Falling

by Katherine Cobb

  As if reading my thoughts, Mac said, “You guys are probably going to feel tense since it’s your first time, but just remember your moves, be loud and show your enthusiasm. Our job is to get the crowd cheering and support our guys on the field.”

  Amy squealed. “This is going to be so much fun!”

  I couldn’t argue. Despite my apprehension, the excitement was palpable.

  Friday arrived like a speeding bullet, and I swallowed my jitters— again—as I tied my red and white Nikes and double-checked my uniform. My white skirt with the red trim fell to mid-thigh. I straightened my cropped white turtleneck with the red-striped sleeves and centered the Titans emblem plastered on my chest, which even included my embroidered name. Mac did my hair, pumping hair spray onto my long locks and giving it volume.

  Breathe.

  Mac interrupted my futile attempt at calm. “Let’s go girls. It’s time!”

  She organized us into one line, in the correct formation for our corresponding cheerleading blocks. Thank God I wasn’t first. I jogged the way we were taught at camp, nearly kicking my behind with my heels. The bleachers came into view. Hundreds of people packed the seats, their roar mixing with the marching band’s battle cry. My butterflies flapped their wings faster, and my throat went dry.

  Mac waved at the crowd with unbridled enthusiasm, and we followed suit, performing jumps and tumbling moves to show our spirit. She motioned us to get the rolled-up banner we decorated earlier, and we ran with her to the end zone.

  Minutes later, our team exited the locker room and burst through the goal posts, flying through our GO TITANS! sign to the field. Screams thundered from the spectators and cheer squad until all 32 of our beefy players stood in the center.

  We trotted back to our section, taking our places on the painted blocks waiting for us. They spelled out SKYLINE on one side, VICTORY on another and GO TEAM! on a third. Based on height, it worked out I stood on the fifth cube, which luckily coincided with the A, like my name.

  An announcer asked everyone to rise for the national anthem. Standing on our blocks, we turned toward the American flag and the band played “The Star-Spangled Banner.” I vibrated, my jitters continuing. Please, just breathe. R-e-l-a-x. My lip curled. That was just like our Success cheer: S-U-C-C-E-S-S! That’s the way we spell success!

  I scanned the crowd and located Pete in the stands. He gave me a salute. Reese, Tez, Jim, Jaime and Mary sat with him. The rest of the game went by in a blur, but at least my stress subsided during the first quarter.

  Mac did a great job leading us through the cheers, and I only messed up twice. Cathy and Pam did well with the long routines they directed. When our team came from behind to beat Oakland Tech 29-21 in the last minutes of the game, the stands erupted and half the crowd spilled onto the field. Several players lifted me off the ground in celebration, smudging my uniform with their sweaty, dirty jerseys. I didn’t mind; the thrill of victory covered us all.

  Afterward, I found Pete. “What a game!” My eyes shone with excitement but his body language alarmed me. Arms crossed, eyes cold, dour expression.

  “Why are you hugging those guys?” Add a clipped and frosty tone.

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Why are you hugging the goddamned players?”

  “Because we…we won.” What was his problem?

  “I don’t like it. You’re my girlfriend, and I don’t want some smelly football player putting his hands on you.”

  I stood speechless for a moment. “I’m sorry. It was innocent, I promise you—just post-game enthusiasm.”

  “It might be for you, Anna, but that doesn’t mean those guys don’t have something else in mind. You see how short your skirt is, don’t you?”

  Instinctively, I smoothed it. Short was an understatement—we had to wear red briefs underneath so people wouldn’t see our underwear when we jumped and flipped. “Let’s not fight about it. Please.”

  “Whatever. I gotta go.”

  “Wait.” I grabbed his arm. “You’re splitting, just like that? Aren’t you even going to kiss me goodbye?”

  He bent down, giving me a chaste peck. His lips were like stone, hard and cold. He stalked off, leaving me bewildered.

  “What’s with Pete?” Jaime asked, Mary right behind her.

  I shook my head. “I have no idea. He’s being such a jerk.”

  “Never mind him. Don’t let him rain on your parade.”

  “You did great out there tonight!” Mary said.

  “You did, even if cheerleading is stupid.”

  “Jaime!” Mary chided.

  Jaime laughed. “What? It’s true.”

  I laughed, despite my annoyance at Pete. “It is true.”

  Dorky or not, I enjoyed the entire experience and excitement—including the hugs from football players.

  25

  Enjoy Coca-Cola

  The next night, my friends and I invaded Reese’s house. His dad had left town for a business trip, and an empty house meant a party. Pete picked me up, still giving me the cold shoulder and interacting with the bare minimum of civility. I didn’t understand his feelings and didn’t try hard to, either. In my mind, he was one hundred percent in the wrong, acting like a possessive jerk and questioning my trustworthiness.

  We went our separate ways shortly after arriving. At least Mary and Jaime provided better company after the silence in the car ride over. While the girls busied themselves making margaritas, I observed Pete from my vantage point in the kitchen. He lounged outside by the hot tub with Reese, Tez, Steve and Lindsey.

  “Pete still being a chump?” Jaime asked.

  “Irritatingly so.”

  Pete and Steve nodded at each other, as if in agreement, then Pete reared back and laughed. At least he could be happy about something. He glanced at me and quickly away. It was going to be a long night.

  “He’ll come around,” Mary said.

  “Come and get it, ladies,” Jaime announced, pouring the icy green liquid into salt-rimmed glasses.

  I held up my margarita. “Fancy schmancy. But where are the miniature umbrellas?”

  Jaime made a face, as if I could stick tiny umbrellas where the sun didn’t shine. “Cheers!”

  I took a hearty glug of the tangy beverage. Delicious. “Thank you for saving me from another night of Budweiser. If I had to drink one more beer, I might puke.”

  “Same,” Jaime said.

  The doorbell rang and Mary sped to the front door.

  I raised my eyebrow at Jaime.

  “Jake’s supposed to come over.”

  Ah, I guess they were on again. A twinge of envy followed.

  Jake strolled into the kitchen with Mary tagging behind. He wore his signature faded Levis and a tight black cotton tee. His glorious blue eyes practically twinkled as he smiled, greeting us.

  “Good evening ladies. You’re looking fine as ever tonight.” He gave me a wink and squeezed Jaime’s arm.

  Jaime shook him off, and I’d bet a hundred bucks she was nonplussed by his charms somehow. I beamed. If a prescription could fix my ails, a dose of Jake might do the trick right now. I offered him a margarita.

  “I’ve got something even better,” he said.

  “Ooh, what?” Mary said, trying to get his attention refocused on her.

  He rubbed his hands together. “Blow.”

  “No shit,” Jaime said. “I’ll get Reese.”

  Unsure what he meant—distracted by Jake’s megawatt smile—it became clear as everyone crowded around, and Jake pulled out a folded packet.

  “You won’t believe how good it is,” he said.

  “Alright, man,” Reese said. “Bring it in here. I’ll grab a mirror.”

  My stomach fluttered at this new development. Cocaine. Up until this point, my friends had only smoked pot and drank beer, although Pete admitted they sometimes dropped acid or ate magic mushrooms, neither of which I desired to try.

  A fresh wave of panic flew through me. Cocaine was a heavy
drug, way bigger than weed. What would happen if I did it? Would I become a junkie? Was it like heroin’s reputation—one time and you’re addicted? I didn’t expect this. My emotions and thoughts started warring. The pressure. The choices, or lack thereof. The desire to appear cool.

  With resignation, I predicted exactly how this would play out.

  Pete leaned over and whispered, “You don’t have to do it if you don’t want to.”

  Was he actually being nice? “I’m good,” I lied. Besides, I was a big girl. If everyone in the room was snorting coke, then so would I.

  Reese handed the mirror to Jake, who opened the small packet and shook out some of its white flaky contents. He used a razor blade to manipulate the mound into the center and began chopping, the blade making a tinking sound every time it touched the glass. Jake formed the white powder into long lines while Reese rolled up a dollar.

  Jake placed the mirror on the coffee table and used the bill to snort a line up each nostril. Everyone took a turn, until finally, it came to me.

  I took the bill from Pete. Even though I’d paid attention to the technique, my guts churned at the thought of shooting this stuff up my nose. I didn’t want to make a fool of myself or worse, accidentally blow the cocaine all over the living room, or you know, die.

  Here goes nothing.

  I gathered my long hair in a wad over one shoulder, inserted the makeshift tube into one nostril—that’s awkward—held my finger over my other nostril, and sniffed. Nothing happened. Great.

  “Try it without the coke first, Anna. Just see if you can make air go up your nose, like this,” said Jake, demonstrating.

  I tried. It worked, giving me a new perspective. I bent over and gave the real thing another go. The substance shot up my nostril, leaving a burning sensation in its wake. My eyes watered, and I blinked rapidly. I succeeded in getting the second line up the other side then swiped the residue off the mirror with my index finger and rubbed it on my gums, mimicking the others. I handed the dollar bill back to Jake and sat back on the sofa, relieved to have the spotlight removed. Except everyone beamed at me, like we all shared an inside joke.

  My mouth went numb, and soon after, my neck. The burning subsided, replaced by a thick, unpleasant residue dripping down my throat. I swallowed repeatedly to move it along, not that it was in any hurry. Is this all there is? If so, it’s lame.

  A rush of energy streaked through my body, as if Zeus himself had hit me with a thunderbolt. Everything receded, replaced with an intense laser focus for whatever was right in front of me. Sounds, shapes, movements—I tracked them all. My heart thumped, amplified somehow, and I inspected my chest to ensure it wasn’t beating out of my chest. It would have scared me if I wasn’t so intrigued. I gulped my margarita, wondering if everyone experienced the same charge. If they did, no one let on.

  We snorted two more rounds. The volume in the room escalated as multiple conversations started. Eyes glittered excitedly. Adrenaline surged.

  I suddenly needed to do something, anything. I got to my feet, unable to sit one second longer. “Who wants to dance?” Not waiting for an answer, I began gyrating to a Talking Heads song.

  I couldn’t discern Pete’s expression, but Jaime sprang to her feet and joined me. Jake started to rise, but Mary grabbed his arm and kissed him hard.

  “Do you like it?” Jaime asked.

  “I think so. It’s trippy, for sure.”

  “Me too. I’m flying.”

  Yes, flying.

  We danced with unconstrained energy, moving our bodies to the music, oblivious to anyone in the room as if tethered in our own mini-universe.

  “Who wants another line?” Jake called out.

  He lined it up again as we crowded around, waiting for our turns. We repeated that scenario many times, my heart rate increasing with every snort of the biting white powder. Would I ever come back to Earth—and did I even want to?

  People split off, talking animatedly in small groups. I went back to dancing.

  Pete grabbed me around the waist. “I want to talk. Somewhere private.”

  I took his hand, and he pulled me upstairs into the master bathroom. The pinkish hues struck me as feminine. Maybe Reese’s mother had decorated it before she divorced his father. The lights glared, hurting my eyes.

  “You’re driving me nuts,” Pete said, his voice husky.

  I blinked. Focus, Anna—pay attention. Everything moved at warp speed.

  “You can’t move like that in front of these guys. They’re all thinking the same thing I was.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’d like to bang her brains out.”

  Pete’s jealousy reared its ugly head again. I guffawed, not a very ladylike sound. “I doubt that.”

  “I’m a guy, and I can tell what they are imagining. Jesus, you were all but humping the furniture.”

  I glared, my lips pursed into a tight line. “That’s ridiculous! I was just dancing. Not stripping or trying to turn anyone on.” But come to think of it, I do feel kind of turned on.

  “I don’t want to argue; I want to bury myself in you.” He unbuttoned his pants and pushed my head lower. “Please.”

  I sank to my knees, taking him in my mouth and pleasuring him. He groaned, grabbing my hair and urging me deeper. My insides churned with sensations, obliterating all else.

  Pete stood me up and yanked my jeans down. He turned me around, bent me over the counter and plunged into me. I gasped. Our tryst was mirrored back at us: Pete’s closed eyes, his mouth set in concentration, our breath ragged yet in unison. The sex heightened the mood from the blow, creating a potent combination. His movements came fast and hard, forcing my own eyes shut from the intensity, until I felt his release. He slumped over me, spent and breathless.

  “You are fantastic,” he murmured.

  I nodded, unable to speak.

  “Maybe you should dance for me more often.”

  I smiled, and our eyes met in the mirror.

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  We straightened ourselves up and left the bathroom. A glance at the hall clock reminded me I had fifty minutes until my impending curfew of midnight, bringing me back to reality. Still mega amped, I didn’t want to leave or go home. I dreaded sitting in my room, spinning my wheels like a caged rat. Especially while all my friends continued the party without me while I missed all the fun. Why couldn’t I have cooler parents who let me run around all hours of the night? Cursing aloud, I went in search of another margarita.

  26

  Teen Drama

  A clatter jarred me awake. I glanced at my digital clock and groaned. It was only eight, and the din of my parent’s voices was overshadowed by one of them unloading the dishwasher in the noisiest way possible. Didn’t they comprehend it was Sunday and teenagers like myself needed their shut-eye?

  My head pounded and my eyes ached, pleading for mercy. I may have crawled home on time the night before, but I didn’t find sleep for hours. The effects of the cocaine kept me totally wired, despite chugging three margaritas prior to leaving the party to help bring me down. Although my current reality sucked, last night had been a blast.

  Someone knocked on my door. “Anna? You up?”

  “I’d have to be dead not to hear that racket in the kitchen, Mom.”

  She opened my door a crack and peered in. “I woke you? I’m sorry. I tried to be quiet.”

  You failed. “Can I go back to sleep?”

  “I thought you’d like breakfast before we go to church. I made bacon, eggs and English muffins,” she said in a too-chipper voice.

  The thought of food made me gag, but since she’d gone to the trouble, I’d suck it up. “Sure. Give me a minute.”

  I hauled myself out of bed, thanking God my mother didn’t make me go to church anymore. What did He think of me snorting cocaine last night or that out-of-wedlock interlude with Pete in the bathroom? Better not to wonder.

  My parents were dressed in t
heir Sunday best. Next to them, I channeled a homeless person in my wrinkled oversized T-shirt and faded flannel bottoms. My head still throbbed, but I plastered a smile on my face as I sat down at the table.

  “Have fun last night?” my mother asked.

  “Great time.” I forced a bite of scrambled eggs.

  My father scrutinized me. “You look tired.”

  That’s because I got about three hours of sleep. “I am. I didn’t get enough Zs last night.”

  “Don’t forget your list of chores today, young lady. And probably homework.”

  I nodded. I had forgotten about schoolwork. Damn. A long, awful day awaited.

  I crawled back into bed after my parents left, laying as still as possible and willing the ache in my head to go away. Pete called. Even talking on the phone pained me.

  “Why don’t you sound like death warmed over?” I said.

  He chuckled. “Experience.”

  “You’re a veteran of hangovers?”

  “Something like that. But I’m feeling it, too, believe me.”

  “I want to die. And I have chores and homework to do.”

  “Better get with the program, Trapani.”

  “I don’t wanna,” I whined, shifting to turn on my side carefully. In moments like these, a waterbed made seasickness a real possibility.

  “Are you coming to our game this week?”

  “When is it?”

  “Wednesday.”

  It hurt to think, but I remembered a commitment. “I can’t, babe. We have a cheerleader meeting. We’re creating decorations for the football players for this thing called Night Raiders.”

  “Isn’t it bad enough you already cheer for them at every game? Now you’re making them a bunch of crap, too?”

  Here comes a fight. “I hear you. It was news to me, but we’re supposed to make signs encouraging them to fight, fight, fight and win, win, win, and give them little bags of candy and decorate their rooms with strea—”

  “You’re decorating their goddamn bedrooms?”