I Was a Non-Blonde Cheerleader (5 page)

My father cleared his throat and held out his hand, palm up. I blinked, thinking back to everything I had just said, and then it hit me.

“Just because everyone, like, worships you . . .”

I pressed my eyes closed, irritated with myself, then stuffed my hand in my pocket, fishing through my change from lunch. When I found a quarter, I slapped it into my father’s hand.

“Thank you!” he said.

“My pleasure.”

Every time I use the word
like
in a superfluous manner, my dad charges me a quarter and he never, ever misses one. I really hoped he was putting that money into my college fund. At this point he’d probably have no problem paying for the Sorbonne.

“Where’s Gabe?” I asked.

“Well, the food will be done in T-minus-five seconds, so let’s see,” my father said, raising his watch to his glasses. “Five . . . four . . . three . . . two—”

The buzzer went off on the stove, and the kitchen door flew open at precisely the same moment. There stood my brother, his red hair lightened from the sun and grown out to just below the ear, his green eyes sparkling. He was wearing an orange-and-yellow Hawaiian shirt, baggy shorts and Tevas.

“Dudes!” he exclaimed.

“Oh, God. You’re a surfer now?” I said, scrunching my face up.

“Don’t knock it till ya tried it, li’l sis,” he said, reaching out and tousling my hair. He dropped a massive canvas bag full of laundry onto the kitchen floor, then stepped over it to hug my mom.

“Hey, Mama! Give me some
loooove
!”

Unbelievable. He sounded like the sea turtle from
Finding Nemo.
When had this started?

“Dinner is served,” my father said, by now immune to the shock of his ever-changing son. He picked up a platter of tacos, and my brother leaned in to sniff them.

“Tacos! Righteous!”

“Do they even
have
surf-worthy waves in Florida?” I asked, following the rest of the family to the table with the water pitcher.

“Totally,” Gabe said.

I have to admit the surfer look actually worked for him. Much better than the grungy punk thing he had going on the last time I’d seen him. Under his freckles his skin was a bronzy tan that brought out his smile and the color of his eyes. Gabe had tried on a lot of personas over the years—prep, skater, jock, fashion victim . . . the ill-advised Spring of the Cowboy—but he’d never tried one that wouldn’t attract the ladies.

“So, what’s up, li’l sis? You look down,” Gabe said, serving himself four tacos before anybody else had a shot.

“Bad first day,” I said. “Way bad. And don’t tell me to re-create myself, because it won’t work. Unless you can get me a new face.”

“You’re talking to the guy who went from dreadlocked Phishhead to country-club argyle boy in one weekend,” Gabe said. “With my help, you can be anything.”

“Oh, I loved your country-club phase,” my mother said nostalgically. I think she liked my brother’s chameleon nature because it meant she got to pick out a whole new wardrobe for him every few months.

“Never know, Mama. It may come back,” Gabe said with a grin.

I rolled my eyes. This was not helping me.

“I know what’ll cheer you up,” my father said. “Why don’t you and I make an ice cream run after dinner? You never turn down an ice cream run.”

I took a deep breath. This problem was too deep for ice cream.

“I saw a Ben and Jerry’s truck parked outside the 7-Eleven on my way home,” my dad singsonged.

Unless, of course, we were talkin’ Ben & Jerry’s One Sweet Whirled. It was like happiness in a carton.

“Okay,” I said to my dad. “You’re on.”

The first thing I noticed when my dad pulled the family truckster into the convenience store parking lot was a large group of kids hanging out between two parked cars, music pounding from the speakers of a red convertible. A couple of girls in SDH cheerleading jackets leaned back against the hood, smoking cigarettes. My heart immediately thumped with foreboding.

Why me?

Dad got out and slammed the door, attracting the attention of the crowd. I jumped out and hurried after him. From the corner of my eye I saw one of the guys tip his head back to drink out of a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. Apparently this was not a Smart Food and Pepsi crowd.

Dad gathered some snacks while I hit the freezer and,
eureka!
, found a pint of One Sweet Whirled. I pulled it out and cradled it in my arms like a baby, then, on impulse, grabbed another. Just in case tomorrow sucked too. I joined my father on line, and the guy in front of us glanced around. It was none other than Cheerful Cuccinello, the peppier-than-pepper guidance counselor. Could this day be over now? Please!?

“Why, Annisa Gobrowski! What a pleasant surprise!”

“Hey, Mr. C,” I said lacklusterly.

“And you must be Mr. Gobrowski!” He straightened up, then settled in his firecracker way on the word
mister.
“I’m Annisa’s guidance counselor, Tony Cuccinello.”

Mr. C shifted two of four two-liter bottles of Coke he was carrying over to one arm so he could shake hands with my dad. I couldn’t help wondering what anybody needed with eight liters of Coke on a Monday night.

“So, Annisa, how was your first day?” Mr. C asked as he paid at the register.

“Great,” I said. “It was just great.”

Mr. C grinned. “I told ya! Didn’t I tell ya? You fit right in.”

Right. What kind of psychedelic Coke was this guy drinking, anyway?

“Well, see ya around campus,” Mr. C said, pocketing his change. He lifted his free hand in a wave as he walked out.

Five minutes later, Dad and I emerged from the store to an oddly silent parking lot. The music that had blared from the convertible on our way in had been cut dead, replaced by a palpable tension. Mr. C was talking to a group of now obviously snagged kids, his voice more serious than I would have thought possible for him. The guy who had been swilling some unknown substance had his hands behind his back and his eyes trained on the ground. Reprimanded
by a teacher-type figure in front of your friends. It was never fun.

As I got into the car, I glanced over one last time and saw the two cheerleaders glaring at me. They looked like they wanted me dead, on a slab, right there in the 7-Eleven parking lot. Had they heard about what I’d supposedly done to Phoebe? Or what I’d
actually
done to Tara Timothy? I hunkered down in my seat to save myself from the heat of their gaze. What was
that
about?

“Feeling better already, aren’t you?” my dad said.

“Yeah,” I replied shakily. “You bet.”

The next morning, I did what any sane, self-respecting girl would do in my situation. I got up, I put on my red polo dress and my red-and-blue Converse throwbacks and I did not dye my hair. I did, however, clip it back with a simple tortoiseshell snap barrette. The rhinestones were retired—for the moment.

It was new-outlook time. I wasn’t some loser geek klutz with no life and no friends. I was Annisa Gobrowski. I was cool. I was cute. And, okay, I was a klutz, but I had plenty of friends. They just happened to be thousands of miles away.

When I walked out the door, I was instantly rewarded for my good attitude. Daniel Healy was waiting for me at the end of my driveway.
Waiting
for
me.

“Hey,” he said as I approached.

“Hey.”

“So . . . how was your first day?”

I snorted a laugh.

“What?”

“Nothing,” I said. Maybe he really hadn’t heard about my many offenses. Maybe they weren’t that bad. Maybe they hadn’t really even happened. Or maybe this was like that movie
Groundhog Day
and I was getting to live my first day over again to get it right.

But then, of course, Daniel wouldn’t have known who I was, so no such luck. Oh, well.

“It couldn’t have been
that
bad,” Daniel said as we turned
up the street. “Sage told me you were all over it in English class.”

In other words, she told you I was a brainy snob
, I thought. I hated it when people were predictable.

“Right. Sage,” I said.

Don’t say it, don’t say it, don’t say it
, I thought. Then I said it. Of course.

“You guys are like . . . what? Boyfriend-girlfriend?”

Sometimes I’m about as sophisticated as a straight-to-video Mary-Kate and Ashley movie.

Daniel was suddenly looking at the ground. “Yeah. Since seventh grade,” he said. “She’s cool. You know. Once you get to know her.”

Ha! Could that statement have
been
more loaded? Obviously he knew she was
not
cool—at least not to other people—or he wouldn’t feel the need to say that. So why the heck was he going out with her?

“So I, uh . . . I heard you yesterday,” Daniel said. “Doing your scales?”

“You did?” I asked. “How?”

“I was coming out of one of the rehearsal rooms,” he said. “You were good. I would’ve said something at the time, but I didn’t want to, you know, in case you were embarrassed.”

“Oh. What were you rehearsing?” I asked.

Daniel flushed. “Guitar. I have a free period before lunch, so I usually go practice.”

“You play guitar?” I asked.

“Sort of,” he said, his skin darkening even further. “I mean . . . I mess around.”

“That’s so cool. I’d love to hear you play sometime.”

“Oh, I’m no good,” Daniel said. “I don’t play in front of people. Ever.”

“Not even Sage?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? She’d probably laugh her ass off.”

Nice
, I thought.
Some girlfriend.
“Well, if you ever change your mind and want to play for someone, I’m there. I’ll even tell you the truth if you suck, but I’m sure you don’t.”

“Thanks,” Daniel said, smiling. “I’ll keep that in mind. So . . . are you coming to the football game this weekend?”

“Sure, I guess,” I said as we crossed the gridiron. “Are you on the team?”

Daniel gave a quick nod. “Footballwrestlingandtrack.” He said it like it was all one word. Like he’d been asked about his athletic status five hundred thousand times. “But I don’t know. I’m thinking about not wrestling this year.”

“Really? Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know why I just said that,” he replied, looking stunned. “I haven’t told anybody I’m thinking of quitting.”

“It’s not you, it’s me,” I said, raising my hand. “Future Therapists of America.”

“What?” he asked.

“People tell me stuff. It’s like I have the words
good listener
stamped on my forehead,” I said. “So why are you gonna quit?”

“I don’t know. . . . I’m probably not. . . . I’m just . . .” He laughed and looked at the ground. “Can we talk about something else? What about you? Are you into sports?”

Wow. Someone was a little tense about quitting wrestling. My curiosity was piqued. Was he a wrestling legacy? Would his father never speak to him again if he quit? Did he hate the sport, but couldn’t leave it because it was the only chance he had of getting into college? Sometimes it was exhausting, being in my brain.

“Tennis and cheerleading,” I answered.

“Really?” Daniel’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s too bad. They already had cheerleading tryouts.”

“That’s all right. There’s always next year,” I said.
If I’m still here.

Daniel opened the back door for me and I managed not to trip over myself this time. As we approached my homeroom, I noticed a clump of girls talking in low voices just to the left of the door. One of them spotted me and said something through her teeth, and they all turned to glare. My heart practically stopped.

Very subtle, girls
, I thought. Part of me salivated to say it out loud, but all I wanted to do was slip into the relative safety of homeroom. Whatever they were saying about me, I didn’t want to know. I avoided eye contact with everyone as I sat down at a back desk. The announcements began and Bethany had yet to show up, so on top of everything else it looked like I was going to be on my own all day. After the pledge I pulled out my history textbook and pretended to be engrossed.

That was when I heard the most beautiful string of words ever to be strung together in the English language.