How to Be Brave

by E. Katherine Kottaras

  Okay. We’ve been in the same classes for the last four years and my best friend just did you the honor of insulting your face, but sure, I’ll pretend that everything’s fine and normal between us. I take the clipboard from her. She hands me a pen.

  Avery stands up and walks away.

  I write my name. My hand is shaking.

  Then she gives me a thick folder full of pages and pages of info, including one particular brochure printed in fluorescent pink that catches my attention:

  WEBSTER HIGH SCHOOL

  CHEER SQUAD

  THERE’S MORE TO CHEER THAN MEETS THE EYE.

  REAL-WORLD ADVICE

  from one cheerleader to another

  BEFORE TRYOUTS:

  GET OFF YOUR BUTT

  BUILD MUSCLE

  STRETCH

  TUMBLING

  DANCE: JAZZ/HIP-HOP/AEROBICS

  Go to ALL practices to learn the routines.

  PRACTICE. PRACTICE. PRACTICE.

  DAY OF TRYOUTS:

  Get plenty of sleep.

  EAT breakfast.

  AT TRYOUTS:

  MINIMUM QUALIFICATIONS

  Outgoing, fun, energetic

  Think Positive! School Spirit!!

  Flips, handsprings, and tucks are not required, but will earn extra points

  #YOLO!

  ADVICE

  HAVE FUN!!!!

  SMILE!!!

  DO YOUR BEST!

  BE YOURSELF, BUT BETTER!

  I muffle a laugh. Whoa. Are they kidding? That’s the most bizarre and uneven use of ALL CAPS and exclamation points I’ve ever seen. Hashtag YOLO? What year is it? Do people even say that anymore? And I don’t understand: Smiling seems especially important, but it’s only number two on the list. Be yourself, but better? What the hell is that?

  “Do you have any questions?” Chloe asks.

  “No.” I shake my head. “You’ve been very helpful.” And she has been. Maybe a little too helpful. I tuck the folder into my bag and scamper away as quickly as possible.

  Shit. What have I gotten myself into?

  * * *

  This is what it says:

  DEATH NOTICE

  Diana L. Askeridis, née Melas, beloved wife of John Askeridis;

  loving mother of Georgia;

  proud teacher of many dedicated students;

  generous friend.

  Eclectic artist,

  Associate Professor of Drawing and Printmaking at Chicago City College,

  co-owner of John’s Diner & Family Restaurant in downtown Chicago.

  Visitation: Thursday 4 P.M. to 9 P.M.

  at Smith-Corcoran Funeral Home,

  6150 N. Cicero Ave.,

  Chicago.

  This is what it doesn’t say:

  Long before it all fell apart,

  on the very last day of summer, the winds hadn’t yet turned

  but the leaves were dropping and the sun was low in the sky.

  I had just turned twelve.

  She called in to work and pulled me out of school,

  and we drove up north

  to the nice part of town where the beaches are clean and quiet and mostly empty.

  We floated in the cold waters of Lake Michigan, pretended we were rich, carefree.

  She didn’t care what other people thought,

  how heavy she was, how she looked in her bathing suit,

  if she laughed too loudly.

  I pretended not to care, too.

  She ran to the shallow edge of the beach

  and hoisted herself through the air,

  a full cartwheel.

  She did a full cartwheel at size 24.

  She laughed, and I laughed,

  and then I applauded.

  She was radiant that day.

  3

  Dad slides my history homework over and places a giant mound of spaghetti and meat sauce in front of me. “There,” he says. “Eat.”

  It’s just about the only way he knows how to communicate with me, through food. He kisses the top of my head and walks back to the front to count the register. It’s an hour before closing. The restaurant is empty. It’s slow tonight. A few regulars pick at their plates, but no one else is coming in.

  Then again, it’s always slow these days. I guess there was a time, back when I was really little, business was good and my parents actually made a bit of a profit. I vaguely remember taking a few family vacations, down to Florida, out to L.A. for my mom’s work, and one big trip when I was six all the way back to Greece, to my father’s village. I barely remember it, but from the photos it looks like we were all really happy. My dad was proud to return, a successful American who had enough money to rent a real German Audi and to fold rolls of hundred-dollar bills and sneak them into the pockets of his sister and her children. It didn’t last long, though. Times changed, and my dad didn’t keep up. The downtown crowd stopped wanting Caesar salads and Reuben sandwiches. Suddenly they liked arugula and grass-fed-beef burgers grown in Montana and flown in on a solar-powered jet or some stupid thing. My mom kept urging my dad to update the menu, to paint the place in something other than burgundy, to give it a new look. “Brighten up the place. Put in wood tables. Make it so that people want to come in.”

  “Good food,” my dad would counter. “That is all that should matter.”

  And for a few customers, he was right. He continues to do a decent lunch since he does have a prime location—near State and Kinzie—and it’s still enough to make ends meet. But dinnertime is always empty. Prospective customers head down the street to the newer cafés and bars, all with hip, idiotic names like the Hog Trough (slow-smoked ribs) and Green Pastures (build your own salad). I spent all summer working the register so my dad could save a few bucks and I’d have something to do. And I’ve promised to be here on Saturdays, A) to help my dad, and B) to earn some extra cash. It’s an easy job since it rarely gets busy. I mostly just sit at the register and read.

  Now that school’s started, I still come here after school instead of home. It’s partly to keep him company and mostly to avoid being in an empty apartment staring at my mom’s paintings that fill up the place. Tonight, I also need to talk to him about getting some extra money for cheerleading. If I make it—I mean when I make it (Think Positive!)—I’ll need some cash for uniforms and trips. The packet said they’ll provide funding to those in need, but I’ll still need to pay for part of it.

  I take out my homework and the cheers that I have to practice for next week while I eat. I wind a few strands of spaghetti around a fork and slurp it up. It’s so good, better than most places. I can taste my dad’s secret ingredient: cinnamon. He cooks all the food himself. He opens early at six A.M, closes at seven P.M., and manages and cooks all day long. My mom used to call him a workhorse. I said he was a control freak.

  “Nancy,” my dad calls out to the only other person working tonight, “why don’t you just go home now? Georgia and I, we can take care of somebody if they come in.” Nancy is his most dedicated server, who’s been working for him for more than twenty years. She and my mom were about the same age, and they always got along well. Nancy sat with my mom at the hospital at the end.

  Nancy unties her apron, packs up her stuff, and starts to head out. “Thanks, boss,” she says to my dad. Then she turns to me. “You take good care of him, okay?”

  I nod and turn my attention back to my spaghetti and homework. Revolutionary War. Second Continental Congress. Thomas Paine. Declaration of Independence. Then I pull out the packet of cheers and practice under my breath. Memorize, memorize, memorize.

  My dad stops his counting and looks at me. “Tell me some news. Tell me what you learned today.”

  This is something my dad has said nearly every day since I was in kindergarten. It might partly be a way for him to try to connect with me, but I think it’s also a way for him to learn, since he stopped going to school in the eighth grade. He’s actually really smart, but he never had a chance to prove it.

&nbs
p; “Um, well…” I put down the cheers and slide my history book back in front of me. “Now we’re learning about the making of America, like Thomas Jefferson and Benjamin Franklin and all of that.”

  My dad shuffles a few bills on the glass counter. “I remember, from my citizenship tests way back.” He takes a hundred-dollar bill from the pile of money and holds it up. “Look, I have one of Franklin. Only one, though.” He shakes his head. “It used to be that we’d have at least nine of these come in every day.…

  “Anyway.” He catches himself and lays the lone paper in its own stack. “Benjamin Franklin. He was a good man. Did you know he spoke Greek? I bet your teacher doesn’t know that. And he wanted Greek to be the official language of the United States. If he had it his way, we’d all be speaking Greek and then you and I could understand each other.”

  I act surprised, like I didn’t know that, but the truth is he’s told me this before, a few times probably. The thing is, though, it’s a myth. I looked it up online. I wanted to be certain of my facts before I went up to any history teacher with unconfirmed stories from the Greek imagination. Turns out Benjamin Franklin did not want Greek. A few Brit haters wanted anything other than English, and they did propose Greek or Hebrew since it was considered to be the language of God, but it was never a true possibility. And it certainly wasn’t wanted by any of the major leaders like Franklin.

  But who am I to burst my dad’s bubble?

  “What else?” He writes a number and looks at me. “Tell me something else about school. About what you’re doing.”

  I take this as a window of opportunity. “Well, I’m learning my cheers. I mean, I’m trying out for cheerleading.”

  “Yes? Ra-ra-shish-boom-ba and all that?” In his very thick Greek accent, it comes out sounding like something in Greek, with his rolling R’s and heavy B’s. He presses a few buttons on the register and it spits out a reading of totals. He squints over it. “Well, very nice. And you’ll wear something colorful?”

  This has always been a point of contention for my dad and me. He always complained to my mom that I wear too much black, that I look like I’m going to a funeral every day, like I’m in mourning. “Who died?” he’d say. “I feel like I should put an armband on or something.”

  The weird thing is he hasn’t said anything about my new clothes, about the fact that I haven’t worn anything black for over two weeks. And that of all the times when technically, according to Greek custom, I should be wearing black—right after my mom died—I don’t. That’s my dad. He wears blinders and sees only what he wants to see.

  “Yes,” I concede. “Yellow and blue. The school colors. The thing is, though, Dad, I’m going to need some money for uniforms and trips and stuff.”

  He looks up from his totals. Maybe this wasn’t the best time to bring up money. Or maybe, with all that cash in front of him, he’ll just hand me a few bills and call it a day.

  “But you don’t know if you got in yet, right?”

  Thanks for the vote of confidence, Dad. I don’t say this.

  “No, I don’t.” But I’m trying to think positive, damn it. I’m trying to plan for the best possible outcome. I don’t say this, either.

  “Well, siga, siga,” he says in thick Greek. “Siga ta laxana.”

  “Dad…” I sigh. “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Slowly the vegetables, you know? You cook them too quickly and they will burn.”

  “Um, yeah, I still don’t get it.”

  My dad and I speak different languages. And I don’t just mean the fact that I hardly speak any Greek, while he speaks some obscure form of Americanized Greeknglish that involves a thick accent and a confusion of clichés and proverbs. I mean that if we were a radio, I’d be tuned at 93.1 FM and he’d be at something like 1480 AM. We’re not even on the same dial. We’re both in the same room, but our signals rarely cross.

  “This is what it means: We’ll figure it out when we get there. Take it easy, okay? Each day, each day.”

  In other words, no.

  He goes back to his money and I go back to Thomas Paine and that’s the end of that for now. Maybe he’s right. First I have to make it through. And before that, I have to “be myself, but better!” for the world of Webster High School.

  We close up and drive home in his old beat-up Buick in silence.

  The tall lights of the city street flash against the windshield. I press my head against the warm window and look up at the towering buildings. They make me feel so small.

  This is what I learned today: Without my mom, I’m pretty much on my own. My dad means well, but he doesn’t understand.

  He’ll never understand.

  * * *

  I sit on the faded wooden bench in the locker room, counting the minutes on my phone until Doom Time. Excuse me. I mean Happy, Fun, Smiley Time. A group of half-dressed freshman girls swarm around me. They’re petite and bubbly and fidgety and oh-so-overjoyed. They don’t seem to notice the thick grime of dirt caked on our neglected lockers or the pungent scent of chlorine and toilet water hanging in the air. They’re too busy squeezing their tiny arms into even tinier sports bras, smearing their eyelids with yellow and blue (Webster HS colors), and dousing themselves in hair spray and body lotion.

  Nine minutes. Nine excruciating minutes until I give Avery et al. my very best self.

  I throw my phone in my bag and pull out the copies of cheers they gave us last week that we’re all supposed to have memorized. I practice under my breath.

  Hey, hey, hey,

  We’re Number One

  We’re the Lions from Webster

  Doing it Together

  Y’all know that it’s true

  So everybody fight

  for the Yellow and Blue!

  The smarty pants in me wants to stand up during tryouts today and point out the abysmal lack of attention to rhyme and meter. But then I take myself back to the image of being up there, a real, honest-to-goodness cheerleader, smiling and moving and getting a crowd riled up. I actually do respect what they do. I crave their positivity, their energy.

  And I think about her letter.

  I want this.

  “They’re all so tiny.” Liss sneaks up from behind, pulls on my braid, and gives me a hug. “When did everybody get so small? Don’t these girls know how to eat?”

  “A friendly face.” I hug her back. “Hallelujah.”

  “How are you feeling?” She whispers this in my ear. Then she speaks more loudly so as to announce her presence to the room, to intimidate the girls. It’s what she’s good at. “It’s like the Land of the Lilliputians in here.”

  “You’re wasting your breath with that reference, my friend.”

  A passing mini, who is trying to reach her locker, frowns at Liss. “Um, excuse me. I need to get my brush.”

  “Oh, yeah. I’m in your way. Excusez-moi, mademoiselle.” Liss lets her pass and then mouths in a tiny voice to me, “So little!”

  They are quite small, both in age and in body type, but thankfully, I’m not the biggest one here. There’s one other girl who’s not a miniature; she’s a normal like me. She might actually be a little bigger than me, a size 20, I’d guess, maybe even a 22. But it’s clear she’s a freshman. She has that typical blank stare of shock combined with fear mixed with absolute ignorance. She’s cute, though. She’s wearing white Keds, black socks, white leggings, and a shredded black sweatshirt, white bow under her high bun.

  Liss catches me eyeing her. “She looks like an Oreo cookie cupcake,” she whispers. “Or a zebra on parade.”

  I can’t help laughing, even though I disagree with Liss’s snap assessment of her. Liss is being mean, but she’s just trying to make me feel better. To lessen the competition. To build me up. “I like her,” I say. “I’m rooting for her.”

  “You would.” Liss smiles. She gives me a kiss on the cheek. “’Cause you’re a good person. Gregg’s waiting for me.” Gregg’s her new soccer beau. Turns out she likes the gam
e. She used to think it was boring, but now she claims that she gets it. She says she likes the tease of the goal, the long drawn-out wait. She says it’s like making out. She would know better than me. She’s already had a couple of boyfriends—Aaron Sykes for two months freshman year and Paul Licata for all of three months last year. Neither was serious. She calls them “short-term escapades.” She went to second base with Paul. (Her: “With a last name like Licata, you know what he’s good at…” Me: “Ew.”) But that’s all. Still, she knows way more than me. I haven’t had one boyfriend, ever.

  “We’ll be up in the bleachers. And we’ll be rooting for you,” she says, waving.

  The minis all start to flutter toward the gym behind her, and suddenly, I’m alone. I check my phone. Two minutes.

  I walk over to the mirror. I smile, a wide, toothy one. I crinkle my eyes to make them look happier. I bob my head side to side in rhythm with the rhymes that are pounding in my head.

  I could be a cheerleader. I can do this.

  I relax my face, close my eyes, and take a deep breath.

  I throw my bag into a locker, roll the lock closed, and head toward the door.

  Here we go. Showtime.

  * * *

  The gym is reverberating with heavy bass and the echoes of girls laughing and chanting and already giving it their all. The minis are lined up on a yellow line at the front, a veritable rainbow of fluorescent leggings, all except for my fellow normal, who looks like a deer caught wild-eyed in front of a semi. I run over and stand next to her. I figure she’ll be my camouflage.

  Avery, Chloe, and a few other cheerleaders are sitting at a table near the bleachers, looking very official with clipboards in hand.

  Behind them, I see Liss on the bleachers with Gregg. They wave and throw a thumbs-up my way.

  I smile and wave back, but I’m ready to escape out the door.

  I can feel the knots. Huge knots. A giant, gnarly, tangled mess in my stomach.

  What am I doing here?

  Okay, breathe, Georgia. Think.

  Positive Thought #6: I’m not a freshman.