A Thousand Reasons

by Mariah Dietz

  “You don’t even know him.”

  “I don’t need to.”

  I slam my top dresser drawer which holds my few cosmetics shut, and turn to face my little sister. “Last year you pleaded for Dad to understand why you liked Clay. To accept him, and look at what you’ve become!”

  “He was right, Leela! I hated admitting it just as much as you do now, but he was right. Clay burned me and he never did think of me as anything more than some poor piece of trailer trash ass that would believe all his pretty little lies. And I did. I was so stupid and naïve. I believed he saw me for me.” She closes her eyes quickly, but not before I see tears forming, ones that betray her anger is stemming from pain that she still hasn’t faced.

  “Luna, what he did to you was horrible. Unforgivable. But that doesn’t mean that everyone who has money or success is a bad person or is going to hurt or take advantage of you. I mean, look at Derrick.” I wave an arm to a section of our bedroom wall which had been devoted to a collage of photos of Derrick and me together over the span of several years. “He’s from our neighborhood and he betrayed me, but you don’t think anything of it.”

  “But he wanted you back!” Luna cries.

  “And that makes it all right? Him deciding after the fact that he wants to be with me makes amends for him cheating on me?” I look at my sister with stretched eyes, pleading with her to understand and see reason here because if there’s anything she understands at seventeen it’s betrayal.

  She stares at me, her brown eyes refusing to come to any type of understanding. “He apologized…”

  “So if Clay had apologized for sharing your pictures with the entire school would that have made it okay? Would you have forgiven him?”

  She hesitates before she shouts no, and it dawns on me that her being embarrassed is only a small fraction of where her anger is deriving from. Most of my sister’s pain is still from heartache because he didn’t reciprocate the feelings she had and may still have for him.

  I want to hug her. I want to tell her that her life has barely begun at seventeen and she will meet so many guys and one day will hopefully forget all about Clay, though she will likely never forget the pain he’s inflicted. But, Luna and I don’t have that kind of relationship. We never have. She has always been the loud, strong-willed, stubborn one, and I’ve always been gone too much with work and school, trying to find a way out of here.

  “Wes isn’t Clay. He’s nothing like Clay.”

  “Keep telling yourself that, but when you get burned, don’t come looking to me for any pity.”

  I stare at her, wondering how she can dare say that to me when I’ve never looked to her for any type of compassion or empathy, even when I was stressed to the maximum and wasn’t sleeping because I was so obsessed with studying to ensure I could do my best.

  “Face it, Leela, under your pretty hair, and pretty clothes, and pretty makeup, you’re still a girl from the wrong side of town, and you always will be, even if you become a doctor, you’re always going to be from here. Troy is always going to be known for being a dealer … and much to your disappointment, I probably will, too.”

  “You have a choice, Luna. Just like Troy did. Don’t make yourself sound like a victim.” I grab my bag and slam our bedroom door shut behind me, anger burning my frown into a permanent fixture as I make my way to the kitchen and pull open the fridge in search of something quick to eat.

  “What’s all the yelling about?” Dad asks.

  I glare at him. All my life I’ve looked up to him, idolizing both his strength and how tirelessly he’s worked. But right now, I’m angry with him. I am so angry with him for poisoning our thoughts and teaching hatred and making us believe we were worth less because we owned less. I know he didn’t draw these conclusions himself. Injustices and inequalities are what built these prejudices—some of which are justified. Hell, I’ve contributed to them over the years when I’ve experienced others looking down upon me because of what I didn’t have or didn’t experience due to being poor.

  “Nothing,” I mutter, grabbing a loaf of homemade bread from the fridge and dropping it to the counter. I take out a cutting board and knife and cut a thick slice, making sure to keep my attention on my task rather than him.

  “I need you to stop by Luna’s school and pick her up this afternoon,” he tells me, filling a commuter cup I received from a college fair several years back.

  I nod with understanding, though want to ask why someone else can’t stop. That isn’t me though. My role has always been to keep the peace and try harder.

  “You’ll do it today on your way home?” he asks.

  I nod again, this time just one short jerk before I’m out the door, crossing the short distance to where my old Jeep is parked. Though it’s early, there’s noise in the neighborhood. There always is. When you have chickens, dogs, and too many people in homes that are too close together, you’re never going to experience silence.

  I get into my Jeep, dropping my bag and breakfast on the passenger seat and my coffee in the cup holder, and without taking the time to roll down my window, I speed away.

  Once on the main road I roll down my window and fasten my seat belt, working to shove my racing thoughts to the recesses of my mind. The trouble is, it’s impossible. I never want to leave my family. My parents have worked too hard to never enjoy the simple pleasures in life like they deserve. And while Luna believes she will be happy with a future that doesn’t include a plan or furthered education, I wish she wanted more. I want her to dream as big and broadly as I do for her and work to achieve them until her dreams and reality are interchangeable. I wonder if I were older than Troy, if I could have influenced him, too—if I could influence him still.

  Thoughts of my family distract me from considering my date with Wes this afternoon. The details I spent hours discussing with Jasmine last night. Once I reach the parking lot, I’m scrambling to remember the questions Jas had suggested I ask him.

  I head to our shared class. The moment I step through the classroom door, my attention goes to where Wes is sitting, a smile on his face as he talks with Max. I’m late due to taking too long getting ready so I’m only able to share a brief greeting before Professor Kline begins class.

  Though I look forward to this class, I struggle to pay attention as the clock counts down the minutes until the end of class.

  Is this a mistake?

  Will he be like Clay?

  Will he be like Derrick?

  I focus on these questions to suppress the one that has been a constant in my mind since I first met Wes and he smiled at me, the same one that keeps popping up and growing louder each time I try and ignore it. The one that got far louder, bolder, and more frequent since he asked me out even after seeing me at such a low: why me?

  I hate that I’m considering the question.

  Loathe it in fact.

  My entire life I’ve been trying to prove to others that I’m good enough, and now I’m having to defend myself to myself. I’m motivated and smart—and borderline funny when I’m not nervous. More than that, I’m kind, and want to help others, and work to be a better person. I am a catch.

  I am a catch.

  I am a catch.

  I’m repeating this to myself when the bell rings, and Wes turns to me, his eyes bright as he grins. “I’ll see you around one on the same bench?”

  I nod, and his smile grows.

  19

  Wes

  I focus on the pain in my foot to prevent myself from considering the possibility of Leela not coming.

  The weather is still hot, making the boot I was fitted with even more uncomfortable. My leg itches, and though it’s only been a couple of days, I’m restless.

  “Oh no. How did I not notice this?”

  I look up and discover Leela. Her long red hair is back, part of it pulled into an intricate braid at one side of her head before joining the rest in a long ponytail. I start to stand, and she rushes forward, her hands reaching for me as
though I’m going to topple over. Apparently, this boot is an even bigger game killer.

  “It was under my desk,” I tell her, reflexively balancing my weight on my right foot. “Trust me, it’s fine.”

  Her lips dip with pity. “What did they say?”

  “That you, Leela Walsh, are ready to graduate because you correctly diagnosed your first patient.”

  Her frown deepens. “I’m sorry.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t be. It’s not your fault I tripped over air molecules.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Partially ruptured.”

  She pulls in air through her teeth. “Do they want to do surgery?”

  “I meet the orthopedic surgeon tomorrow.”

  Leela clasps a hand to her forehead. “That’s terrible!” Stress is clearly written across her features as her wide, green eyes take in my boot again.

  “They said it will only be a couple of weeks of recovery time.”

  She shakes her head. “I know, but getting around, getting to school, driving, the cost…” Her list ends as she wipes her hand down her face.

  “Everything will be fine,” I assure her again. “I don’t want you to worry about this.”

  She shakes her head, expelling a long breath. “You’re too calm. You need someone to be frazzled on your behalf. I play this role well, trust me.”

  Though her joke is at her own expense, I laugh. “I’m going to be just fine. In a couple of weeks, we aren’t even going to be thinking about this.”

  “Are your parents concerned?” she continues.

  I shrug. “I haven’t told them yet.”

  Her green eyes stretch with disbelief.

  “I’ll tell you about them while we eat,” I say, opening a white bag and pulling out several takeout containers. “I got us Thai food for lunch, and some French pastries for dessert. I hope that’s okay with you.”

  “That sounds amazing.” She looks at each cardboard box with interest. “I’ve never had Thai food, but it smells really good.”

  “It’s one of my favorites. Here.” I hand her one of the paper plates they’d put in the bag along with a fork.

  “Do you think your parents will be upset you got hurt?”

  I quickly shake my head. “No. They just aren’t stateside most of the year, so it’s difficult to reach them. Plus, I’m hoping the surgeon will look at my foot and tell me that it’s going to be fine with a couple days of rest and it won’t even be newsworthy.”

  “They don’t live here?” She shakes her head slowly, clearly finding this difficult to understand.

  “My parents are both surgeons, and they wanted to give back. They began doing brief stints with organizations that brought them abroad to help those who couldn’t afford healthcare or were impacted by warfare and other tragedies. As I got older, they began spending more time abroad and less time here.”

  “That’s amazing!” she says, her eyes dancing, and then rounding again, her shoulders dropping. “But … I bet that’s really tough for you. Do they spend much time here anymore?”

  I shake my head and fill my plate. “Not much. They’ve actually been living in Eastern Africa for a little over a year now.”

  “Really? Do you go and visit?”

  “I haven’t been since they moved to where they live now.”

  “But you’ve been to Africa?” She tilts her head back, as though imagining the possibility. “Did you get to go on a safari?”

  I nod “Once.”

  She sucks in a deep breath and pulls her head back with excitement. “That’s so cool.”

  I don’t know if I should elaborate and tell her about the multitude of things I got to see over there or if it could hurt her feelings since I know how little she’s experienced, and how she measures experiences like a currency. So I try to turn the tables and ask her about herself. “I’m sure one day you’ll see it, too. Once you’re a big fancy doctor being flown across the world to perform…” I pause and look at her, realizing that we’ve spoken very little about school outside of our shared class. “What kind of doctor do you want to be?”

  “An ER doctor,” she says, cracking a smile.

  “Really?”

  Leela nods, her chin rising with pride.

  “See, you really are going to be a globetrotter.”

  “I don’t know,” she says with a sigh. “I’d have a hard time leaving my family.”

  “You guys are really close?”

  “My best friend, Jasmine, lives just two houses down with her little brother, Jordan, and we hang out a lot. And I’m close with my parents, especially my mom.”

  Leela shares stories about her and Jasmine while we eat. It’s nice to see her so relaxed and comfortable. She laughs more freely, and she’s quick to add a pun or joke.

  “You aren’t going to make me rupture my other Achilles in order to get you out on another date, are you?” I ask, sensing our time is running low.

  She leans forward as she laughs, and whether intentional or not her thigh presses against mine. Leela’s lips have a light gloss from the sugar-coated pastries we shared for dessert, and watching her laugh and how her cheeks redden makes me want to kiss her so badly I can’t recall why she’s laughing or why I’m supposed to be taking things slowly.

  Her laugh slowly ceases and she looks at me, her eyelashes so long they nearly hit the bottom of her eyebrows. The humor is gone from her lips as she runs her tongue across them. Moving my attention from her mouth to her eyes again to try and gather some recognition, some sign of what I should or should not be doing. Leela’s eyes are closed though, and she’s leaning closer. Tilting my chin, my eyes fall shut and I lean closer, finding her lips and kissing her. Her lips taste of sugar and strawberries from the macarons she’s been eating, and they’re warm and impossibly smooth as they glide against mine.

  Someone whistles and yells out a cat call as they walk behind us and Leela draws away, her eyes opening slowly as though waking from a trance. It’s a sight I know will be haunting me all day. Her lips creep into a grin that doesn’t stop until she’s smiling so bright she becomes the sun.

  I want to do it again, test the theory that she’ll look like this after every kiss.

  “I don’t want to, but I think I need to get going to class,” she says, digging through her purse.

  I don’t want to go either, yet I nod in agreement.

  Grabbing the box of desserts which is still half-filled, I debate sticking out my elbow or hand for her to take, but both of her hands are gripping the straps of her backpack that she’s swung over each shoulder. I follow her, struggling to know what to talk about or to recall a topic we discussed that brought joy and ease between us. Leela glances at me, and I’m pretty certain she’s struggling to know what to do or say as well.

  “So you work tonight?” I ask, already knowing she does.

  Leela nods.

  “Well, I hope it’s an easy night. Maybe if you get a break or something you can call me later?”

  The corners of her lips tilt upward with a smile and she nods.

  When we stop a dozen feet from her classroom door, I hesitate, unsure if I should kiss her again. Leela’s hands are still tucked into the straps of her bag and she’s facing the building rather than me.

  “So, I’ll—”

  My words stop as Leela spins to face me, and with one hand she pulls the back of my neck closer to her and kisses me. It’s urgent, and her lips aren’t soft or pliable, but hard and rushed before she pulls back. I instantly open my eyes, desperate to see her expression. Just as before, her eyes remain closed. Before she can open them, I grip either side of her face, tilt her chin upward and kiss her fully, softly, languidly. Her hands wrap around my shoulders. When her lips start to part, I consider deepening the kiss until I hear the slam of the door, indicating people are beginning to file inside.

  We part gradually, but I lean forward and press two additional kisses to her lips before I lean back to watch her eyes once ag
ain flutter open. It’s intoxicating and addicting. I want to do it again and again and again.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” I say.

  She nods, her lips curved into another smile that makes my chest expand with the knowledge that I created that look of happiness and bliss that I want to test and expand.

  “Oh, and take the rest of these.” I extend the box to her, but she quickly shakes her head.

  “I appreciate it, but I’m good.”

  “I got them for you,” I say.

  Her chin dips almost as though she’s embarrassed by the fact. “Thanks, but I can’t. This teacher doesn’t allow any food, and I don’t think that box will go unnoticed.”

  I consider offering to bring it to her Jeep, but she’s halfway through the door. “I’ll talk to you soon,” I say again.

  Leela smiles as she looks back. “Tonight.”

  She disappears, and I feel the urge to call out to her and ask her not to go. To spend the day with me instead. But I know that wouldn’t be a fair request when she has clearly worked so hard to be here and has such high aspirations.

  My phone buzzes as I make my way back to the parking lot and I pull it out and smile when I see that it’s Ace calling me.

  “You’re on the mic with Mike,” I say.

  “Sorry I didn’t return your calls yesterday,” she says, sounding tired.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “Driving back to San Diego.”

  “From where?”

  “I was visiting my dad.”

  My chest tightens as a sharp ache pierces the happiness that was flooding me. “Let’s go to Balboa.” Balboa Park isn’t a very well-kept secret, yet it’s one of Ace’s favorite places.

  “You have classes today,” she objects.

  “They’re not until later.”

  She’s silent, and I know it’s because she wants to agree.

  “How far out are you?”

  “About twenty minutes.”

  “I’ll meet you in the parking lot by the train museum.”