by Julie Dill
I will never. Never. Ever. Go back again.
Chapter 7
After six hours in bed but hardly any sleep, I get up and make my way to the shower. The sun is beaming through the small window that’s neatly covered with thin, yellow curtains, curtains that we’ve had since I can remember, curtains that I’m sure Mom probably picked out herself. The towels and dirty clothes are still piled on the floor from yesterday—yet another reminder that I am a loser. Had I stayed home last night, I’d have a cabinet of neatly folded towels and ninety-two dollars still in my purse.
I start the water, undress, and grab a washcloth. As I get in, my hair receives the steam, and WHOA the cigarette smell is back. The smoke oozes from my skin cells, and it’s nauseating. I breathe through my mouth to keep from smelling last night’s debacle.
I’m tired.
I want nothing more than to wash this smoke off my body and go back to bed. Maybe I could dream of Mom and picnics, and maybe she could give me some advice as to how to get myself out of this predicament.
What would she say?
Quit the cheer squad?
Don’t give up?
Find an honest job?
Lighten your load?
I need direction.
I turn the water off and step out of the steam. I sit down on the tub, and all of the sudden I’m six again. In the tub.
__________
“Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Will we ever get a new Mama?”
He stops washing my hair, frozen for just a few seconds. “What do you mean?”
“Will we ever get a new Mama? Or do we just have to wait and see if ours comes back?”
He takes the showerhead from the handle, and tests the water temperature on his hands. “Lean back.”
He rinses the shampoo then applies the conditioner.
“Lean back, kiddo. You’re going to get it in your eyes.”
I lean back, and he rinses.
He stands and gets a towel from the cabinet, and tosses it onto the floor. “Time to get out.” For the first time ever, he leaves me to get out by myself.
__________
Cassidy finds me at my locker before school. The hallways are sparse—a couple minutes before the tardy bell, and I’ve already declared myself late since I started cleaning out my locker.
“Where were you last night? I tried to call you. When I came by your house your car wasn’t there.” I continue pulling out loose papers and tossing them on the floor by my feet.
“When?”
“What do you mean, when? Like all night long.” She’s irritated.
I start taking my textbooks out one at a time and stacking them neatly on the floor. Lies begin to formulate in my head, and I hesitate a little too long.
“Chelsea! Where were you? I thought you’d been kidnapped or something! I didn’t know whether to call your dad at work or what!”
I stop what I’m doing to look at her, and then go back to my cleaning. “I just had a lot of errands and stuff. I went to the store. We were out of everything; it just took me a long time, that’s all.”
“Why weren’t you answering your phone?”
“My battery died . . . shit, back off. I didn’t realize you were my keeper.” I drop a textbook to the stack—whack. I’m not in the mood.
She doesn’t respond but stands there looking at me. The bell rings, and she leaves.
I rub my hand across the bottom of my locker to remove the fuzz balls and dust then stack my books back into my locker, this time vertically. I pull my health book from the stack, knowing this new locker organization system will work so much better than before.
A locker cleanse.
Just what I needed.
After school I go to practice.
Some are already stretching when I walk into the gym, their hair pulled up in messy buns on top of their heads. The gym is humid and stinks like socks. I go to the locker room and change into my practice clothes, and as I’m tying my cheer shoes, another cheerleader, Reagan, walks in.
I just need a moment.
A moment to decide if I’m going to do this. So I sit down on the locker room bench that’s so waxy it looks wet, criss-cross my legs, and slowly start rolling my head around to stretch my neck. I watch Reagan out of the corner of my eye. She has a huge, black, Coach gym bag. It has to be a $400 bag, at least. She sets it on another bench and checks her smartphone.
“Hey, Chelsea.”
“Hey,” I reply.
She’s obviously been tanning. When she slips into her red practice shorts, there’s a striking contrast between her brown legs and her white cheer shoes. She tucks her Kate Spade clutch purse into her gym bag, then zips the bag and stacks it long ways into her locker. She uses one hand to push her bag in, and the other hand to close the door, then locks the digital combination lock.
I keep rolling my head and extend my left leg across the bench to stretch my hamstring. Reagan pulls her hair on top of her head without even looking in the mirror. I know just by looking at her that her check for fees has already been written.
“You comin’?” she asks me on her way out the door.
“Yeah, I’ll be out there in a sec.” But she’s already gone.
What am I doing here . . .?
I don’t belong.
The door swings open and Cassidy busts in, clearly in a rush. I jump up and start heading for the door. She apologizes for getting on to me this morning and jokes that I’m “grounded.” I laugh it off and exit out onto the gym floor. I go through the motions of going through the motions. It’s old choreography we’re polishing, so my body’s on autopilot.
“Sharper! Shaper!” Miss Mound yells 352 times and slips in the occasional “Toes!” or “Formations!”
The practice, to an outsider, would be an ironic joke. The coach couldn’t extend her leg— much less make it “sharper” even if she was held at gunpoint and her life depended on it. She is dressed to the hilt, as always. I’m sympathetic to the extra pointy, black, shiny heels she has on, thinking they’re going to surrender to the weight above them—and break off and die—any second. Miss Mound . . . She’s nice enough, but she is constantly prying into the rich, popular cheerleaders’ business. She checks them out head to toe and asks things like, “What ski resort are you staying at?” and “Did your mom get a new Escalade?” and “Where are you shopping for your prom dress?” Every practice she’s barking out orders and popping peanut M&Ms at the same time. Except for one day she completely changed it up and was eating Skittles. I caught her reading the nutrition label on the back of the bag. Zero fat in those chewy little candies.
Needless to say, she’s never gotten into my business.
She likes me.
As the music plays from her old-school CD player, thunder starts to rip outside, and the already humid air in the gym becomes even heavier. Every move I make takes everything I have because I am so tired from last night. Now would be a good time to go ahead and quit so I could go home and take a nap. But when the coach says we have just one more run through, I decide to hang in there.
We know practice is over when we hear the usual, “Good job, girls.” She says it because she has to.
“If you,” she pauses due to loud thunder, “haven’t paid your choreography fees yet, I need a check today.” She looks my direction.
My decision has been made for me.
This has to be it.
__________
In the locker room, I’m slow to pack up my stuff while everyone else is in and out in a flash. I stall by using the bathroom, wash my hands for an extra-long time, and change back into my school clothes. When I walk back out onto the gym floor, she’s visiting with the boys’ golf coach so I linger and wait my turn.
After a few minutes, Miss Mound says goodbye to t
he other coach then walks to start turning off the lights.
“What’s up, Chelsea?” She asks, continuing her balancing act on those heels.
I take a deep breath.
I double check to make sure we’re alone.
“Miss Mound, I don’t have the money yet for my fees so I guess I need to quit the squad.”
“When will you have it?” She asks.
Wait.
I thought I just quit.
“I just need another week. My dad’s waiting on a big bonus at work, and I think he gets it this weekend.” I start chewing my thumbnail.
“It’s too late to quit . . . It would screw up our formations. I’ll talk to the director and see if there’s any way we can send your money in a little late. And anyway, you’re too good to quit, Chelsea.” She knows me, and I think she knows that things don’t come easy for me. She likes me because in the materialistic sense, she has nothing to be jealous of. “We’ll work it out, hon. Just get it to me as soon as you can.”
I look away.
“Thanks, Miss Mound.”
Chapter 8
“I took the night off to spend some time with my favorite girl,” Dad says as I walk in the front door sopping wet. Dad’s in an old blood donor t-shirt and baseball cap. Our house, all 752 square feet of it, is clean today, showing off the simplicity of our furnishings: box TV, couch, and a coffee table with a remote and coaster sitting on top. I drop my keys on the counter and begin to go through today’s mail.
“Oh, hey Dad.”
“I thought we could go rent a dollar movie and I’ll make us some grilled cheeses.”
I open the water bill, and look for the bold print Balance Due line. Eighty-nine dollars. I knew I should have been taking shallow baths instead of long showers. Now is not the ideal time for Dad to be taking the night off. I was too little to understand when Mom left, but I’ve always questioned it. Did Mom leave because Dad had no ambition whatsoever? Or does Dad have no ambition because Mom left?
“What do you think? Or do you have some big Friday night plans with Cassidy? Hot date tonight, I bet, huh?”
“No plans. I’m really tired, though. Don’t know how long I’ll last with a movie.”
Dad takes it as a yes.
“I’ll be back. I’ll get us a good one before they’re all picked over.”
I go through more mail, and balance the checkbook while he’s gone. After bills, food, and gas, this month we’ll have a whoppin’ seventeen extra dollars according to my calculations, but now that Dad’s taking a night off, I don’t know. I feel weak.
I take a shower and put on my pajamas. I want the day to go away.
Dad brings home a cheesy romance, and it goes nicely with our grilled cheese sandwiches.
Twenty minutes into it, I’m out.
__________
I wake from a dream—one I can’t remember—short of breath. My back is sweaty, but I’m freezing. I’m disoriented for just a minute. The TV is on, but black, providing a glow to the room. The box fan, still on, hums that familiar sound.
I give it a few minutes, then stretch to turn on the lamp. Dad has tucked me in with my favorite quilt. A patchwork made with my baby clothes, something that Mom made before she left. Squares the size of my hand, the quilt tells the story of once upon a time when I was a happy little girl, Dad was a happy little husband, and we were a happy little family. I smell the pink gingham square then press it against my cheek and stare at the ceiling for a while.
I roll to my side and stare down at the coffee table. My tea glass sits in a small puddle where water has rolled to my wristlet. I reach to grab the wet strap, then pull it toward me as it sloshes through more water. I slide it to the edge of the table and let it balance. Half on, half off. I stare at the wristlet until my vision blurs, fading in and out.
I finally focus, and my thoughts begin to move faster. The clock tells me it’s one-thirty in the morning. Dad’s snoring echoes down the hall and this with the sound of thunder creates a harmony. I wrap myself tighter in my quilt. I stare, again, at my wristlet. Ten minutes later, I act on an idea I had after I balanced the checkbook. I walk down the hallway and close Dad’s door, but not all the way to where it would make noise.
Then, mascara.
Baseball cap.
Jeans, sweatshirt, and lipstick.
I walk out the front door, but move in slow motion as if I’m sneaking out. Guess I am sneaking out, but it doesn’t feel wrong since it’s something I have to do. The rain subsides, but the streets remain wet. I drive to the ATM down the street and decide I’m too scared to get out of the car, so I go an extra five blocks to the drive-through one.
I don’t think about what I’m doing.
I just do it.
English. Checking account number. PIN. Amount: $100.
The machine spits out a receipt. Unable to process this transaction. Insufficient Funds.
I try again, and I’m successful with an eighty dollar withdrawal.
There’s hardly any traffic on the highway. I turn my radio on to keep me company. The streetlights reflect on the wet pavement, and everything appears extra shiny.
I can hear Dad’s voice ringing in my ears, “Nothing good ever happens after midnight.”
But this is different. This is work. I’m now familiar with the area, and from the interstate I see the only two things illuminated for miles, the convenience store and the casino.
I know where to park.
I know which door to enter.
Where in the world did these people come from? There are bodies everywhere. A gigantic smoke cloud hovers above, and it is the busiest I’ve ever seen it—two o’clock in the morning. Unbelievable.
I make my way through the crowd and pass everything from a falling down bachelorette party to an elderly couple on Hoverounds. Since I try to keep looking down at the ground, for the first time I really notice the obnoxious carpeting, a geometric pattern in brighter than bright colors. There are empty glasses left on top of ATM machines, overflowing trash cans, and very few vacant slot machines.
“Woooooooo!” A lady yells, then high-fives everyone that surrounds her. I stop to take a look—a $1250 winner according to the screen.
I start to move through the crowd again and navigate toward the poker room.
“Chelsea?!!” I hear someone call from behind me.
HOLY. HOLY. HOLY.
I pick up speed and don’t look back.
It was a woman’s voice.
I have a hat on. Someone has mistaken me for someone else.
Chelsea is a common name.
It’s probably someone else.
I pick up my pace to a slow trot.
I can’t breathe.
I’m going to have a heart attack and everyone will know it’s me.
What the hell am I going to do?
I pull my hat down lower on my head.
I duck out in the bathroom. In a stall.
I know that voice.
Who was that? Who the hell was that?
Ms. Mitchell, my principal? No.
That chick Dad works with? No.
Who was that?!
My thoughts are all over the place. My vacation Bible school teacher from when I was little? The cafeteria worker with the black hair and gray stripe?
I stand for ten minutes until my pulse goes back to normal.
Screw this.
It had to be my imagination . . .
Chapter 9
When I walk up to the poker room, I’m on high alert making sure I don’t see anyone I know. I look for him before checking the screen that displays the waiting list, and I’m mad at myself for doing so, but nonetheless, I do it. First, I check the cashier’s window, then check the floor which is crowded with bodies. I check the cashier’s window again. He’s
nowhere in sight. It’s probably too late for his shift.
According to the digital screen, there’s immediate seating for my game. I approach the guy who’s in charge of taking me to my seat.
He hesitates and looks me up and down before he says, “Can I help you?”
“3-6 limit, please.” I’m proud of my lingo.
He hesitates longer, and I’m puzzled because there’s no wait for that particular game. He should be walking me straight back. He should be asking me if I need chips. He should be smiling.
This awkward wait time has allowed me to notice his suit jacket. It’s about to bust a button and send it into orbit. To prepare for his shift he has spread four hairs across the shiniest bald head you’ve ever seen.
He’s still staring.
And it’s making me nervous, because I already know that there’s not a wait for my table.
“Give me a minute,” he says rudely and turns and walks away. He whispers to another suit guy that looks my direction, and then shakes his head.
He finds a lady wearing a suit and whispers into her ear, getting closer to her than he did the guy. She shakes her head, too, and I have no idea what’s going on.
My blood is pumping. I’m frozen in my stance.
Then, he waddles back to the check-in stand, scribbles something on a clipboard, and looks up at me.
“Right this way.”
As I follow him through the smoke, I keep my head down and adjust my bun wad that sticks out the back of my hat. My heart is pounding. I need a chair.
He points to my assigned chair, and I can’t sit down fast enough. I feel like a runner on third that has just slid in safely to home plate.
“Hey Chandra.” I barely hear the dealer. I’m digging for my money.
“Hey Chandra,” he says louder.
I look at him. He smiles and raises his eyebrows. He’s looking straight at me.
Oh, shit, I forgot! I’m Chandra!
“Oh, hey, how’s it goin’?” I hope that wasn’t too obvious.
“Just wheelin’ and dealin’ here, Friday night in the big city.”
How does he remember me? I don’t remember him.