A Non-Blonde Cheerleader in Love

by Kieran Scott

  “It’s all right. Just . . . don’t do it again,” Daniel said finally.

  “I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

  The warning bell rang and we both had to get to classes at opposite ends of the school.

  “See you later?” I said, biting my bottom lip and raising my eyebrows. I was going for irresistibly cute. I’ll admit it. I’m not above flirting for forgiveness.

  But it didn’t work.

  “Yeah. See ya,” Daniel said. Then he turned around and walked away without so much as a kiss on the forehead.

  I could kill Christopher. Seriously. This was a great morning until he and his closed mind entered my world.

  When my brain finally registered the fact that Daniel was not, in fact, coming back for a kiss, I turned and trudged off to class. The fog returned, but this time it took over my entire body. I had no idea how I was going to make it through an entire day of school and practice feeling like this.

  It wasn’t that I didn’t understand how it worked. I did. Boys picked on other boys for being less than men. Happened all the time. Not that it was right, but it happened all the time. What I didn’t understand was why I was expected to just go along with it. Why was Daniel allowed to stick up for me, but I wasn’t allowed to stick up for him? Especially when he needed sticking up for?

  Deep question. Definitely too deep for a girl in a morning fog.

  I reached up to hang my favorite Hallmark Christmas ornament on our brand-new Christmas tree and a light, warm breeze wafted through the window, bringing with it the scent of tropical flowers. One of the little brass bells on the upper branches danced and tinkled. With a sigh, I dropped back onto the couch.

  “This is just wrong,” I said.

  My father finally pulled his head out of one of our many huge boxes of ornaments. His graying hair stuck out straight over his ears and his glasses fell down from atop his head, coming to rest on the tip of his nose.

  “What’s just wrong?” he asked, pushing the glasses up toward his eyes and glancing into the box again. “Aha! Found another one! She can’t fool me!” he cried, ripping the tissue paper off a decrepit old nutcracker ornament. It had one leg, half an arm and what appeared to be bite marks on its face.

  We’ve never had a dog or a cat or anything, so where those marks came from, I had no idea.

  “This!” I said, throwing my hands up toward the window. “How can I be expected to fully immerse myself in the Christmas spirit when I have warm breezes coming in through my living room windows? I mean, you put lights on a palm tree, Dad. That’s just wrong.”

  “No. What’s wrong is that your mother took them down,” my dad said, lovingly hanging the battered nutcracker on a prominent branch.

  “Right. That was very wrong of her,” I agreed. “But Dad, look at you. You’re wearing a Hawaiian shirt! Does that not strike you as odd? It’s December and you’re wearing a Hawaiian shirt!” My brow knit. “And a mightily unattractive one, I might add.”

  My dad was not known for Golden Hanger-worthy fashion sense, but this shirt brought him to new lows. It was covered with red and green flowers and had topless Santas hula dancing here and there all over it. They wore sunglasses and leis and grass skirts and the only Santa-esque details about them were their little Santa hats. I missed the days when my father had kept the AC cranked up to arctic levels so that we’d all feel more at home. My parents and I had spent our first two months as Florida residents sporting wool sweaters while people cruised by outside in top-down convertibles, half dressed, with zinc on their noses. At first I had hated it, but now it was Christmas and I wanted to be cold. Dad had sure picked the wrong time of year to give up that habit.

  “Come on, kiddo. Don’t let it get to you,” my father said, fishing out another ancient ornament. “The weather isn’t important. The important thing is that we’re all going to be together and that all of our other traditions are going to be unchanged.”

  “Right. Like our Christmas Eve snowball fight,” I said grumpily.

  “So instead we’ll have a Christmas Eve dip in the pool,” my father said. “A splash war.”

  Yeah. That’s festive.

  “Aha! Here’s another!” my father cried, yanking out a plastic Santa with half a spotty beard.

  “I don’t know why you bother putting all this stuff up,” I said, hoisting myself up off the couch. “You know Mom’s just going to get up in the middle of the night and replace it all with new balls and things.”

  “Yes, your mother and I have different decorating styles when it comes to the holidays,” my father said, lovingly hanging the ornament. “But it just goes to show that opposites attract. Besides, I think it’s kind of fun, trying to sneak a few of these things by her.”

  Different decorating styles? More like polar opposite. His was tacky-traditional and colorful, with a huge emphasis on never throwing anything away—even the plastic lawn nativity set that had seen better days in, I don’t know, the 1970s? Hers was upscale, classic, white lights, fir garland and red bows only, please. We all knew what their styles were, but neither of them would ever blast the other’s tastes to his or her face, so instead they went all Navy SEAL on each other, switching up ornaments, wreaths and lighting schemes in the middle of the night or while the other was at work. I never knew which house I was coming home to at the end of the day. Barnum and Bailey’s Christmas at the Gobrowskis’ or a Martha Stewart Holiday.

  But my dad was right. It did make it kind of fun.

  “All right. Hand me one of those butt-ugly elves,” I said, holding out a hand.

  “That’s my girl,” my dad replied with a grin.

  Suddenly I heard a rumble in the distance and for a moment I thought it might be thunder. But it was too consistent and there was no lightning. And then it got louder, and closer, and closer, and louder, until it was clear it was one loud-as-Armageddon motorcycle and it was . . . stopping in front of our house.

  My father and I exchanged a confused look and raced to the window. Our jaws hit the windowsill in unison. Parking a gleaming Harley in the driveway was none other than my older brother, Gabe Gobrowski. He wore a silver-studded leather jacket and torn jeans, and when he lifted off his helmet, his formerly well-coiffed red hair was shaggy and gelled on top. But insane-o fashion choice of all? He was sporting a mustache. An actual thick red mustache.

  “Oh, I don’t think so!” my father said. “Michella!”

  “I see him!” my mother shouted, already racing down the stairs. Her long red hair was down around her shoulders, having just been brushed out after being pinned up all day at work. She wore a pair of slim jeans, but her silk work shirt was still on and it was all untucked and wrinkled, hanging out sloppily—very un-Mom. She stuffed her feet into my father’s slippers as we all ran out the front door.

  My heart flipped in glee. This was going to be good. Every so often my brother liked to completely change his style, keep people guessing, try on new personas. It used to be he’d test something out for a few months before changing it up again, but this year he was like a chameleon on speed. Every time I saw him, he was a whole new Gabe. Sometimes the parentals were down with his new style, sometimes not. Now he looked like he’d just rolled off the set of Orange County Choppers. Apparently that was a “not.”

  “Gabriel Gobrowski!” my mother shouted.

  “Mama!” Gabe cried, throwing his arms wide, still straddling the bike.

  She stopped at the edge of the front walk. “What is that?” she shouted.

  “It’s my new ride,” Gabe said, lovingly stroking the handlebars. “Sweet, isn’t she?”

  “Not that!” my mother shouted, taking a few steps forward. “That!”

  She pointed at his mustache. I snorted a laugh.

  “Just a little facial accessory,” Gabe said with a shrug. “Makes me look tougher, don’t you think?”

  Actually, it kind of made him look like a disco star.

  “Oh, honey!” my mother lamented, placing her
hands on either side of his face. “What happened to your hair? And your tan? And that nice suede jacket you had the last time we saw you?”

  Poor Mom. Apparently she had really hoped Gabe was going to stick with the metrosexual thing he’d been rocking at Thanksgiving. Not that I could blame her. She was a fashion plate herself, so Gabe dressing like he’d stepped right out of a Queer Eye episode must have made her very happy.

  “Sorry, Ma,” Gabe said. “That wasn’t really me.”

  “And this is?” my mother said, shaking her head.

  “For now,” Gabe said.

  “Gabriel, where’s your car?” my father asked.

  “Sold it,” Gabe said nonchalantly, swinging his leg over the motorcycle. He had on some thick black boots with a serious tread. Mental note: keep bare toes out of Gabe’s way. “Traded it in for this bad boy, actually. Anybody wanna go for a spin?”

  “On that death trap? I don’t think so,” my mother said. “Gabe, one of these days you’re really going to give me a heart attack, you know that, right?”

  “Come on, Mama,” Gabe cajoled. “I’m totally responsible with it.”

  “It’s not you I’m worried about,” my mom said. “It’s every other psychotic, drunken, doing-their-makeup-in-the-rearview-mirror driver on the road.”

  “It’s fine, really,” Gabe said, clucking his tongue. “Why don’t you let me take you out for a ride and I’ll show you?”

  “I’ll go!” I said, raising a hand.

  “No, you will not,” my father said, jumping in. “You are over eighteen and we can’t tell you what to do with your own life, but you are under no circumstances to take your sister out on that thing, do you understand me?” he asked Gabe.

  “Uh . . . sure,” Gabe said.

  “Do you understand me?” my father asked me.

  I nodded mutely. Even though it felt like just another one of the world’s double standards to me. It was okay for the boy child to ride the hog, but heaven forbid the girl child goes out on the thing.

  “All right, well, I’m going back inside to change,” my mother said, turning around. “A mustache,” she muttered under her breath as she walked back to the house. “My baby grew a mustache.”

  At the door she paused, quickly snatched my father’s cheesy Rudolph off the door and went inside.

  “Dad, don’t be mad,” Gabe said. “I mean, look! It’s a Harley.”

  “Contrary to popular belief, Gabriel, it is not every male’s fantasy to own one of these things,” my father said sternly. “And it’s especially not my fantasy to have my kids driving around on them. Now if you say you’re responsible with it, I’m sure you are, but that doesn’t mean that your mother and I aren’t going to worry every second you’re on it.”

  Wow. Dad was really serious about this. Gabe and I looked at each other grimly.

  “Okay, Dad,” Gabe said finally. “But I swear I’ll be careful.”

  “Okay,” my father replied. “Annisa, why don’t you help your brother with his things? Then you can both come inside and help me finish the tree.”

  With that my father turned and walked into the house. He never even hugged my brother hello or anything.

  “Well. Merry freakin’ Christmas,” Gabe said.

  “You know, you become a little bit more of a moron with every new personality you adopt,” I told him. “You’re going to need to quit soon or we’re going to have a Flowers for Algernon situation on our hands.”

  Gabe narrowed his eyes. “Huh?”

  I laughed. “You had to know Dad was going to hate this. He’s Mr. Training Wheels. Mr. Safety Goggles. Mr. What’s the Point of Roller Coasters. And you traded in the car he picked out for you without telling him? What were you thinking?”

  “I got it. I got it,” Gabe said moodily.

  “Well, at least I’m glad to see you,” I said, following him over to the bike.

  The Harley was pretty sweet. Black and red and shiny all over. Too bad it was loud enough to spur disturbing-the-peace violations. Gabe opened up one of the side storage compartments and lifted out a black backpack. There was a Harley-Davidson patch sewn onto the back. Last time I saw him he’d been toting a silver-and-gray messenger bag. The time before that it was a yellow Billabong bag. Where he got the money for all this stuff, I had no idea. Maybe every time he adopted a new persona he sold all his old crap on eBay to finance all his new crap.

  “You are?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I need a guy’s opinion on something,” I said. “See, I was in the hallway with Daniel this morning and—”

  “Ooh. Have a tiff with cheer boy?” he asked, walking around to the other compartment. Already I didn’t like Biker Gabe. He was a little too sarcastically belligerent for my tastes.

  “Ha-ha,” I said. “But listen. His brother and these other guys were picking on him and he wouldn’t say anything, so I jumped in and—”

  “No,” my brother said, slamming the compartment lid down. “No, you didn’t.”

  “What?” I asked as my heart turned.

  “Did you defend him? For being a cheerleader? To other guys?” he demanded. I had filled my brother in on the new squad last week on the phone. My face must have told all because Gabe dropped his head back. “Have I taught you nothing?”

  I felt like my life was flashing before my eyes. Every older brother-younger sister chat we’d ever had—every piece of abstract advice he’d ever given me—played itself out in my head. I was pretty sure “defending cheerleader boyfriend’s honor” had never come up.

  Gabe walked around his bike, backpack in one hand, laundry bag in the other. Oh, to be a guy and only have to carry two bags home for an entire month.

  “Listen, A,” he said, loading a Tara Timothy’s worth of disdain into that one vowel. “The guy has already emasculated himself enough. He doesn’t need you making it worse.”

  Then he shook his head, as if he was just so at a loss, and trudged by me up the walk. So there it was. All guys were the same. Even the ones who changed their entire personalities once a month.

  One second after Gabe made it through the door, my mother yanked it open again, hung a beautiful fir wreath with a red bow on a silver door hook, then slammed it.

  Let the merriment begin!

  7

  “All right, everyone! Good practice!” Coach Rincon said, slapping his hands together as he pushed himself up off the ground. He had just led us all in stretching, as he had after every practice he attended, and was now off to work out with the Florida State squad. Where he got the energy to be athletic pretty much every moment of the day, I had no idea. “Good luck tonight. I want a full report next time I see you.”

  “Thanks, Coach,” Tara said, leading us in applause.

  He lifted his hand in a wave before jogging off to chat with Coach Holmes over by the bleachers. Lindsey sighed audibly as we all watched him from behind.

  “Think he has a girlfriend?” she asked.

  “If he does, she is one lucky girl,” Sage put in.

  “Maybe he has a boyfriend. Ever think of that?” Terrell said grumpily.

  “If he does, then he is one lucky guy,” Sage replied in the same dreamy tone.

  Everyone laughed as Terrell grumbled. I had to hand it to Sage. Sometimes she was pretty quick. I stress sometimes.