The Cheerleader

Chapter Thirty

Susie

The field house basketball court is crowded with students running around the track and a few shooting baskets, but Liz claims a section of the court where we gather for cheering practice, officially starting the basketball season.

“Listen up,”

Liz shouts. It’s loud in here. I can already tell cheering for basketball is going to be different. “For those of you who are new, cheering for basketball will be completely different than football. It’s more rigorous, and we’re closer and more visible to the fans. We may even be on TV sometimes, so we need to be perfect.”

“We do more dancing, to the pep band instead of the marching band, and we stand or sit courtside, close to the action.”

She grins. “It’s a very exciting atmosphere. We’ll wear our white tops under our vests, so make sure you have a couple because we have two games a week from now until March. If we’re lucky, we’ll get invited to the NIT—National Invitational Tournament in Madison Square Garden—like last season.”

“How many practices?”

Sherry asks.

“Count on three days a week. Most games are on Tuesdays and Saturdays, so we’ll practice Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays unless I say otherwise. It’s a busier schedule than football season, so make sure you budget your time to keep up.”

Shit. Why didn’t I realize this sooner? I want to ask whether we really need to practice three days a week, but Liz has made it clear we’re going to be more in the spotlight than we were for football, in the relatively closed quarters of the field house and right there on the sidelines of the court. Holy shit. My tummy takes a turn while I try to take the news in and adjust my mindset.

But there’s no way around it. I’m going to have a hard time maintaining good grades in six classes next semester with all that time devoted to cheerleading. I need to do well because I got special permission to take the extra class to catch up with the required education courses. If I don’t get all A’s and B’s, they’ll require me to withdraw from the class.

Outside of classes, coursework, and cheerleading, I’m not going to have much of a life.

The first disappointment that forces its way into my head is that I won’t have time to spend with Bryan, especially since I won’t be tutoring him next semester. I know I should find someone else to take my mind off him, but since he opened up to me, I can’t bring myself to think of another guy.

Pointlessly, I wonder if Bryan’s a basketball fan.

Liz claps her hands, startling me, and orders us into our lineup.

“Let’s practice The Stripper dance routine. Ready?”

She waits a beat while we hurry into starting position with our hands on our hips and toes pointed. Then she starts the eight count. “Five, six, seven, eight.”

We move into action while she critiques. The whole time I’m dancing, my mind struggles to rearrange my life for the remaining few weeks of the semester around the new schedule.

Maybe I can tutor Bryan on Wednesdays after practice and Tuesdays after dinner.

That’s as far as my rearranging gets before I give in to concentrating on what I’m doing. If I’m honest, losing time with Bryan is my biggest concern. It shouldn’t be. I have no right expecting to have time with him. But I desperately want to be able to carve out some kind of relationship.

I don’t want to lose him, the idea of him that I’ve always had. More than that—worse than that—I don’t want to lose the man-boy he is now because he’s better than I imagined him. The real-life three-dimensional Bryan is more compelling than the boy who tore at my heart and stole my imagination years ago.

At the end of practice two hours later, no one is as sweaty as I am, or so I imagine.

“Do you think practice will be two hours all the time?”

Sherry says under her breath to me as if she can tell I’m not happy about it. She doesn’t ask, but I think she wants me to influence Liz to cut back.

Maybe I will suggest we cut back to ninety minutes.

“I hope not.”

I give Sherry an encouraging smile. “We should improve as time goes on and not need as much practice.”

“See everyone tomorrow for our first game,”

Liz says in her captain voice. “Then practice on Wednesday. Be prepared to learn new cheers and new stunts. We need to do more and better than we did during football season with the spotlight on us. I’ve made up a new cheer and choreographed a new dance routine, but I’d like each of you to come up with something new also. It’s important to improve and challenge ourselves and keep things fresh for the fans.”

My mouth opens, and Sherry nudges me. “Forget cutting back on practice anytime soon,”

she mutters.

As the field house fills for our first basketball game, I understand with a visceral rush that this really is a whole new ballgame. We traded the mini tramp for a full-sized trampoline that Nick and Liz borrowed from somewhere and set up on the track between the stands and the court. We line up.

Nick climbs onto the trampoline and starts doing flip after flip, jumping higher and higher, mesmerizing me and the growing crowd as they count how many flips he can do in a row.

When the team comes out for pregame warmups, the pep band starts playing and we start dancing. The noise inside the field house is deafening, and my adrenaline is sky-high with the energy of the crowd vibrating through me as we dance courtside under the bright lights.

I see Bryan walking by, and our glances connect like there’s an automatic awareness between us. My excitement shoots to another level, skittering through my nerves and tumbling my tummy. Shit. Why should I feel so nervous just because he’s watching me?

I don’t have time to contemplate the question.

A giant TV camera, a camera operator, and another man, this one with a round CBS patch on his jacket, presumably a sportscaster, approach Liz, and they have a quick conversation. The cameraman sets up the camera, which is on wheels, at the end of the court near me. Liz calls a huddle with an animated gesture, more excited than usual—which is a lot.

“The game is being televised on Channel 3 in Hartford, and they want us to introduce ourselves to the TV audience.”

She squeals and bounces while we respond in kind—or everyone except me. I’m in disbelief.

The sportscaster comes over, introduces himself as Bob, and asks us to line up. “We need to make this quick; do it in one take. Introduce yourselves and say where you’re from, then step aside off the court for the next girl’s or guy’s turn. Got it?”

He smiles, and we chorus yes.

This is where my belly flips and tumbles higher than Nick on the trampoline because I’m lying. I don’t have it. I’ve never been on television before. But Liz and Carol line up in front of me as the captain and co-captains of the squad, and that calms me because I can follow whatever they do.

When Bob points a finger at her, Liz goes, undaunted, with her smile wide. She says, “I’m Liz McNeil from Suffield, Connecticut.”

Then she steps aside, and Carol is up. I’m next.

“Susie Bennett from Suffield, Connecticut.”

My voice sounds high to me, but I keep my smile as I step aside, feeling something like a Mouseketeer from the Disney show I used to watch. But it’s over fast, and the whole thing couldn’t have taken more than twenty seconds.

Bob gives us a thumbs-up, and they wheel their camera to the other side of the court where the team benches are located.

“Good job, everyone,” Liz says.

“Does that happen every game?”

I ask, breathless, as my heart slows down to near normal.

“No, only when they televise the games,”

Liz says. “Pete told me their contract is up after this season.”

She pulls a face of disappointment, but it’s short-lived.

After that experience, dancing and cheering courtside under the bright lights in front of the packed house of boisterous fans feels like no big deal.

At halftime, we take the court and do a cheer ending in a multilayered mount, and as we run off the court, we do flying cartwheels and flips, or in my case, wave my pom-poms because I haven’t perfected either of those stunts without falling on my butt.

As I return to my spot, I hear a horrible grunt and look over to see the husky dog mascot collapse in a heap at the edge of the court. A couple of us run over to him and try to help him up.

“I twisted my ankle. I can’t stand on it.”

“Shit,”

Liz says, looking around. She has Nick and Keith help him out the doors to find first aid. None of us has any idea where it is or who to ask for help. Pete Chenerski is nowhere in sight.

Keith says, “We’ll find someone in the office area or the ticket office, and if worse comes to worst, I’ll drive him to the clinic.”

“Great,”

Liz says, “but have him leave the costume with us.”

She turns to Josh. “You can be the husky for the rest of the game.”

“I’m kind of excited to be the husky dog,”

he says. We’re huddled on the end of the stands near the pep band, and the injured mascot hands him the husky dog head.

“This is only for tonight,” Liz says.

“I doubt I’ll be back,”

the mascot, whose name I wish I could remember, says.

She nods, “That’s okay. Go take care of your ankle.”

She turns to Josh, “We need you in our cheers and our mounts. We’ll have to find someone else to be the husky dog before the next game.”

“Maybe whoever it is can also do the cheers with us,”

I say as we rush back to our places courtside. The pep band has already started playing the UConn fight song to signal the start of the second half.

She says, “Brilliant idea.”

“If we do that,”

Carol says, “let’s make sure we get someone really strong.”

We reach our places, and as I’m hurrying to catch up to the song, I turn to Liz. “Maybe we can get one of the football players to be the mascot now that their season is over?”

She reads my mind and flashes her teeth. “Yes. I’ll ask Bryan.”

Judy overhears her and laughs, and Carol rolls her eyes. “You’re not serious?”

A flush of embarrassment heats my face, acknowledging the futility because there’s no way in hell Bryan would be a cheerleader. It would be like asking a bird to become a fish. Liz holds onto her smile as we end the dance and wave our pom-poms.

The game is exhausting because we’re moving nonstop, cheering every basket, block, or steal, and dancing every time there’s a time-out and the pep band plays. We win and take the court to do the final dance routine to the Huskies fight song.

As people are filing out, I see Bryan standing at the end of the court like he’s waiting for us. When Liz reaches him, she stops and pulls him aside. I keep going past, heading to the ladies’ room to splash water on my face. I’m not the only one.

When I’m done, I wait for Liz in the lobby, which is almost empty by the time she walks through the doors from the court with Bryan, holding his arm. It’s hard to say whether he’s okay with her hanging on or not. His face is implacable, not happy, not annoyed, nothing, as if nothing matters to him.

“Let’s go to the Rathskeller,” Liz says.

Carol joins us. “I’m in.”

“I’m going home,”

I say. “I mean back to the dorm.”

I dart a glance at Bryan.

“I’m going home.”

He doesn’t qualify his statement. His voice communicates an immovable edict, the kind that’s impenetrable to all attempts to challenge him.

No one tries, not even Liz.

“See you tomorrow at dinner,” she says.

He grunts. And apparently, she construes that as encouragement because she goes up on her tiptoes and leans in to give him a kiss. On his lips.

Heat bursts through my veins, and I look away, turning to Carol and Judy, who just showed up.

He pulls away instantly, but so smoothly that it doesn’t cause a ripple in her goodbye as she lets him go. He’s out the door before anyone can blink twice, especially me. I don’t think my eyes will ever blink again, and I wish I could unsee what I saw.

Did he just let her kiss him? On the lips? It was hard to tell if he kissed her back. It was fast, but he could have. Shit.

It’s Liz’s smile that convinces me. She’s the picture of a Cheshire cat.

“Look at you two,”

Carol says. “You seeing him again?”

“Almost,”

she says, and then I see it—the bravado, the wishful thinking, the neediness and desperation. Shit.

I don’t know which is worse—that she might be with Bryan again or that she’s still helplessly hoping to be with him again.

Without thinking, I give her a hug. “I’ll see you later. Have fun and don’t forget you have that financial accounting quiz tomorrow at eight o’clock.”

She’s been complaining about the class for days, claiming no one in the class is getting an A and there are few B’s.

She hugs me back. “I’ll be home by eleven. I have to get up early to study.”

After dinner, I work with Bryan on English comp in the dining room. Penderly, a communications and film major who works for the student TV studio, is still there.

“Is Liz around?”

he asks me, taking a seat next to Bryan.

Bryan gives him a silent stare that makes Penderly back away.

“I took some photographs at the basketball game, and I promised to bring them.”

He holds his hands up as if he’s surrendering.

Bryan nods.

Liz walks into the dining room, and Penderly jumps from his chair to meet her.

“What do you think of this Penderly guy?”

Bryan asks me in a quiet voice, leaning in.

I whisper, “He seems like a good guy, ambitious and funny.”

I look at Bryan. Our heads are together, creating an intimate space. “Are you worried?”

He smirks and shakes his head. “Liz could eat him for lunch.”

Smiling in relief because he doesn’t seem jealous at all, I touch his arm automatically, needing the connection to him.

“I thought you were studying,”

Liz says, approaching us. I look up and separate from Bryan, guilt instantly filling me.

If anyone else said those words, they would have been accusing, but she makes them light.

“We are,”

Bryan says, frowning and staring at her like he’s accusing her of something. Maybe interrupting our moment of intimacy? My heart beats too fast, and I stand up.

“You need me for something, Liz?”

It’s a stupid question, but she smiles warmly like she appreciates it. “No. We were on our way out to Irma’s for fries.”

She looks at Bryan. “I can’t help myself, I love their fries. We’re getting extras for a couple of the girls, and I thought I’d ask if you want anything.”

“A large order of fries and a steak sub,”

Bryan says without hesitation as he stands to pull out his wallet.

Liz laughs, and I shake my head. “We just ate dinner an hour ago.”

I should be used to his ridiculous appetite.

He gives me a look that says so what.

Liz waves off his money. “My treat. Happy Birthday.”

Bryan pauses and nods, and they have one of those moments that I’ve seen before where they’re communicating without saying anything. I have no idea what passes between them except that it makes me sad that I’m an outsider, that I don’t have something like that, one of those relationships where you know you can always count on the other person.

I watch Bryan break eye contact with Liz first, ending their connection like a snap. Even I feel it, and I see an almost imperceptible wince touch Liz’s face, a quiver in her ever-present smile.

“See you later. I have no idea how long we’ll be, depending on the line at Irma’s.”

I smile and wave at her, and she leaves, almost reluctantly, glancing one last time at Bryan’s head bent over the paper as he writes something.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding and plop into my seat next to Bryan.

“I didn’t know it was your birthday.”

Bryan doesn’t comment. He and I are back to feeling at ease, as if we’ve called a truce on the tension and all the questions about our mutual attraction, most importantly the question about whether or not I’ll sleep with him, at least temporarily.

Maybe we’re friends after all, though it’s not the signals I was getting. And, being honest with myself, not what I’d been hoping for since that night in his room.

I know exactly how Liz feels now, and I almost laugh out loud at how pathetic we both are when it comes to Bryan. As I watch her leave with Penderly, a feeling of wistfulness comes over me. I wish I could talk to her about it, tell her how I feel.

But that kind of confession would ruin everything between us because there’s no way she wouldn’t feel betrayed. If I keep my feelings under wrap long enough, they’re bound to change, to disappear. Some day.

Or they would if what I felt for Bryan was an ordinary crush, but it’s not. If I haven’t been able to get him out of my head for the last six years, there’s not much of a chance of that happening now. At least not while we’re both still here at UConn. One more semester.

Liz’s laugh trails behind her as she disappears, and I allow myself to imagine that she never kissed Bryan last night, that maybe she’s moving on from him. Maybe she’s developing a crush on Penderly. But I’m no fool, and it’s useless to imagine.

Maybe I should be the one moving on from Bryan. I should let go of my dream about the broken boy in the ditch who I swore could see into my soul.

“You’re lucky to have Liz as your special friend,” I say.

His forehead furrows. “She’s your friend too.”

I shake my head. “Not in the same way.”

“Not that again. You must know by now she’s not my?—”

“I’m not talking about that.”

He stares at me as if I’m going to say more, to explain what I mean, but I can’t.

“Are you sure there’s not more between you… I mean deep down underneath all the troubling things…”

“Are you talking about Liz?”

I take in a quick breath, and my heart stutters into double-time. Because if I’m not talking about Liz, who does he think I’m talking about? Me? And what if I am?

I stammer. “No—I mean yes—I mean?—”

“I’m not sure about anything, princess. Not a fucking thing.”

He shuts his notebook and stands, pacing around.

I’m too stunned and too confused to say another word. Even if I could speak, my heart is jumping into my throat, clogging it with crazy scary emotions. So much for the easy truce.

As he sits down again, he mutters, “Never mind,”

and throws his attention at the paper on the table in front of him.

“You should have told me it was your birthday.”

I try to get the truce back, to pretend I’m okay with the purgatory of our relationship.

“It’s not,”

he says without looking up, and I see him grip his pen harder as his knuckles turn white.

There’s more to it, and I want to ask what that was all about, but I wait in silence to see if he’ll share. Because I have a feeling I know what it’s about—or have a good idea—and that it’s going to make me feel more uncomfortable. Even more like an outsider.

“It’s not my birthday. It’s a thing between me and Liz since we were kids. We were—are—both poor, and we’d give each other food when we had it and the other didn’t.”

I nod when he pauses and finally looks at me to gauge my reaction, I suppose. I’m looking at him the only way possible, with awe and compassion, with more interest and needy emotions than before. I’m looking at him like I wish I had that with him.

“I offered her food first, and she refused, saying she didn’t take charity. So I told her it was a birthday present. Which was funny at the time because it happened to be her birthday.”

A rare smile crosses his face, albeit sad. My heart rises again, and this time it creates one of those lumps of emotion that should feel threatening, but it feels like heaven, and I want more.

But I swallow down my emotion and change the subject.

“The McMahon cocktail party is Saturday, and I’m told it’s a big deal. Everyone dresses up, they have a good band and real drinks, not just beer.”

He nods.

“Are you going?”

“You know I’m not into parties.”

He pauses. “Are you going, Miss Nonparty girl?”

The way he says it, I’m almost worried I’ll disappoint him. “Yes. This one sounds more like my style.”

“That’s right. It’s a semi-formal, like a ball, and you can get all dressed up like the princess you are.”

I swat his arm. “No, I’m not. All the girls in our dorm are going, and I’ll be the least dressed up of all.”

“I thought it was for McMahon residents. Are they making an exception because you’re across the street?”

I roll my eyes. “Everyone goes. Some of your teammates are going. It’s the biggest event of the year. Although if you don’t live in McMahon, it’s harder to get tickets. You have to find a resident to buy them for you.”

“And you got tickets,” he says.

I nod. “I can get you a ticket if you want it.”

“No. Thanks.”

As I turn over to my other side, making a mess of my sheets, trying to get to sleep, I let out a groan. My mind won’t shut down, won’t dismiss the idea of finding one special someone who I can always count on. A special guy who I can love forever. The possibility dogs me like I’ve discovered it’s the key to life, to heaven on earth.

My biggest fear is that I’ve found him, and he belongs to someone else.

My alarm clock reads one-fifteen in the morning. Shit. Liz has been asleep for a while. She never has a problem sleeping like the dead. I wonder if she had anything to drink while she was out, and maybe that’s why she fell asleep so fast, why she always crashes so easily.

Then my conscience scolds me for thinking uncharitable thoughts about her. She’s troubled, and I should help her. Somehow. I should talk to her about it, be a better friend. The kind of friend I want her to be to me, one I can count on to be there.

The kind of friend I can talk to about anything. The way I can with Bryan sometimes.

But I wonder if I even know how to have that kind of open, intimate relationship, the kind I know is solid and always going to be there. Outside of my parents, I don’t have it. Maybe not even with my parents now that I think of it, because even though I know they’ll always be there for me, I can’t talk to them about everything.

I thought I could tell Liz anything. But since I’ve been spending time with Bryan, I feel like I have a big secret that interferes with my relationship with her. Tonight, I saw for the first time how my spending time with him pains her. Not in a jealous way or mean way, but like she’s feeling left out.

Maybe we’re both feeling the same way about our relationships. I feel left out of her relationship with Bryan, and she feels left out of my relationship with Bryan—except I don’t have much of one, not the way she does. Mine is made up of fleeting heart-stopping moments and old heart-wrenching memories interspersed with lots of discomfort and confusion.

Hers is long-standing, uninterrupted, soul-deep, and solid, based on years of day-after-day reality.

Shit.