Silence. Waiting.
I feel it. I’m sure Jacob can too. It is the make-or-break moment for both of us. I cower in my seat and press myself back against it as hard as I can.
Jacob lifts his middle finger to the crowd and wiggles it.
“Who else wants it?” he asks.
In the dark, his finger looks like a black snake. Dirty. And sickening.
More tears stream down my cheeks. Catch on my jaw. Drip off into nothing. Or maybe onto him.
The person in the seat in front of us leans closer toward us. It’s Sammy.
She looks at the finger. Then at me.
Her mouth drops open. Anger. There is anger. The shadows on her face are sharp. Her features even more pointed.
“What the hell?” she asks.
But I don’t know if she’s talking to me or him.
I am trapped. Trapped again. My voice lost again at the shock of what just happened. At what a person is capable of. And what I am not.
Shame travels through me. Hot. Dark. Like poison.
I sink into the seat and cross my legs. I don’t care about the cottage cheese. It’s too dark to see anyway. I pull my skirt over my scratched and stinging thighs. The fabric, so soft, feels grossly comforting.
Jacob moves away from me. Gets up and slides in next to Sammy.
“Don’t even think about it,” she says.
But he just laughs. A bunch of boys whistle.
Where is Ben?
Where is my brother, who is supposed to stand up for me?
But I know. He’s pretending as usual. That he’s not my brother. That he’s just a dumb jock. That he’s in love with Grace and not . . .
Stephen.
Stephen was right. I should never have listened to the Girls. I should never have become a cheerleader.
Jacob’s head moves closer to Sammy’s. Now he is smelling the nape of her neck.
She whispers, “Stop it. Stop it.”
And he slithers away into the dark.
I throw up in my mouth.
The bus gets quiet again. We bump along through the night.
I hug my arms over my fuzzy sweater. My I. For Irving.
For I am all alone.
And all I can think is my mother was right.
This costume doesn’t suit me at all.
In the parking lot back at school, Sammy grabs my shoulders. “Are you OK?” she asks.
I don’t know how to answer.
“I’ll handle this,” she says. She hugs me, but then runs after Jacob and gets in his car, and they drive away.
Those of us who don’t drive yet wait under the parking lot lights for our rides.
Grace and Ben go off in Grace’s car.
Neither of them look happy.
Megan comes to stand next to me. “Do you need a ride?” she asks softly. “I’m sure my mom could give you one.”
Maybe she will be my new friend. Or does she just want to be one of the Girls?
“Thanks,” I say. I text my parents to tell them Ben and I don’t need rides.
As we stand there, I notice Megan isn’t chewing gum anymore. I wonder if there is a new piece on the back of that seat on the bus.
She smiles sadly at me and looks away. Me, away. Me, away. Over and over. Finally, she reaches over and takes my hand.
“Are you all right?” she asks. “Jacob is so disgusting. I don’t see what Sammy likes about him.”
Her hand feels warm and sure in mine. But small. And weak. And temporary. And foreign.
I don’t answer.
The bus pulls away and goes wherever buses go when they are done for the day. I watch it disappear into the night and know I will never get on it again.
At home, I tell my parents I’m tired and don’t feel like eating the food they left out for me and Ben. My mom never objects to me skipping a meal. “No worries,” she says happily. “I’m sure Ben will gladly eat your share.” My dad looks worried but doesn’t speak up. He never contradicts my mom.
“Ben got a ride with Grace,” I tell them.
My mom and dad exchange relieved smiles.
“They are such a cute couple,” my mother says.
“She seems like a nice girl,” my dad agrees.
I go to my room and shut the door.
I undress in the dark. I fold my costume neatly. I put on my baggy pajama pants and my T-shirt that comes down to my knees. I sit on my bed and wait for my parents to go to their room, where they’ll watch TV in bed. I wait to hear the familiar sound of the lady from House Hunters coming down the hall.
Quietly I pick up my costume and walk down the hallway to the kitchen. I open the trash compactor and lift out the evening’s trash. Two Lean Cuisine containers. An empty bag of spinach. Crumpled paper napkins. I hold my breath as I lift things out, then slowly place my costume inside. I cover it up carefully with the Lean Cuisine containers. The plastic spinach bag. The napkins. I rip off some paper towel pieces from the roll on the counter and put those on top, just to make sure the red and white don’t show.
Then I slide it closed and press Compact.
I listen as the machine does its magic, squishing the insides down, down, down into a small flat box. Squishing my costume flat as a skinny pancake. Flat as a chewed-up piece of gum on the sidewalk that’s been stepped on a thousand times. Into nothing.
I stare at the red dot on the button and listen to the quiet motor inside, pressing, pressing, pressing.
That costume wasn’t right for me. It isn’t me.
So why can’t I breathe?
Why . . .
Can’t I breathe?
I press the button again and wait for the light to turn green.
I fish out the stained paper towels. The flattened spinach bag. The Lean Cuisine packaging. The napkins. And then my costume. I leave the trash on the counter, the compactor drawer open, and go back to my room.
I pull off my baggy sweatpants and T-shirt and put my costume back on. No, not my costume. My uniform.
It is wrinkled but not ruined. Stained but not a lost cause.
I take a deep breath.
Let it out.
Deep breath.
Let it out.
In my mirror, I stare at the girl Sammy said is beautiful.
I step closer to her.
I turn one way, then the other. I plant my feet as if I am going to hold up my teammates.
We need strong girls like you.
I smile the way Grace taught me.
For a moment, I see a glimpse of beauty in mirror me. A glimpse of strength.
When I step back, my thighs rub together and sting where Jacob hurt me. Tried. Tried to hurt me.
I spread my feet apart so my thighs don’t touch. I make the A position, hands on hips.
Ready, girl?
Hit it.
I stretch my arms to the ceiling in a V for victory.
Mirror me mouths, Go, team!
And I whisper back, Go, me!
Then, I find my phone in my backpack and text Stephen.
I miss you, I type.
Can we talk?
BEN’S HAND IN MIND IS LIKE A CLAMMY, DEAD eel. I squeeze it, and it doesn’t squeeze back. I look at him, and he doesn’t look back. I love him, and he doesn’t love back.
We used to be an us. A we. One. But the secret, his secret, cut us back in two.
The bus is crowded and loud. There’s a mixture of strong cologne, perfume, and sweat in the air. I used to like this smell. It made me feel alive and excited. It’s the smell of the after-game rush. Ben and I used to sit in this seat, riding home from a great game and performance, and I would feel like we were king and queen. Like we were on top of it all. Now I feel like we’re being squished under it all’s weight.
I let go of his hand and smooth my skirt over my thighs. No one talks to us. No one cares. We lost the game and everyone thinks it’s Ben’s fault, and that means it’s my fault too. Isn’t it my job to make him happy? To cheer him up? To be hi
s number-one fan?
I’m glad it’s dark so no one can see that I’m crying. I don’t want anyone to see the mascara running down my cheeks, giving me a sad-clown face.
Everything has turned out to be pretend. Even my expression.
This morning my little sister, Beth, told me that I didn’t look right. She said my armor was tarnished. When I asked her what she meant, she shrugged and stuffed her face with a chocolate Pop-Tart.
“Do you know how many calories those have?” I asked. Sometimes I can’t help myself.
“Who cares?” she asked through a mouthful. Her teeth were covered with wet brown crumbs, making them look rotten.
“Gross,” I said.
She chugged down a glass of milk and smiled. Her teeth were still coated.
“I think you’re bossy because you’re sad and it makes you feel empowered to tell people what to do.”
“Thanks, Dear Abby,” I said. “But I don’t remember asking for advice.” Beth is eleven and reads advice columns for fun. She’s always quoting her words of wisdom at me. My parents think it’s cute. They think everything Beth does is brilliant and quirky and special, and everything I do is cold and calculated and unoriginal. Having a cheerleader for a daughter seems to be their ultimate shame.
Actually I don’t know if that’s true. But that’s how they make me feel. “Surprise us, Grace!” they’re always saying. “Stop being so predictable.”
Beth is always telling me I’m like a cutout from a teen romance novel. Head cheerleader. Blond. Perfect body. Hot jock boyfriend who is captain of the basketball team. Popular. Smart. She tells me there has to be something more to me than the stereotype I try to emulate, but I don’t let anyone see what the “more thing” is. I hate that she uses words like emulate.
I never tried to create my image. It’s just who I am. I like being head cheerleader. I like being fit. I lik e my silky hair. I like having the cutest boyfriend in school.
What’s so wrong with that?
Only, I’m about to lose that last one. I bet my family will be ecstatic.
When I left Beth in the kitchen this morning, she was opening another silver Pop-Tart packet. “Have a good day!” she yelled. “I’m sorry you’re feeling sad!”
“I’m not sad!” I yelled back.
But we both knew it was a lie.
I squeeze Ben’s eel hand again. Nothing. Maybe what’s wrong with wanting to be perfect is that there’s no such thing.
Out of nowhere, someone screams.
I squint in the dark and see Jacob doing something with his middle finger. I can’t see what’s going on.
“I think that was Lacy,” I say to Ben.
“Oh, God,” he mutters.
“Do you think she’s OK?” I whisper.
“She’s just a freak,” he says.
I cringe. Before Lacy and I became friends, I might have laughed and agreed, even though she’s his sister. Now I want to punch him. I take my hand out of his and wipe the cold sweat from it on my skirt.
“She’s nice,” I say.
“Whatever.”
“What is wrong with you?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He leans his head against the window.
I lean my head against the back of the seat. I try to remember what it was about Ben that I thought I loved so much. Has he always been such a jerk and I’m just seeing it now?
No.
No, I know he was different before. He was sweet and funny. And hot and sexy and definitely the best-looking guy our school has ever seen. He was . . . perfect.
What’s wrong with that?
Oh, yeah.
Beth calls him Ken. As in Barbie’s boyfriend. The first time she said it, my parents laughed so hard that my dad started coughing and my mom had to pound him on the back to make him stop, and wine came out his nose and at first we all thought he’d given himself a nosebleed. I secretly wished he had.
“You’re all so mean!” I yelled.
“Oh, Grace, relax,” my mom said.
She’s always telling me to relax. “You’re so serious. So motivated. You need to learn how to chill out, honey. You’re going to give yourself ulcers.”
When my mother tells me stuff like this, it’s hard not to hate her. What kind of parent doesn’t want their daughter to be popular and get good grades and be head of the cheerleading squad and have a cute boyfriend? I swear, I think they’d be happier if I was a stoner or something like they were when they were in high school. God.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ve stayed with Ben as long as I have just to annoy my family. There aren’t a whole lot of other good reasons at the moment. Especially now that I know that . . .
Now that I know . . .
That it’s over.
If my parents found out the truth about Ben, they would probably both die laughing. They would find the whole story so funny and tell it to all their friends. I think that’s the worst thing of all. Knowing for sure that this is what they would do. They wouldn’t be sad for me. They wouldn’t see that I’m hurt. They would just think how hysterical it is that the boy I picked just because he’s supposed to be Mr. Perfect turned out to . . .
Like boys.
I look at Ben, not looking at me, probably daydreaming about him. Stephen.
He can deny it but I know. I saw.
I know! I saw!
I’m not perfect. I’m so far from perfect that my boyfriend prefers being with a boy to being with me.
I can’t help it, he said when he finally admitted it. I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
Tears. More tears. Panic. And me, holding him like he was a baby.
Hating him and loving him at the same time.
Comforting him and wanting to hurt him.
I reach over for his hand again. He finally squeezes mine like we used to. I squeeze back. I love you. But I know it’s hopeless.
The bus pulls into the parking lot. Because we’re in the last seat, we have to wait for everyone to get off before us. A few guys turn back to tell Ben, “Good job tonight,” but we all know it isn’t true. He lost the game for us. Even the coach said so. “Why are you so distracted, Mead? Get your head in the game!”
But he fouled out in the third quarter and sat with his head in his hands the rest of the game. We cheerleaders kept up our cheers and claps and yells, but without Ben the team was doomed. Even Jacob, the second-best player, couldn’t carry the team without him.
We sit in the dark and wait. I can feel the disappointment surrounding us. The hopelessness as everyone slowly shuffles down the narrow aisle. Finally, I stand up and Ben follows me. We step outside into the cold, and without me asking, he follows me to my car. I know he doesn’t want to do this. I know it’s all just pretend. He wants the guys to see him get in the car with me so they’ll think we’re still a couple.
I wave good night to Lacy. A good friend would offer to drive her home. That’s probably what she’s thinking. And more. She must know about Ben. She must. But she’s never said anything to me. Never hinted, while we drove for hours looking for her brother, that my search was in vain. Even if I found Ben, I would never find the Ben I was looking for.
Just like perfect, he doesn’t exist.
Ben and I drive through town without talking. When I signal to turn onto his street, though, he says, “Don’t.”
He reaches over and touches my hand. “I don’t want to go home.”
“Don’t,” I repeat.
“Grace,” he says. “I’m sorry. Can we go somewhere to talk? Please?”
I sigh and turn off the signal. “Where?” I ask quietly.
“I don’t care.”
It’s a horrible answer. I decide to drive us back to the high school, winding through side streets. We don’t talk. By the time we get back, everyone’s gone and the parking lot lights highlight its emptiness.
“Why back here?” he asks.
We both stare at the main entrance to the school.
“I’ve
always loved this school,” I say. “I love being a cheerleader. Being popular. Being good at . . . everything. When I’m here, I feel good about myself.”
I know what this makes me sound like. Shallow. Stupid. A Barbie. But I’m not any of those things. I’m just Grace. Trying to tell the truth.
“I wish I could be like you,” Ben says.
“You could be,” I tell him. I know it’s probably a lie, but I want to believe it. I know it’s not fair, but I want it to be true.
“I hate who I am,” he says sadly. “I wish I could be someone else.”
“You can be whoever you want to be,” I say, as if it’s that easy.
He shakes his head and then bangs it hard against the headrest. “You know that’s not true.”
“Yes, it is,” I say. “You just don’t want to because you’re scared.”
He sighs. “I thought you of all people would understand.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re all about image, right? You care what people think about you. You work so hard to be . . . perfect.”
“Just like you.”
He sighs again. He is perfect at sighing.
“Right. Just like me. Only with me, it’s a lie.”
“You think you can’t be like me if everyone knows your secret?”
“I know I can’t.”
He’s right, of course. I don’t want him to be, but he is. I saw the players making fun of the boy cheerleader at the game tonight. I heard the names.
“Can we walk?” Ben asks. “I need air.”
We get out and start walking down the sidewalk along the edge of the parking lot. We are just the exact right height together. Him just a few inches taller than me. When we slow-dance, his shoulder is the exact height for me to rest my head on. We walk over to the concrete steps leading up to the doors of the school and sit on the top ones under a light. This is our throne. King and queen of the school.
Or queen and queen, I think. I smile a little. It’s something Beth would say, and I’m surprised a Beth-like thought would enter my head. But then I realize it’s really not that funny.
With the light shining down, Ben’s eyelash shadows reach down his strong cheekbones. I love his dimples. His perfect jawline.
My legs are cold and I squeeze them together. But he takes off his jacket and puts it over my lap like a blanket.