Page 49 of The Cheerleader

“I was resting down the road from the house, lying low when the school bus went by. She was on it. When it stopped, she got off.”

“Susie?”

I nod.

“I can see you now introducing yourself with blood dripping to the princess Susie. I bet she was fucking impressed. Did she run the other way?”

“No.” I don’t blame him for thinking that about the Susie he knows, and that’s the thing that bothers me. I have a need to uncover her, to find out if the angel-girl is still there, underneath the layers of training to follow the rules, to be a lady, to hide away the ugly things and all the mean emotions.

“I thought I was out of sight lying low under a tree in the depression of the road’s shoulder. But after she got off the bus, she came running, her long dark hair flying behind her, carrying a bag, straight for me.

“She dropped to her knees beside me with no regard for getting dirty. When she looked at me, reaching a hand out to touch me like she was little Florence Nightingale.” I remember looking into her eyes and seeing her honest compassion, but I keep that to myself. “She had beautiful eyes, like everything about her. That’s what I thought then.” I still remember being moved by the gentleness of her touch, her fresh sweet scent.

“So what did she do?”

“She took off her jacket and wrapped it around my bloody arm⁠—”

“That’s where you got that scar.”

I meet his eyes without answering.

“I always thought you got it from falling on a hoe.”

I chortle. “You really believed that I accidentally fell on a hoe? Me? The guy who routinely maneuvers through defensive lines and dekes out linebackers carrying a football?”

He grins. “You have a point.” I wait for him to elaborate because I know there’s more to why he never called me out on that story. No one else would call me out because they’re scared of me, but not Eldy.

His smile fades, and he pushes a hand through his straight blond hair. “Okay. I’ll confess. I always thought it was your dad… being tough on you, maybe a fight between you.”

I let out a long breath. “No.” It couldn’t be further from the truth. “My dad would never injure me. I was—am—too valuable a mule.” He was merciless and tough, and he ridiculed me until I wanted to prove I was tougher than him. Not because he might beat me up if I didn’t.

“That’s it? Your dad fucking made you⁠—”

“He always worked harder than me.”

“He should. He was the adult. You were a kid.”

I almost smile at that. “Don’t worry, Eldy, child labor laws don’t count on family farms. Or at least that’s what Dad told me.” I shrug. “When I was young, my chores were manageable. My mother’s influence.” But when I turned fourteen, all bets were off. I can see Eldy reading my mind, and before he gets too indignant on my behalf, I return to my story about the real asshole dad—Liz’s dad.

“About little Nurse Susie, the pressure of her jacket wrapped around the cut did help with the blood, but what really made the difference was the candy.” Even now, how many years later, after not thinking about the details for so long, the memory still fills me with a warm ache. The sheer kindness of the act, of her eyes suffusing me with that soul-deep kindness, giving me a kick of hope so hard I couldn’t ignore it. Couldn’t let it go until it got buried.

“Candy?”

I clear my throat and feel like shaking my head, like a horse shaking away a fly. “She had a paper bag filled with all kinds of things, and she pulled out a box of candy and opened it without asking me if I wanted any. She held the box out to me and insisted I needed to eat it all to get my strength back. I must have looked pretty bad. While I stuffed a few pieces in my mouth, she cleaned the blood off my face.”

“Did she have towels in her bag, too?”

“No.” I don’t tell him she wiped my face with a small white hanky, bloodying up the dainty lace-trimmed cloth. And I don’t admit—will never admit to anyone, not even Susie, that I washed and kept her lace hanky. I didn’t know why I kept it until now.

It’s hard to claim I knew our paths would cross again. I’m not the kind of guy that’s given to imagining, let alone hoping for unlikely shit.

Yet here we are, and some small part of me, buried under the day-to-day muck and grind of life, held onto a fucking fanciful notion that I’d meet the beautiful angel who rescued me that day.

Not that I’d needed rescuing. I’d have got a second wind without her, the bleeding would have stopped and I would have stood up and thumbed my way home. It would have taken some luck because I was a bloody mess, and it’s probably more likely that the police would have picked me up and my old man would have come to get me, and he would have punished me with his cold silent disapproval, no dinner, and an extra early morning with double my chores.

As it was, I snuck in the back door and pilfered a cold chicken leg and raw potato for supper, because even after I cleaned up, the bandage would have required more explanation than I was up for without a good night’s sleep.

My parents didn’t care how late I stayed out at night, never worried about me. They trusted me. Or maybe they just didn’t care. After Caleb was gone, there wasn’t much worse that could happen to them. He was the farmer, heir to the land, their boy wonder.