Radiate

by Gibson, Marley

  “Next, our sophomore nominees are Lauren Compton, Samantha Fowler, Paige—”

  I tune out as Mr. Parish mentions the other three nominees, all of them non-cheerleaders. The tradition continues.

  I’m certainly not surprised when Ashleigh, Tara, Hannah, and Brittney complete the ballot for the junior class. That just leaves us five senior girls to fill the nominations for the twelfth grade.

  I sit tall in my seat and smooth my sweaty palms on the sides of my pants. The only other time I’ve heard my name on the loudspeaker was last spring when Mr. Parish listed the new squad.

  This is truly a moment to remember and to cherish, so I tug out my BlackBerry, scroll to the Voice Note function, and press Record. Why not?

  With my heart ticking away like a time bomb in need of diffusion, I listen closely to the principal.

  “And the nominees for the senior class, the list of which will include those girls eligible for homecoming queen are... Chloe Bradenton, Lora Russell, Melanie Otto, Ashlee Grimes, and . . .”

  And me!

  Say it . . . Hayley Matthews!

  “Furonda Garrison.”

  Who? What?

  The breath rushes out of my body, and I fear I’m going to slide to the floor in a massive heap of disappointment. I hear a snicker behind me as if someone else noticed that my name wasn’t on the list.

  Furonda Garrison’s a nice enough person. Pretty. Head majorette.

  She’s not a cheerleader, though.

  I am.

  I was supposed to be nominated.

  So much for school tradition.

  Eleven of the twelve varsity cheerleaders are on the nomination ballot.

  I’m the only one left off.

  Gulping down my pride, I raise my hand to get Mademoiselle Saunders’s attention. She nods in my direction. “May I please go to the bathroom?”

  The teacher clicks her tongue at me and waves her finger. “Veuillez le dire en français.”

  Say it in French. Right.

  “Oh, um . . .” I think quickly and stumble over my request as I do my best to keep the hot tears that are building behind my eyes from falling in front of my classmates. “Um... est-ce que je peux satisfaire vais la salle de bains?”

  “Oui, vous pouvez.”

  Since the period is almost over, I gather my belongings and stow them into my backpack. Expeditiously, I crutch my way out of the room and down the abandoned corridor to the girls’ bathroom. I seek out the farthest stall on the end and hang my crutches up on the hook behind the door.

  I sink to the toilet seat and cover my face with my shaking hands.

  The flood gates open, and the one-woman pity party resumes.

  This is the fourth time I cry. I cry all alone in the bathroom until my eyes are puffy.

  Chapter Thirty

  We cannot direct the wind but we can adjust the sails.

  —Attributed to Bertha Calloway

  The absence of my name from the list of homecoming court nominees isn’t acknowledged by my fellow cheerleaders. It’s the white elephant in the room no one wants to recognize. Instead, at practice we throw ourselves into learning a new pompom routine.

  I’m beyond exhausted when Lora drops me off at home. The whole ride, she was talking to William on the phone, so neither of us had to discuss the homecoming court dissing. I guess I understand how the rest of the student body wouldn’t want a cancer patient representing them. I only wonder if people are ashamed that I’m front and center cheering for the Patriots each week. Is it an embarrassment to the PHS community for me to be all bald, leading cheers?

  I don’t want to overthink this, which I’m so good at doing. I earned the spot, and I am going to cheer, come hell or high water. I’m getting stronger each day, my leg muscles are developing more, and I have more school spirit than the other eleven girls put together.

  I wave and blow a kiss at Lora as I step out of her car at my house. She tinks the horn and pulls off, still chatting away with her boyfriend.

  Now, I’m sitting at the kitchen table reading my AP Economics book about supply and demand, an economic model of price determination in a market that concludes that, in a competitive market, the unit price for particular goods will vary until it settles at a point where the quantity demanded by consumers at the current price will equal the quantity supplied by the producer, resulting in an economic equality of price and quantity. Phew... I totally memorized that.

  Apparently the supply of available cheerleaders for the homecoming court didn’t equal the demand from the student body, resulting in my economic disparity. God, it’s a horrible, horrible analysis. My teacher, Mrs. Hildegard, would probably give me an instant F for such an asinine comparison.

  I throw my yellow highlighter across the kitchen table, watching as it lands in the container that holds the pink packets of Sweet’N Low.

  The back door bursts open, and in walks Mom carrying a bulky, white plastic shopping bag.

  “Oh good, Hayley, you’re here,” she says, a bit out of breath.

  “What in the world do you have in there?” I ask.

  I move to help her, but she waves me off. “No, no. I’ve got it.”

  “Yeah, but what is it?”

  In one fell swoop, she upends the plastic bag, and hair products and other various items spill across the table.

  “I went to the Hair Cuttery and talked to my hairdresser, Tommy. You remember him. Tommy Shaw, lovely man.”

  Impatience blankets me, especially after the disappointment of the day. “Point, Mom?”

  Mom puts her hands on her hips. “What’s with the attitude?”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, closing my textbook. “Lots of homework.” I don’t want to upset her by telling her I was the only cheerleader who didn’t get nominated for the homecoming court.

  “Well, this is homework, as well.” She starts stacking the products in a line of obedient hair care soldiers. “I spoke with Tommy about growing hair.”

  I’m too stunned to speak.

  “There’s no secret formula or magic bullet, but there are things we can do to encourage growth. The average person only has six inches of growth in a year, so I figure that’s a jumping-off ground for us.”

  I peruse the products on the table. There’s a bottle of henna shampoo and a whole slew of vitamins: B-6, biotin, folic acid, magnesium, sulfur, silica, zinc, and vitamin E.

  “Wow—that’s a lot to swallow. Literally.”

  Mom ignores my bad pun and continues. “Tommy said the henna shampoo will promote growth, and the vitamins will help strengthen the follicles and speed growth.” She then pulls papers from her purse—stuff she’s printed off from the Internet about aiding hair and nail growth. My nails have become brittle and started splitting, too. “Here,” Mom says when she sees me checking out my fingers. “Gelatin capsules will help.”

  “I’m supposed to take all of this?” I ask, not in a complaining way but more to note what my new daily regimen will need to be.

  “Yes! We’ll get one of those pill dispensers from the drugstore and we’ll lay everything out—what you need to take when and how often.”

  I nod my head in agreement.

  “Oh, and from now on, you’ll be eating a diet that’s rich in protein, which stimulates hair growth, as well.”

  “Right, that’s the same thing Ross told me. You know, Lora’s uncle.”

  Mom’s eyes brighten with recognition. “Oh, the nice man who brought the cheerleaders to Birmingham. That was very lovely of him.”

  “He gave me some protein bars and shake mixes that I’ve started using.”

  “That’s very nice of him. Did you write him a thank-you note?”

  “No, Mom. I just told him ‘thank you.’” She’s so old-fashioned sometimes.

  I get the motherly eye roll, and then she disappears back out the door. I hear her fumbling around in the car. I’m hobbling out to help her when she hands up four bags of groceries to me from the bottom step. “Ta
ke those in the kitchen, if you can. I’ll get the rest.”

  I begin unloading everything onto the counter: two dozen eggs, several different kinds of cheeses, steaks, burger meat, cottage cheese, peanuts, peanut butter, black beans, green beans, chicken breasts, tuna, bacon... Wow, she’s really gone all out.

  “This fell out in the car,” Mom says when she returns. She tosses me a can of something that looks like hair mousse.

  “Rogaine? Isn’t that for guys?”

  “It’s for anyone with patterned hair loss. How can it hurt?”

  I snicker at it, but I’ll try anything.

  “I know this is hard for you, Hayley, but you have to be patient. This is going to take time. We’ll do all we can to make it work.”

  I cross the kitchen slowly to hug her and kiss her on the cheek. “Thank you so much, Mommy.” I don’t have to be a rocket scientist to figure out this can’t be easy on her. “I appreciate all you’re doing for me. I really do.”

  She wipes away a tear and says, “When your chick is hurting, you hurt, too. I just want to do anything I can for you, Hayley.”

  “You’re awesome.”

  She plants a kiss on my forehead and goes about putting away groceries.

  “You’re okay?”

  I nod. “I assure you, I’m fine.”

  I let out a sigh and return to my homework.

  I don’t like lying to my mom.

  ***

  We have a bye week Friday night, which means no football game. Saturday night, Daniel picks me up to take me to a party at Bryan Cousin’s house. He’s the president of the senior class and the Student Government Association.

  I’m sporting a new pair of jeans and a shimmery black and silver top I got on sale at H&M. I wear my black boots, but I need my crutches since I’m still limping and unable to put all of my weight on my left side.

  Daniel waits in the foyer, where, thankfully, he’s left alone. Mom’s in the kitchen fussing over dinner, and Dad’s on his way home from the hardware store. The poor guy works his ass off, and I’ve barely seen him these days. I hope he’s not pushing himself too hard or making himself sick.

  I emerge down the staircase—slowly and carefully—and I meet Daniel’s stare. He smiles at first and then his mouth shifts into a frown.

  “What?” Is my makeup smeared? Do I have food stains on my new clothes?

  “Don’t you want to wear a hat or something for your head?”

  My spirit deflates like a soufflé when the oven door is slammed.

  He knows he’s screwed up. “Wait! No! I didn’t mean it in a bad way. Shit. I meant, in case you get cold or anything.”

  “Daniel, this is who I am, and I’m fine with the way I look.”

  It takes a moment; then he says, “Me too. Let’s go.”

  When we arrive at the party, Gabriel’s the first one to greet me. He rubs me on the head for good measure, just like he does every day at school. Some people think he’s being cruel because he’s not treating me any differently. But I appreciate that about him, and it’s better than the others who don’t know how to start a conversation with me.

  “I’m feeling some growth there, Hay.”

  My hand skips across my skull and I smile. Sure enough, wispy, tiny, soft hairs like those of a baby are barely peeking out and starting to sprout. “Whattaya know?”

  Gabriel nods and holds up his cup of beer to salute me. “It’s a good thing you’re not wearing a wig. It would probably stifle all that new growth.”

  Daniel tugs on my arm. “Later, Tremb. Let’s make the rounds, Hayley.”

  “See ya, Gabriel,” I say to my friend.

  Daniel leads me around, high-fiving a teammate here or fist bumping another one there. Scoop Dogg and a few of his buddies approach Daniel.

  “Yo, it’s Dandelion-field.”

  Daniel blows up. “What the fuck is that supposed to mean, LaShawn?”

  The muscular defensive safety is in Daniel’s face. “Some of us have been talking about your commitment to the team. All of us, we shaved our heads straight out.” LaShawn indicates his shiny dome. “But you, man, you opted for more of a buzzcut.”

  “I did the best I could,” Daniel says in his defense.

  Anthony Ricketts joins in the prodding. “Y’all know Del- afield’s too much of a pretty boy.” He and Daniel are good friends, so more than likely it’s the alcohol talking.

  “Piss off, Ricketts.”

  Anthony tries to hug him. “Awww... come on, man. You’re my bro.”

  LaShawn laughs heartily, almost a snort. “Dude, your girlfriend has more balls than you.”

  “I didn’t voluntarily shave my head, LaShawn,” I say, correcting him.

  “I know, sweetheart. You had the Big C.” He stretches out his fist at me. “Respect.”

  My chest aches with pride at someone recognizing my challenge. I return the fist bump and say, “Thanks.”

  “I got your back anytime,” he says to me.

  The banter is interrupted with the high-pitched whine of an electric razor that Anthony holds over his head like the hammer of Thor.

  “We can take care of the rest of it, Dela,” he says with an evil grin.

  I step in to intervene. “Y’all are too drunk,” I say, laughing.

  Daniel grits his teeth and hisses at me. “I don’t need you to fight my battles, Hayley.” He turns to his intoxicated teammates. “Y’all know I’m with the team two hundred percent. I cut my hair as much as I could. My mother would have disowned me.”

  Wrong thing to say. It only makes matters worse.

  Scoop Dogg and his buddies, along with Anthony, start catcalling and razzing Daniel. I can tell he’s majorly pissed off. He throws his hands up in the air and takes a few steps back. “Whatever.”

  Anthony can barely stand up. “Don’t be like that. We’re just messin’ with you, man.”

  Daniel flips them the middle finger and then grabs my arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

  Lora catches my eye from across the room and furrows her brow. I shrug and retreat from the party with my boyfriend.

  Outside, Daniel drops my arm and storms off to his truck. “Fuck them! They’re a bunch of shitheads.”

  “They’re your friends,” I say, following him as fast as I can on the crutches.

  “They’re assholes.”

  When I catch up, I say, “Daniel, they’re drunk.”

  His face hardens. “That’s not an excuse.”

  “It’s a reason.”

  He jerks open the door of his truck, helps me in, and then slams it behind me.

  Uh-oh . . .

  When he slides in, he just sits there a moment catching his breath.

  “Do we really have to go?” I ask quietly.

  “I’m not dealing with that. I’ve scored eight touchdowns this season. Eight! In five games. Scoop Dogg’s had one fumble recovery. And Anthony. Did you see the tackle he missed on Henderson High last weekend? Almost cost us the game.”

  I nod in understanding, trying to be the supportive girlfriend. “It’s okay,” I say.

  His eyes darken. “Oh, it was fine for you. Scoop Dogg’s all like, ‘I got your back, sister.’ What the hell was that all about?”

  I lift my shoulders. “I don’t know. I barely know the guy.” There’s a long pause, and then I say, “It was nice of him to recognize what I’ve been through.”

  “And I haven’t?” Daniel asks in a bit of a growl.

  “I didn’t say that!”

  He pounds his hands on the steering wheel. “Dammit, Hayley, I’m so frustrated.”

  “About the team?”

  He shakes his head. “No... the hell with them. I don’t know what to say to you.”

  I press myself into the seat. “What?”

  “Yeah. I’m so afraid of saying the wrong thing to you. You’re in this delicate state. I mean, LaShawn knew what to say and I just stood there.”

  I snicker. “First of all, I’m not in any kind of
‘delicate’ state. I’m one tough cookie, if you haven’t already noticed. Shit happens... and boy, did it happen to me.”

  “What can I do, though?” he pleads. I appreciate that he’s trying. However, it shouldn’t be this hard for us.

  I scoot over next to him and bravely put my hand on his knee—not exactly something I’ve done before. I seem to be a new Hayley, though.

  “Look. Just treat me like you did before I got cancer.”

  He shines a brilliant smile at me and says, “I’ll try.”

  I run my hand over his chest, up his neck, and around his head. With a gentle tug, I take the reins and pull him toward me. It’s a sweet kiss at first. Chaste and friendly. I let him know that I want more. I deserve passion and caring from him.

  We make out heavily for a few minutes, parked right in front of the party, and I hope I’ve gotten through to him.

  When we separate, he asks, “Are you hungry?”

  Not really, but I’ll feign it to stay with him. “Sure.”

  As he starts the truck and drives off, I try to look on the positive side, but something’s just not right.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Oh, my friend, it’s not what they take away from you that counts. It’s what you do with what you have left.

  —Hubert Humphrey

  At Friday’s pep rally, three freshmen girls approach me, asking if they can have my wristband after the event. They literally raced one another to get over to me, but Janell Armstrong was first and I promise it to her. When the music cranks, I fall into line and perform our funky dance routine as if nothing’s wrong with me, smiling through the discomfort in my leg. Most of the routine has me doing moves in the back where I don’t have to walk around a lot. At least Chloe choreographed it that way for me.

  Hurts so good . . . hurts so good . . .

  Friday night at the game, I’m decked out in the one-piece red and white uniform with a large “P” on the front, just like the other eleven girls. I leave the crutches on the bench and do my best to get along without them for the duration of the game.