Radiate

by Gibson, Marley

  This time, my hand touches his when I stretch out. “Look. You’re going to be awesome. You’re an amazing athlete, and every college is going to be drooling to hand you a scholarship. Don’t get so freaked out over the pressure that you don’t enjoy it, you know?”

  And with that, he relaxes. Boys are like that. They need to know how cool and special they are.

  “Thanks, Hayley,” he says with a smile. He squeezes my hand and rubs his thumb on top. “You really are a great cheerleader.”

  “Yes, I am. Wait until tomorrow night!”

  ***

  Even though I’m on crutches, it’s totally cool walking the hallways of PHS in my cheerleader uniform. People I barely know turn and wave or say “hey” to me. I finally feel like I’m someone, which sounds kind of pathetic. I don’t mean it that way. It’s just that for the first time since I’ve been in high school, a lot of people know my name and who I am.

  I think that’s cool.

  My first pep rally is even cooler.

  Although I come in on my crutches, I prop them up nearby and limp along, trying not to put too much pressure on my left leg as I walk on my tiptoes. The nice new Nikes are firm, supporting, and helpful.

  “Let’s have a vic’try tonight!” I scream with the rest of the squad. “When you’re up, you’re up!”

  “When you’re up, you’re up,” the students in the gym repeat.

  “When you’re down, you’re down! When you’re up against the Patriots, you’re upside down! Hey, hey, mighty Patriots... let’s have a vic’try tonight... hey!”

  The adrenaline pumping through every vein in my body has me feeling no pain. If my leg is hurting, I certainly don’t know it. But I still put all of the pressure, weight, and responsibility on my right leg as I execute the cheers.

  I glance down at my armband with the pep rally schedule written on it. It’s made from athletic tape we got from the trainers. I remember when I was a freshman at PHS, I got Jordan Gardner’s wristband from her after my first pep rally. I wore it to the game that night, and PHS totally kicked butt. I wonder if some freshman girl will come up and want mine when we’re done.

  Lora rushes to the microphone and introduces the team captains for the Highland game. “Let’s give a big cheer for seniors, Skipper O’Rourke and Anthony Ricketts!”

  I nab my silver poms in my fists and brush them together as the gym goes crazy for our captains. Skipper, tall and lanky, steps to the microphone. Anthony follows behind him with a small black case in his hand.

  When Lora returns to stand in front of me, I ask, “What’s Anthony got there?”

  She shrugs and turns back to the players.

  “We just want to thank everyone who traveled with us last week to the Emmanuel game. It was awesome seeing so many fans on our side,” Skipper says, peering up through his long side-swept blond hair. “We’re really dedicated to winning the state championship this year, and we’ll do anything to get there.”

  The students cheer crazily, and I hop on my right leg, raising my poms high over my head to egg everyone on. To my left, Chloe executes a perfect pike jump while Melanie does one herkie after another. The gym is electrified with so much school spirit. The kinetic energy alone could power the stadium lights for tonight’s game.

  Skipper motions for everyone to be quiet. “My cousin plays football out in Colorado. Last year, the whole team decided to shave their heads as a symbol of their unity and toughness. And you know what? They won the championship!”

  Anthony opens the medium black case he’s been holding, revealing an electric clipper with all the comb attachments. My brother used to have one just like it and managed to give himself a buzzcut because he didn’t use the right comb.

  “That’s right, y’all,” Skipper says as he points to the clipper. “We’re gonna do it, too!”

  Everyone goes ape! It’s so loud in the gym that I can’t hear myself think. I’m amazed as I watch Anthony load a comb onto the end, switch on the device, and then run it over Skipper’s thick mop of hair. Blond strands fall in a pile on the floor while everyone cheers them along. When Skipper has nothing but a thin layer of peach fuzz on his head, he holds his hands up high, pumping his fists in the air. Anthony’s next, buzzing off his short cropped black hair. Over the next few minutes, the rest of the players gather around Skipper and Anthony, breaking out more electric razors.

  “Oh my God,” Tara shouts over to me. “This is freaking amazing!”

  Everyone buzzes his head. Hair is everywhere. The student body is pumped by the frenzy. Even Coach Gaither pulls off his baseball cap and shaves what little hair he has left. Gabriel and the two other trainers bend down and off comes their hair.

  I gasp when he turns to me and gives me a thumbs-up.

  I shake my head back at him and raise the poms in his direction.

  Lora points to her wristband. “We certainly didn’t have this on the schedule.”

  “Seriously!”

  All of a sudden, there’s a murmur in the crowd, and I hear Skipper on the PA say, “Come on, Delafield. Don’t be a chicken.”

  Daniel still sports his shaggy mop; really standing out as the only red-shirted guy in the gym who’s unshaven. “I can’t. My mom’ll kick my ass.”

  LaShawn “Scoop Dogg” (known for scooping up fumbles) Carter throws his hands up. “Man! You’re messin’ with our flow.”

  Clearly embarrassed and torn over what to do, Daniel rocks back and forth on the heels of his feet. A hissing boo arises from the students, and Daniel waves them down.

  “I’ll do it! I’ll do it!”

  Scoop Dogg moves in with the clipper, and Daniel stops him.

  “I’ll do it, man.”

  “Whatever, dude,” Scoop Dogg says.

  I hold my breath as Daniel digs through the comb attachments and snaps a new one into place. He moves the clipper over his scalp, and a good portion of his hair joins the pile on the floor. It isn’t nearly as short as the rest of them, but at least he made the effort and everyone seems to be happy enough.

  The music kicks on, and we cheerleaders fall into our dance routine. I’m pumped beyond reason, and I’ve never experienced such intense school spirit.

  Boy, Highland High is going to be in trouble tonight!

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Once you choose hope, anything’s possible.

  —Christopher Reeve

  Dad escorts me down the concrete steps of the stadium and onto the football field. The home crowd of students, parents, alumni, teachers, and boosters is already gathering, and the familiar smell of chargrilled burgers and fresh popcorn fills the air.

  I take that first step onto the green grass and head over to the area in front of the fence where the cheerleaders traditionally stand in front of the band and the student section. My feet are rooted to the soft sod as I’m still trying to take in that I’m actually here in my new uniform to cheer in front of the home crowd. Madison Hutchinson and Lauren Compton are already in place, doing some warm-up stretches a few feet from me. Madi waves.

  “Are you okay, Hayley?” Dad asks.

  “Yeah, great, in fact.”

  “You look great, Little Kid.”

  I believe I do. My long hair is pulled up into a high ponytail, as requested—demanded, more like—by my captain. I have on the new white uniform that Mom took in a bit in the waist to fit me better. My makeup is simple: powder (which I’ll just sweat off), waterproof eyeliner and mascara, and a touch of sparkly blue MAC eye shadow on my lids. I even went as far as putting on some lip gloss, which will last about as long as the powder does. But I’m here. Front and center. Actually, on the end... still. I’m ready to cheer on the Pats.

  “I’ll set your crutches here,” Dad says as he leans them against the fence. My purse gets stashed on the ground next to them. I limp/hop over to my cheer spot and place my blue and red metallic poms on the ground.

  I’m as ready as I can be.

  Moments later the rest of the chee
rleaders arrive, and we begin to put up the signs we’d made during the week. Members of the Pep Club help by taking banners down to the end zones and hanging signs there for the players—and opponents—to see clearly.

  Lora bounds down the stairs and lands in front of me like she’s just parachuted out of an airplane. “I’ve been calling you since after the pep rally. Where have you been?”

  “At home. Napping. Showering. Getting ready.”

  She smacks me on the arm. “I was going to give you a ride to the game. You know, so we partners could arrive together.”

  “Oh, sorry! Mom and Dad are here, so I rode with them.”

  She twists to scan the stands. She sees my mom and waves up at her.

  “Well, you’re hanging with me after the game. Anthony’s having a victory party at his house. Food, beer, swimming, making out,” she says with a wink. “William is expecting me, and I suspect Daniel will want you there, as well. You can spend the night at my house so you don’t have to worry about curfew.”

  “Sure. Sounds awesome!” I guess Mom and Dad will go along with this plan.

  Chloe and her partner, Melanie, arrive last. Chloe is fresh from the salon with perfectly sculpted nails done in red, white, and blue. Her hair is shiny, clean, and pulled into a ponytail. She surveys the signs and how we’ve hung them on the fence.

  “Who has the run-through sign?” she asks clippishly.

  Hannah points to the large, folded painted paper on the bench next to the fence. “Ashlee and I brought it down.”

  “Great.” Chloe moves her eyes to me. “So, Hayley, you going to last the whole game?”

  Bitch. “I plan on it. I just won’t be able to run across the field with y’all to greet the visiting cheerleaders.”

  Before Chloe can speak, Lora adds, “Hayley can get the Gatorade and sodas taken care of while we do that. How’s that?”

  The captain shrugs. “Whatever.”

  Off in the distance, I hear the familiar cadence of the band; the drum beats, bass, and bells chiming out the march into the stadium. For a moment, I pause to see if I have any weird feelings about not being in the band. Hmm... nope. It’s simply a “been there; done that” sort of thing for me. How far I’ve come from being hidden under the plumed hat to being on display in front of the entire school.

  We cheer for the band as they file into their rows on the bleachers. The majorettes are wearing unbelievably skimpy sequin and satin uniforms that make them look like Las Vegas showgirls. All five of them wear the uniform well, though. I also note the color guard has new flags with our Patriots logo in shimmery fabric.

  “Come on, y’all,” Chloe indicates. “The team is coming.”

  I limp slowly behind the rest of the squad, trying not to overdo before the game even starts. We spread the run-through sign out on the field and then await instructions from Chloe. She points to Tara and Brittney and then to Lora and me. “Y’all shoulder up and hold the sign. Everyone else spread out on each side for the guys to run through. Poms in hand!”

  Lora fist bumps me, yet I don’t know if Chloe’s rewarding me for my first game or trying to shame me, thinking I’ll fall flat on my face in the turf or get mowed down by the team. I’ll show her.

  Tossing all of my body weight over to the right side, I lunge over for Lora to run up onto my shoulders. She does so with ease, and I hold my breath as I balance her weight on me. I have to thank Gabriel for the workouts this week. I can totally feel a difference in my muscles. The rest of the girls hand the sign up to the flyers, and I hold on to it with my left hand.

  Next thing I know, the Marching Patriots sound out the school fight song and the crowd roars. I hear the pounding of feet coming toward me like wild buffaloes, and I brace for the contact.

  Bust!

  Riiiiiiip!

  All that work drawing and painting only to be torn to shreds by the guys in two seconds.

  When the last player, trainer, and coach rush past us, Lora dismounts. She then executes three textbook back handsprings while others on the team do the same. I feel like a total dumb-ass just standing there with a leftover handful of the sign. I’ve got to do something.

  “Don’t run or jump on that leg,” Dr. Dykema said.

  Favoring my right side, I wind up into a cartwheel. Basic, yes, but it’s the best I can do. The first one is great. The second one is elementary and wobbly. Okay, maybe it’s too early to start doing stunts. I wince on my next hobbled step and hope no one caught my pained facial expression. Lora must have, because she rushes over to my crutches and nabs one for me. In no time, she’s at my side and we’re making our way back to our cheer spot.

  “You can’t do shit like that yet, Hayley.”

  “I’m okay,” I insist.

  Chloe’s too busy leading the cheers to comment on my stunt, so I slide into place and join in on the chant she’s started. The teams line up on the field, and I spot the jersey with number eleven and “Delafield” on the back. I send good thoughts his way for a powerful performance. He did, after all, promise to score a TD for me.

  The game progresses with a swapping of downs. In front of us at the gate are a bunch of little girls in mini Patriots cheerleader uniforms. They aspire to be what I am, a varsity cheerleader.

  During a time-out, I sit on the bench and down half a bottle of water. One of the little girls stares at me through the chainlink fence.

  “What’s wrong with your leg?” she asks. “You’ve got a bandage on it.”

  I don’t want to frighten her with the C word, so I just say, “I had surgery this summer.”

  “You’re still a cheerleader?” she asks with sweet, innocent eyes.

  I beam a smile at her. “Yeah, nothing slows me down.”

  Through a semitoothless grin, she says, “You’re cool.”

  “Thanks, I think you’re cool, too.”

  Halftime comes, and I’m totally exhausted. Not that I’ll admit that to anyone. Not to Lora. Not to my parents. Certainly not to Chloe. Instead, I man the drink table and pass out Gatorade, Coke, and Diet Coke to the visiting Highland cheerleaders. They’re nice enough and cheer on our band as they perform their program. I watch the familiar steps that I spent three years doing. When the band slides into the final formation and blares out our fight song, we take to our feet and clap for them as they file back up into the stands.

  Then the game is back on with Highland accepting the kickoff. We nail them on the fifteen, and the third quarter is off.

  “Push ’em back, push ’em back... waaaaaaay back, hey!”

  “Defense!” Clap-clap. “Defense!” Clap-clap. “Defense!” Clap-clap.

  “I said it’s great to be a Polk High Patriot! I said it’s great to be a Patriots’ fan!”

  Nevertheless, there’s a strange niggling inside of me that tells me something’s not... right. I sense eyes are on me. I’m doing my best, but are people whispering about me, wondering what I’m doing out here with a bandaged leg and crutches nearby?

  Are there mothers in the crowd wondering why their daughter wasn’t given the chance to replace me on the squad?

  Do my fellow band members think I should be back in the brass section?

  Jesus, is paranoia another side effect of chemo and radiation?

  Seriously. I don’t need these stupid thoughts.

  I don’t need any kind of darkness to overcome me and get me off track.

  I shake out of the funk and spin to refocus on the game. I shouldn’t be making up dramas in my own head. Save that for my English compositions.

  The third quarter isn’t a good one. Coy Parker, the defensive guy Daniel was concerned about, is all over the field, nailing our running back, Marquis Richardson, and sticking him into the dirt. The poor runner can’t gain an inch, much less a yard. Add to that, Highland manages to tie up the score at twenty-one each.

  “We’ve got to change our offensive strategy,” I say to Lora.

  “Go tell Coach Gaither,” she says with a laugh. She spi
ns back to the crowd to start a cheer, and I join in.

  “Whattaya want?”

  “TD!”

  “What’s that?”

  “Touchdown!”

  We hold up our hands with four fingers showing when the last quarter starts, and we begin chanting, “Fourth quarter’s ours!”

  It’s a major defensive battle back and forth, and I fear we may have a loss on our hands. I can’t worry about my leg or who’s staring at me or what Chloe thinks of my performance tonight. We simply cannot lose this game—not the first home game. That would muck up the entire rest of the season.

  Just like in any college or pro game, everything turns on a dime in football. All my negative thoughts are erased when Daniel breaks free of the man-to-man coverage Coy Parker’s putting on him and he hauls in a twenty-six-yard pass from Skipper. Daniel tucks the ball and sprints into the end zone for the touchdown. He hands it off to the ref in a very sportsmanlike manner, although there’s a little chest bumping on the five-yard line with some of his teammates.

  As time ticks down, the guys on the sideline storm the field. We’ve won! The Patriots are two and oh. We cheerleaders are right behind them, mixing in the melee of tired players. I propel myself like a marathoner on my crutches as I move through the sweaty, dirty crowd of Patriots and Highlanders congregating at midfield.

  Then, I hear my name, and I’m scooped up into the strong arms of number eleven. My crutches fall to the ground, and I hold on as I’m swung around. Daniel is stinky and dripping wet; yet I don’t care. He sets me on the ground and kisses me right there in front of everyone on the field.

  “How’d you like that?” he asks.

  “Fantabulous!”

  “I scored that for you, remember?”

  I nod, unable to speak.

  He places his hot forehead against mine and whispers, “My own personal cheerleader.”

  ***

  “Come on, Hayley!” Lora calls out to me in the locker room.

  “I have to finish with my hair!” I was so nasty hot after the game that I had to take a quick shower. Afterward, I attack a Conair, blasting it at maximum high as my wet hair flies about. I’ve got to get my ass in gear for Anthony Ricketts’s party.