The Things You Kiss Goodbye (21 page)

Our barely-there faculty advisor came to hand out crisp new cheerleading uniforms—white knit dresses with cap sleeves and “tiger-blue” trim, and matching compression trunks. I hated them. The look was so wholesome I felt like a walking milk carton. While the other girls discussed how best to bleach out future spots or stains, I imagined the dresses benefitting from a Jackson Pollock makeover—drizzles of blue and splatters of gray, our school colors.

Worst, worst, worst of all was the news that we had to wear them to school on game days. This was decided by a show of hands—eleven to one. Not surprising, I guess. I shrugged off the decision while Emmy gave me a silent, apologetic shrug.

Tiger spirit. I pulled myself into the dress the morning of the first scrimmage. I stood at my bathroom mirror and sighed.
Really? I have to walk around in this all day? How embarrassing
. I might have sooner gone to class in an old dance costume. Still, I scrubbed the final traces of a skull
and bones tat off my thigh. I dotted cover stick on my healing eye and blended it.

It was not a coffee morning. No way was I going into SWS Auto wearing that getup. At school, I smiled genuinely when I saw Brady Cullen. He was buttoned up and wearing a tie as were his teammates. He was in good-behavior mode, required to act like a gentleman for game day and I felt myself relaxing as we stood beside my locker.

“You girls look hot,” he said with a grin. He reached down to my thigh and drew his finger just under the hem of one leg of my compression shorts.

“You’re kidding, right?” I started to close my locker and he stopped me.

“You gotta lose the jean jacket.”

“The uniform has short sleeves and I’m cold,” I said. Partial truth. Brady shook his head at me. But he didn’t dump my books.

All day long I wondered how the first game would go. I tried to picture myself out on the gym floor, doing the cheer thing. But I found I couldn’t bear that image so I spent the rest of the day trying to put it out of my head.

“You look cute,” Big Bonnie said. We were standing at the paper cutter together after last bell. Mr. Terrazzi needed a three-inch border for a display case. I was measuring; Bonnie was cutting.

“Eh,” I replied. “White. It’s all I can do to keep it clean, especially in here. And I can’t think when I last wore sneakers for an entire day. I miss my boots. I think they hold me to the floor,” I said.

Bonnie threw her head back, laughing. “Well, maybe it’s not
your
look. But you’re pulling it off anyway—”

“Hey! Hey, P’teenuh!” I looked up. Brady was leaning in at the door, jaw in the air. He swung one arm in a come-here motion. Not in the best mood, I could tell. “We’re supposed to be down at the tiger,” he said. His hard edge softened some when he saw that Bonnie was looking at him. Then he brought the back of his hand up to his mouth. He was biting his knuckles again.

“Be right back,” I told Bonnie.

“I’ll keep cutting,” she said.

I shuffle-jogged toward Brady, my ridiculous cheer sneakers squeaking along the floors. “Hey, want some of that oil,” I said. I opened my locker, uncapped my little bottle and tapped out a few drops of oil onto his cracked skin. He massaged it in with his own thumb, hissing and cussing about the sting.

He took a breath. “Okay, okay. Come on, let’s go. We’re friggin’ late.”

“I’ve got more paper strips to measure,” I told him. I pointed my thumb toward the art room. “You go. And I’ll be
right behind you.” I reached into my locker to put the oil back on the shelf.

“Jesus, P’teen-uh! What the hell?” Brady swore. He slammed his palm on the locker next to mine. I jumped. “What the effin’ hell!” He snarled.

His hand came up again. I flinched. He grabbed my braid and yanked it down—
hard
. He pushed me forward into my open locker. My fingers found the shelf to hold on to. Before I could get steady, my locker door bounced off me and crashed back. I stood clinging to that thin metal shelf.

In the quiet, I lowered my head and cupped one hand on the back of my neck. I tilted my head—carefully. Looking underneath my own elbow I saw the back of Brady striding away down the empty hallway. I let my head hang.

On the floor at my feet, a small, golden-green puddle of oil spread, all studded with shards of glass. It was the end of the day and the custodians would be coming around. I needed to clean that up. I felt shaky. My scalp burned and my neck felt strained—and something else hurt too. My hip, or was it sort of one side of my butt? And my shoulder? Or everything? I took a few seconds to breathe.

As soon as I felt like I could move, I scuffed into the art room for some paper towels. “I just broke a bottle in the hall,” I told Bonnie, and she grabbed a can of cleanser. We blotted and scrubbed. I kept letting my head hang, trying to release
tension and convince myself that my neck was okay.

Mid cleanup, Bonnie asked me, “Bettina, are you all right? You seem sort of . . . upset.” It was clear she had not heard any commotion in the hall. For all I knew there had not been much to hear.

“I’m okay,” I said. I stole a look at the locker next to mine. There was a new dent in the metal and when I opened my own locker door against it, the handle fit the mark. Brady had really whacked mine back off its hinges. “Come on, Bonnie,” I said, “Let’s go finish that job.” I pushed my locker door to the closed position but it wouldn’t go. Bonnie watched me pressure it into place with my whole body.

“Oh, wow.” Bonnie cocked her head at my locker door. “You’re warped.”

“Yeah,” I said. Then I lied, “It’s been like that all year.”

UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE

HarperCollins Publishers

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I
DIDN
’
T GET MUCH TIME WITH EVERYONE DOWN AT THE
White Tiger and I was fine with that. My parents were onto the fact that, on game nights, there were no after-school practices, and therefore, no reason for me to be anywhere but home. Momma picked me up after fetching Favian and Avel. I moved stiffly as we rushed dinner onto the table, though nobody noticed, and Bampas dropped me back to the school before the game.

I could see evidence of electricity in the air. I truly wished I could feel it. Even Big Bonnie was into it; she had covered a giant hoop in crepe paper. When the announcer called for the mighty White Tigers, the team burst through it. I watched
Brady circle straight to the hoop for warm-ups. I thought he might look for me, but he was all about the game. I watched the team do drills. I rolled my shoulders, I checked my neck.

As for the cheerleading, I jogged out to the center of the court when that first time-out came. I felt like a total ditz. Meanwhile, the space between my neck and my shoulder blades started cramping up. But that was secondary to the heat I felt in my face when I turned around in my position and saw the sea of tiger fans filling out the bleachers.
People are going to
see
me do this cheerleading stuff
, I thought.
Why had I done this? Couldn’t someone pull the fire alarm and get us all out of here?

I began with the Not-So-Cheerleaders, my own lips barely moving. We sang out:

We are the Tigers
,

Mighty, mighty Tigers!—

I felt a twinge in my neck when we tossed Emmy nine feet in the air. I felt it again just watching for her to come back down on my forearms.
Ugh
. I should not be catching a person—a person who was relying on me to be sturdy and accurate. I was aching. It was terrifying. But Emmy grinned as we leveraged her up to her own two feet. Success.

And we’re outta here . . . thank God
.

I got through the rest of the cheers, but barely. I wanted to get down on my back and pull my knees into my chest—fix
my spine. Take some pressure off my neck. Sometime after the second half got underway, I saw Momma and my brothers standing against the wall of the gym. That was a surprise. Favian and Avel banged their hands together, point after point. The mighty White Tigers
trounced
their visitors, sixty-eight to forty-one. Brady Cullen had a very good game.

It emerged that there was a postgame pizza-eating event, cheerleaders included. The booster club set that up in the cafeteria. All I wanted was three ibuprofens and a hot compress. I was pretty sure the boosters weren’t catering to me. It was Momma who nodded at me to go join the others. If I didn’t go, she’d wonder what was wrong and, of course, Brady was waiting for me. He was the high scorer. Twenty-eight points worth of success drew his mouth up at both corners. He took a big hop toward me when I entered the cafeteria. He leaned down and put his arms around me. I stiffened.

“Was that crazy-great or what?” he asked me. “Did you see that? Twenty-eight points. That’s my highest game ever.”

“Congrats,” I said.

“Hey, come here a minute.” He took my hand and led me out to the quiet of the back corridor. Brady wiped his face with his hands. He sat back against the glass-block wall. “Phew,” he said. “I’m so friggin’ glad to have that game behind me. You have no idea. . . .”

“You did great,” I said it again.

“P’teenuh . . .” I looked at Brady Cullen. First, he tried to charm me with a smile and wide, playful eyes. But then he began tucking his chin. A second later, his eyes were all pinked up. “I’m sorry,” he gulped. “Sorry about before.”

“Yeah, I don’t want to talk about that here,” I told him.

A pair of custodians came into the hall. Now we really couldn’t talk. Brady bit his knuckles. The workers collected their mops and rolling buckets and headed away.

“This game had me so stressed,” he whispered.

“I know it did,” I said. I tried to sound understanding. But it was a reply I might have given to a stranger. How could that be? All his familiar features were right there in front of me. But my sense of him was confused. So much of the boy I had been so taken with months ago was gone. I didn’t want to talk to this Brady. I wanted to go home.

“Did you see me spell out your name on those three foul shots? The seven bounces? Did you tell your girlfriends I do that for you?”

I shrugged. “I don’t tell them much of anything,” I said, and I watched him wilt.

“Come on. Don’t be mad. Don’t be like that—”

“I have to go.” I pointed a finger over my shoulder. “My mother is here to get me. My brothers are with her. You know how my father is. We need to go home.”

“Wait—wait . . .” he stammered, then stopped. He looked helpless.

“Congrats again,” I told him. “Really. The team looked awesome.” I slid away to find Momma and the boys.

At home, Momma came into my room and perched on my bed. “Did you have a good time doing the cheers?” she asked.

I waited. “Did you think I looked like I had a good time?” I asked, no sarcasm.

“That’s why I’m asking,” she said softly.

The truth about Brady Cullen was right there like a welling bee sting on the tip of my tongue. But I couldn’t bear to speak about it and it wasn’t what Momma had asked.

“Bettina?”

“No,” I whispered. “Momma, I hated cheering. I did fine, but it doesn’t feel right. I’m horrible for saying so but it feels like a comedown from my dancing, Momma. I was embarrassed calling out those lame chants. And this dress feels like it belongs on anyone but me.” I bit my lip. “And next week I have to do it again.” A flood of tears got away from me. I scrambled to collect them before Momma could see. But I knew it was too late. “I know, I know,” I said. “I can’t be crying just because I am a cheerleader. . . .”

“I didn’t say that,” Momma said. She reached and covered my hand with hers. Why was she being so sweet about this?

I sniffed and I cleared my throat. “I’m okay,” I said. I waved my hands to erase the air around me. “I am.” I absently pulled up on the neck of the cheer dress and wiped my eyes on it. “Oh! Now I have mascara on it. What if this stains? Oh, hell! Oh, sorry, Momma.” I did not usually swear even mildly in front of her.

“Bettina . . .” My mother leaned toward me. She set both hands on my shoulders. “It’s only makeup. It comes off your eyes easily, it will come right out of the dress.”

“Even a white dress?”

“Of course.”

“Okay,” I said. I sucked it up with all I had left in me. “I thought it was nice that you came to the game,” I said. “That
awful
game,” I added, and a laugh escaped through my quivering lips. Momma laughed too. She went into my bathroom and started a shower for me.

“Nice and warm.” She shook water from her hand. “Come on,” she said, switching places with me. “Hand me out the dress, and I’ll put it to soak.”

“Okay. Thank you. And Momma, don’t say anything to Bampas. Please. I’m just PMS-ing or something. I don’t even know why I’m so upset. I’ll just finish the season. I’ll be fine.” I pushed off the dress and Momma took it at the door, gathering it into a neat roll.

“You’ll feel better after a shower,” she said.

Momma was exactly right. The shower helped. (Of course, I downed those ibuprofens too.) I let that hot water pour over my aches. I stood in my steamy bathroom afterward. I reached up to drop my nightgown over my head but stopped. I knew why my neck and shoulder muscles hurt, but why did I hurt along that one side? I wondered. I wiped down the mirror with a towel, held it to my chest and turned my bare back to the glass.

There wasn’t much to see. But walking my fingers along my skin I could feel it—a new bruise rising. A set of bruises, actually. They were weirdly straight-line in shape and ran from the back of my shoulder down to my butt, skipping the hollows of my body. Cowboy would have referred to it as right, rear-quarter damage if I had been a car. What did this? Something long, and with an edge—

Oh. My locker door. That’s what.

In the mirror where the steam was beginning to collect again, my reflection caught my eye and I looked at the girl through the haze—
really looked
. I let my towel slide down. I scanned the body in the glass, from head to breasts to hipbones and back up again to the staring gold eyes.