think straight.”

  She smiles, unaware that I’m lying through my teeth. “You need to be careful, Leela. I’m glad you’re making friends, but if they’d crashed your car or had been late, it could have caused problems. I’m sure you already had ensured everything was fine, and I know you’re an adult, it’s just some advice from your boring, old mom.” She stands. My mom isn’t old, not even close. Even with my older brother causing havoc and her constantly maintaining multiple jobs, she barely looks her fifty-one years.

  I gather my things to shower, passing by one of the front windows so I can see if my Jeep is really in the driveway. Sure enough, it’s there. I don’t reach for my cell phone until I lock the bathroom door. There’s a text message from a number I don’t have saved to my contacts, one with a Southern California area code.

  You left your keys in Wes’s truck. They’re now under your floor mat.

  My shoulders slump as I sit on the edge of the bathtub.

  I pick up my phone and type a reply.

  Me: Ace?

  Kendall.

  It’s horrible that I’m relieved she’s the one who responded, but I am.

  Me: How much do I owe you?

  Kendall: Nothing.

  I roll my eyes. Nothing is ever free in life. Nothing. Everything comes with a price, even friendships.

  Me: How much did it cost you to get it out of impound?

  Kendall: Nothing. I have a brother-in-law who’s a cop. He was able to pull a few strings for us.

  Me: Why did you do this?

  As grateful as I am to have my Jeep back and not have to worry about riding the bus all the way to San Diego or finding a way to come up with the funds to get my car back, I don’t like having a debt.

  I open another window to Wes’s number. We have texted a couple of times since the barbecue at Max’s, but it’s been several days now.

  Me: Thank you for everything. Truly. I appreciate it.

  I wait several minutes for them to reply, but neither does and my time to get ready is running out, so I leave my phone on the small vanity and get into the shower.

  As Kendall had mentioned, I find my keys under the floor mat of my Jeep.

  I can’t imagine what Ace and Kendall thought of my car, especially after having to suffer the drive with no radio or air conditioning. I hate considering if they laughed or teased about it or my house when they pulled up and then left without so much as knocking on my door. The fact makes me believe so confidently that they must have been shocked or disgusted or both.

  When I pull up to the school library, I’m distracted with thoughts that don’t have a beginning or end, just endless possibilities that aren’t based upon anything but speculation, yet it’s impossible for me to stop.

  “Lala!” Jamal calls out as I cross the parking lot. “How you feelin’, girl? I considered calling you to cancel, but knew better. You’re a work horse.”

  I wait for him to catch up, noting his usual headphones. Today he’s wearing sweats again, and I’m envious over it. I don’t own a pair of sweats nice enough to leave the house in, but if I did, I wonder what people’s reactions would
be to me showing up and tutoring in them. While some of it is simply the style of the sweats, a larger and more important part is the demeanor in which one carries themselves while wearing them, and I seriously doubt I’d be able to execute feeling—let alone appearing—cool in them, even if they were expensive.

  “Do you own anything but sweatpants?” I still have to ask.

  “I dressed up last night.”

  I work to recall what he wore to the party, but all I can remember is Wes.

  Jamal laughs. “You can’t remember what I was wearing because you were dipping in the sauce. I told you to stay away from that shit.”

  “No, you said the punch was strong.”

  He nods. “I know.”

  “That doesn’t say, don’t drink it, you’ll be flat on your ass after two cups.”

  “But it was implied. I thought you were smart.”

  I glare at him, warning him from continuing.

  “Don’t tell me you’re only book smart. You’ve got to have some street sense.”

  I do have street sense. I know how hard and unforgiving the world can be, and how regardless of the work and effort you put in there are times you aren’t rewarded, but it’s still less knowledge that he assumes, because I’ve never had to be. For starters, Troy used to walk me home every day when I rode the bus, and since he has been feared long before I understood why, no one dared to bother me.

  Jamal simply laughs. “Let’s hope you get your doctorate, Lala. You weren’t made to live in the hood.”

  “I don’t live in the hood.” My words are aggressive, and for the second time today, I find myself switching sides, defending the place I’ve been anxious to leave since I was a child.

  He doesn’t say anything. Not an apology or a joke or anything else. Instead, he walks past me and heads into the library.

  15

  Wes

  “Sorry for getting us started so late,” I tell Max as we round the track. It’s hotter than hell outside. Going to pick up Leela’s Jeep and drive it out to her house took the rest of the morning and part of the early afternoon.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he tells me. “Since dinner got canceled tonight, I don’t have anything going on.”

  We continue on, the sun reflecting off the beads of sweat on my face, blinding me each time we cross the line to mark another lap. I’m ready to call it quits when my toe catches, and I crash to the ground. My palms burn as they catch most of my weight, but it’s my ankle where the pain is radiating in hot licks up to my thigh.

  “Shit,” I hiss, sitting up. The track is barren, the temperature too warm.

  “Are you okay?” Max looks me over. “You went down like a brick house.”

  “A cool brick house though, right?”

  He chuckles, reaching a hand toward me. “You all right to get up?”

  I’d rather remain sitting for a few more minutes and see if the pain will subside or at least stop feeling like a bear trap is around my ankle—but I grip his hand and let him help haul me upright. The moment my foot connects with the ground, the pain intensifies and radiates, nearly sending me back on my ass.

  “Dude,” Max says, grabbing my shoulders and supporting my additional weight. “What did you do?”

  “It’s probably just twisted.”

  Max stares at my foot before shaking his head. “I guess we’ll find out. Which hospital you want to stop at?”

  “No.” I shake my head. “It’s fine. I just need to go home and rest it.”

  “You want to come to the house?”

  “Nah. I’m fine, man.” I start to move, and Max releases his grip from my shoulders, allowing me to hobble forward several steps until I pause.

  “You still feeling fine?” he asks.

  “Maybe it’s sprained.”

  He presses his lips into a grim line. “I don’t know, man. It’s already beginning to swell pretty good. I think we should take you in and get some X-rays.”

  “You’re already in doctor mode, trying to milk my insurance.”

  Max laughs. “If you want to just go home and ice it, I don’t care. It’s probably what I would do, too. But, if you want to go in and get it looked at, I don’t think that’s a bad idea. You might have a stress fracture or something.”

  “I just rolled my ankle. It’s going to be fine.” I glance around the empty track. “I’m glad this place is a ghost town today. I’m sure I looked really awesome doing my faceplant.”

  “Did you trip over something?”

  “Yeah. Air molecules.”

  Max throws his head back and laughs. “Well, hopefully some ice will make it feel better, and you can come back out tomorrow and kick some air molecule ass.”

  I walk beside Max, attempting not to limp. The pain is sharp and distracting, and for a moment I consider lying to him and telling him that I need to make a phone call so I can buy some additional time.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Max glances at me, his face still forward. It’s rare he’ll preface a sentence like this and even more rare for him to look so nervous.

  “What’s up?”

  “Do you think Ace would read into things too much if I got her a … ring?”

  I stop, my pain forgotten. “A ring? Like an engagement ring?” I look at him with widened eyes, shocked and speechless. In many ways it feels like a natural progression—something I’ve been expecting and am sure everyone else has been as well. In other ways, it comes as a startling realization. A reminder that we’re adults now.

  Max shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says, kicking a loose rock. “Maybe it’s a promise ring? Is that outdated? Does that even happen anymore?”

  “You’re asking the wrong guy. This is a conversation you should probably be having with Kendall.”

  “I would, but she can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

  Our pace slows as I laugh, knowing he’s right. The shock of the situation wanes as I consider Max’s intent. I’m fairly certain he’s been in love with Ace since he was ten. “You should do it if it feels right. Ace won’t get scared off. I’m fairly sure at this point you could probably rob a bank and she’d still think you were perfect.”

  “I am.” He kicks another loose rock. “Her birthday’s in a few weeks, and I was thinking about giving it to her then. I just don’t want her to freak out over it and get scared…”

  Max isn’t exuding his usual attitude of not giving a shit, and instead looks more nervous than I’ve ever seen him. “You’re tattooed on her skin. On the finger you want to place that ring,” I remind him. “It doesn’t get any more permanent than that.”

  He raises his own left hand where her handwriting is permanently etched on his ring finger. “Yeah, it does,” he says.

  I wait for him to elaborate, but he doesn’t, leaving me to wonder if he’s referring to her last name or something else.

  “I think it will only bring you closer,” I tell him.

  Max peers over at me, his stare intense. “Thanks, man.”

  16

  Leela

  Jasmine: Sorry I missed your call. I was at work. Everything OK?

  Me: Just need to unload what happened Friday night.

  Jasmine: …Did Troy get arrested?

  Me: Thankfully, no … at least, not that I’m aware of. Why? Is there something I don’t know?

  Jasmine: Stop fretting. I just always assume that’s the bad news when you need to unload.

  Me: No this isn’t “bad” news.

  Jasmine: You’ve piqued my interest. What kind of news do you have?

  I hesitate. Discussions like this are so much easier in person. But the past couple of years have made that increasingly more difficult. With both of us working and now going to school, it’s a chore to see one another, which is exactly why I’d told Wes that having a relationship would be so tough.

  Me: I went out on Friday to a party that a guy I tutor invited me to.

  Jasmine: Wait! I thought you liked a guy from your clas
s. You whore! Who is this guy?

  Me: No. This guy I tutor really is JUST a friend. I went to this party because Luna and my dad got into it, and I was so tired of being Switzerland. I needed a break.

  Jasmine: Did you have a good time? I’m sort of jealous I couldn’t go with you.

  I missed her, too. If she’d been home, I wouldn’t have gone out to that party. I would have gone to her house or gone out on a walk or something else entirely. But she tries to pick up every Friday and Saturday night shift at the small bar she works at, because tips are better those nights.

  Me: I did, but … I kind of … sort of … drank too much…

  Jasmine: WHAT!!!!!!

  Me: I had no idea I was. I mean, I knew I was drinking, I just didn’t think it would impact me so much.

  Jasmine: Was everything OK?

  Me: Yeah—Wes (the guy from my class) was there, and he helped me.

  Jasmine: !!!!!

  Jasmine: Did you kiss him?

  Me: NO! I was drunk, and I threw up. At least twice that I can remember.

  I cringe, thinking back on the situation. I was so obsessed with thinking we couldn’t be together because of how vastly different our lifestyles were that I completely negated the fact that he saw me lose my cookies.