Page 47 of The Cheerleader

“You don’t trust her.” He nods, pleased with the answer he put in my mouth. “I don’t blame you. She’s new and a little mysterious. I asked Liz where she transferred from, and she wouldn’t say.”

I barely nod, pretending I’m not interested.

“Smith,” I say, regretting it the second I speak. It’s not like me to have loose lips.

Eldy’s face flares up like he’s been shocked. “No kidding. A brain, huh? Guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She seems the type. Like a brainy princess.”

I clap his back. “Good read, Eldy.” At least it’s a good surface read. He’s dismissed the fact that she could be an angel with more compassion in her pinky toe than the Pope. She used to be that angel.

Either way, I know there’s a whole lot of her hiding below the surface. I shouldn’t be intrigued, but I can’t help myself. Our early encounter is like one of those before and after moments, dividing my life in two.

Not that I’m the melodramatic type, but I’m not used to kindness. Not even my mother is kind. She’s more like fierce and loyal. And Susie’s small act of fearless kindness to a stranger, a dirty, bloody, mean-looking hulk of a boy, even at twelve years old, hit me profoundly that day with a massive dose of life-altering hope.

The only other person who’s shown kindness, who had a positive impact on my life, is Coach Hammer. But I’m not so naïve that I don’t realize the element of selfishness, that his main interest in me is all about football. His feelings toward me are more admiring than empathetic.

Susie is an enigma, a grown-up, gorgeously tempting enigma. I feel her presence like a deep raw wound I need to uncover, to heal. I need to find out if somewhere down under her cool surface she’s still that evasive storybook angel.

Even now that we’ve acknowledged our past, I still can’t get her out of my head. I can’t stop wondering if she’s the same girl she was when our paths crossed that one memorable time when she was an eleven-year-old kid and I was twelve. Or if I built her up in a dreamy mirage, embellishing our encounter with my desperate need.

Eldy strokes his chin in a mock professor gesture. “Interesting.”

“You have no idea,” I mutter, and turn to leave the kitchen.

He grabs my shoulder. “Hey, wait a minute. What do you mean? You can’t say that shit and not explain.”

I don’t say anything. It’s my usual response rather than to say none of your fucking business. But this is Eldy, and he waits me out, knowing if it’s important, I’ll eventually talk.

Not understanding exactly why it’s important to admit it out loud to someone else, at least partly because I don’t want to know why I find it so important, I tell him. “We met, Susie and I, once, when we were kids.”

His face lights up. “And it was love at first sight?” He cackles.

I give him the finger and reconsider telling him. But talking to him might help lift the weight that’s getting too heavy to carry and too disruptive.

I need to get rid of the disruption, to stay focused to keep my eyes on the prize, as Dr. Martin Luther King said. And though fear zips through me, I recognize that I’m in desperate need of help.

I need help getting Susie out of my head. I need to cut the impact of the angelic encounter down to life-sized reality, to remove the haze of hope.

To understand and acknowledge that Susie is just another girl.

Chapter Eleven

Bryan

“We met before we were even in junior high when I was twelve, too full of myself and up for trouble, thinking I was some kind of hero. And Susie was a year younger, still a little girl, same age as Liz. I went to Liz’s house that fall afternoon, thumbed my way there because she’d called saying there was something wrong.”

I don’t tell him that the something wrong was her father, a mean drunk in a particularly bad mood because he’d lost his job as a manager at Monsanto. I’d feel bad, but a lot of people in the area lost their jobs at the Monsanto plant in Springfield, Massachusetts.

“Liz’s house? You’re full of surprises. What does she have to do with meeting Susie?”

“I’ll get to it.” Maybe.

I’ve never mentioned to him that I’ve known Liz since we were in Sunday school together in grade school. Her father took the family to church every Sunday and then beat his wife and sometimes his kids when he went home. But I don’t feel like sharing that fact either. It’s Liz’s secret, not mine to share. Her father was a big reason why I don’t put much stock—none at all—in churchgoing as a measure of character. My father was another one.

My mother didn’t mind me looking out for Liz, but Dad thought I should mind my business. It was one of the many things about my father that bothered me. Hell, I thought he was flat-out wrong. His reasoning was that checking in on her would lead to trouble and take me away from the farm work.

He minded anything that took me away from farm work, especially football. But Mom insisted football was good and would strengthen my body, that it would build character. Dad had to grudgingly give in to her argument because he always claimed to be into character building.

Also, he knew the people at church would approve. They often commented about a strapping young buck like me belonging on the football field.