How to Be Brave (3 page)

Liss licks the salt off a fry and throws it back in the basket. “Let's get out of here, shall we? A bit of thrift diving, perhaps?”

I nod, and we toss the rest of the fries and head down to the Salvation Army, where I score a bunch of good stuff that Liss picked out for me. A sleek pair of dark red jeggings (Power Pants, Liss calls them), three ridiculously cute (fitted!) shirts, a denim pencil skirt (crazy mustard yellow), and a green striped shirtdress that I'll cinch with a belt. All for $48.92. Jackpot.

I absolutely love living in No-Woman's-Land with her.

I head home buoyant. Elated. Ready.

I go to bed early, eager for tomorrow, for whatever might happen.

*   *   *

This is also what it was like sometimes:

I'd wake to the sounds of beeps and clicks and whirrs,

her dialysis machine churning and sputtering and moving the fluids

in and out, in and out,

it would be four
A.M.
maybe,

or barely dawn, the first light of morning crept in through the curtains.

She could only sleep on the couch.

She said the bedroom was too small for that damn giant box and the tangled mess of wires.

It stretched from her bloody catheter site

low under the folds of her abdomen.

She would plug in each night,

and try to sleep, though the rhythm of the machine

would keep her awake.

Except sometimes, I'd find her in a rare deep slumber.

I'd crawl on the floor beside her,

trace my fingers through her hair,

lay my head on the pillow next to hers,

and feel her steady breath.

This is what I remember tonight.

 

2

Welcome to Webster High School Club Week, fall semester. School Spirit, U.S.A. The quad is filled with fifty-four tables, each one dedicated to Spanish or French or chess or photography or paintball or premed or fencing or computers or the earth or films or chemistry or fashion.

“And out of all this shit, you pick cheer?” Liss elbows me.

“Haha. Very funny.”

“No, seriously, Georgia,” Liss says. “Why cheerleading?”

I think of my mom and start to tear up. I shake my head. I don't want to talk about her right now.

“You're still going to do it, even though Avery and Chloe are involved?”

“
Especially
because Avery and Chloe are involved.” It's time to face my fears. “Anyway, it's on the list.” I shrug. “And that list is sacred. What are you going to sign up for?”

“Nada, my friend.” Liss throws her hands up.

“Do Everything Be Brave, my friend.”

“Aw, shit. Fine.” We pass by the WHS Go-Karting Club table, and Liss grabs a brochure.

“Go-karting? Seriously?”

Liss smiles. She
would
choose go-karting. I bet she'll even go.

Liss has always been feisty and unpredictable. When I first met her, she had supershort fire-red hair. We were only in the eighth grade, but she would wear bright red lipstick, and her translucent skin was thick with powder. She was almost as thin as Avery Trenholm but much more badass and unforgiving. She refused to play the game, to follow the pack of animals.

When she first transferred from the suburbs, we didn't speak for the entire year. I was somewhat of a loner, trying my darndest to be nice to everyone but friends with no one in particular, and she was new and messy and bowlegged and she limps a little when she walks for no other reason except that it's how she was made, and it was reason enough to displace her in No-Woman's-Land with me. That, and perhaps her choice.

But the last week of June, we somehow ended up walking the parameter of the playground every day for the fifty minutes of lunch, munching on our sandwiches and dropping crumbs for the birds and the squirrels. We bonded over music and movies and TV and whatever else mattered most that year. We confided our life stories. She told me that her parents divorced when she was five. When they fell in love they were both free-spirited potheads, and Liss was most likely an accidental product of a drug-induced haze. But then after college, her dad went corporate (tax attorney), and her mom (a medical social worker) finally drew the line when he bought a BMW. Liss has since split her weeks between them. She described her parents as young and lenient; I said mine were older and overprotective. I think we both wanted what the other had.

We traded numbers and e-mail and ended up spending the whole summer together, my mom carting us around town, shopping and movies and the beach and whatever else we wanted. We stayed side by side as much as possible once we started at Webster, choosing the same electives and languages (photo, culinary arts, French) and deciding not to join anything beyond that, until today.

Bodies swarm around us. “Do you see cheerleading?” I'm really ready to do this.

“No…” Liss strains her head over the bustling crowd. Her hair has since grown out past her shoulders, and today it's tied in two French braids with wisps escaping in every direction. “But I see Soccer Club.”

“They have a club? Aren't they just a team?”

“Technicalities, my friend. I think they're like fans, not players. Anyway, what I
do
know”—she eyes the members—“is that they are some of the most scrumptious young men. And it looks like they've all been caught in one net. Rawr.”

“Eh. They're okay.…”

“What? Okay? Come on, let's go over there. Look at them. They're really hot. Like all of them.”

“They're no Daniel Antell.…”

“You're obsessed.”

“You go. I'll meet up with you. I want to find the cheerleading squad.”

“Okay, but be careful out there.”

I make my way through the traffic down to where Avery is sitting in her tiny little skirt surrounded by other tiny skirts. I stop at the Earth Club table two doors down and pretend to read a pamphlet about global warming. I spy the cheer table. A gaggle of skirts are all smiling coldly at the passing crowd, with Avery Trenholm leading the brigade. What
am
I doing?

I have a plan, though. I'm going to be the most real cheerleader they've ever seen. I'm going to draw energy from my mom, and I'm going to smile and trust and beam with as much joy as I can muster, just like she used to do.

And I'm going to do a cartwheel.

I love cartwheels. I love the sensation of hurtling through the air, upside down, an unstoppable wheelbarrow of motion, armslegsfeet out of control, defying gravity, if ever so briefly, blood tossed through veins, a shock to the heart.

When I was twelve, I made the commitment to do one cartwheel every day for a year. It was part of my very first diet plan. I took the Special K Challenge: Eat Special K for breakfast, Special K for lunch, and a low-fat dinner. They said: Lose six pounds in two weeks! I figured if I could quadruple it, I could lose twenty-four pounds in eight weeks. Plus, I decided to start running. And do a cartwheel every day for a year.

Needless to say, I lost the cereal challenge, but not the weight. (And I lasted only four days. I was freakin' hungry.) After pulling my hamstrings during my one wild attempt to be a marathoner, I made a new commitment to run only if being chased by a bear or some other frothing wild animal. However, I'm extremely proud to say that I kept my promise to the cartwheel.

I can still do it, even today. And a round-off. There's a tiny courtyard behind our apartment building where there's just enough room for one full gymnastic move. Every few days, I hoist my one-hundred-and-blah-de-blah-pound self (the exact number is irrelevant and supersecret) across the concrete.

But really, what I can't say aloud to Liss for fear of breaking down completely is that I want to try cheer first to honor my mom. She used to show me pictures of her with her friends when they were in high school—she said it was the best time of her life. She was actually a cheerleader, which I couldn't believe when she first told me. Last year, when she came home from the hospital after her last stent procedure, we'd flipped through the faded Polaroids and laughed at how short their skirts were, how they'd feathered their hair so stiff. She said that even though her best friends were all sizes 4 and 6 (and she clearly wasn't) and that she secretly felt self-conscious most of the time, they still accepted her. They still let her stand in front of the entire school with pom-poms and a short skirt, and she absolutely loved it. She said she loved doing cartwheels every day with people, for people. She loved pumping the crowds with joy and energy.

She talked about everything that came after—how the art world was so tough. How there was no money and little gratification in it. How owning a restaurant with my dad was even harder. She described the miscarriages and endless fertility treatments when she was trying to have me.

She held the photos and said that second to being a mom, this had been the best time of her life.

I like to imagine her that way, how she was long before I was born, before the interminable rejections got to her.

But at the end, she told me to be brave—to try anything and everything.

And now, when I think about it, I think maybe she was the one who was the most confident, even more than her friends. She was the one who demanded attention, and because she never let on that she was secretly nervous, secretly afraid, no one else knew.

I'm going to do my best to demand their attention, to show them what I've got.

I step over to the table.

“Georgia?” Avery looks up from her post, cracks some gum, and snickers. “Are
you
thinking about trying out for cheer?”

Ugh. I just don't understand.
Why
is she so mean?

“Maybe,” I mutter. “Can I? I mean, if I'm a senior?”

Avery's about to say no when Chloe whispers in her ear, “That could work for Junior Varsity. Miss Rawls said we have to, you know, diversify.” She's not very good at whispering.

“I don't think she meant
that
.…”

“When you say ‘that,' you mean my weight, right? You don't think I can be a cheerleader because I'm a senior, or because I'm fat?” The words pour forth from my mouth, but I can't believe it's my voice I hear. Where did that come from?

Chloe's eyes widen. Avery flips her hair and stumbles over her words. “What? No—I didn't mean—”

“You can try out for the Junior Varsity squad,” Chloe finally says.

Avery looks away. The last thing she wants is me associating with her circle of friends. Especially after Liss's jab last week. I catch her eye. “Great,” I say, as bubbly as ever. I even flip my hair. It's heavy with curls, so it doesn't have quite the same effect as Avery's smooth princess locks. “So when are tryouts?”

“Oh, well, you'll have to dedicate a lot of time and money—” She struggles to find a loophole to keep me from coming.

Chloe interrupts her. “Come to practice next Monday three
P.M.
, and we'll teach you the routines. Tryouts start Wednesday. You have to sign up for your slot here.” Huh. She seems nice enough. Maybe I've been too hard on Chloe. Maybe I have a snowball's chance in hell, after all. She holds out a pen and a clipboard and issues me a gigantic smile. It might even be genuine.

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.,