* * *
As I'm walking to Becca's house bright and early, all I can think about is the fact that it's Friday and how super-excited I am to have a break from cheerleading practice?and all the fake smiles, embarrassment, and hanging out with Summer that goes along with it. You definitely burn out twice as fast when you're doing something you don't enjoy.
After letting myself in through the front door--which is left unlocked for me every morning--I come around the corner and into the kitchen to find Becca about to pour milk into a bowl full of Fruity Pebbles.
"Wait! Don't pour that! Put it away," I demand, pointing to the refrigerator.
She freezes and carefully looks over her shoulder at me, as if I just saved her from pouring gasoline on a smoldering fire.
"Why?" she asks cautiously.
I slowly pull out two of my mom's delicious omelets from my bag, then slam them on the bar.
"Boom!" I yell.
"Nice!" She drops the carton on the counter, causing milk to splash through the opened top.
I laugh hysterically as I watch her race over to the omelets, hop on the barstool, and begin clawing off the aluminum foil as if it were a birthday present she's asked for her entire life.
"So, you're not hungry, right?" I joke. But she's too far gone in her little omelet world at this point to even acknowledge my existence. So I just continue to laugh as I put my bag down and make my way to the counter to clean up her abandoned Fruity Pebble mess. Then I walk back to the bar and take a seat across from her.
"Well, I asked Carson this morning, and he said things are pretty much the same with Brian. He's still dating that girl," I tell her, hoping to see less disappointment on her face this time.
She shrugs while chewing, never looking up from the omelet that's about two inches from her bottom lip, and I realize this may not be the best time to get a read on her emotions. That omelet is more important to her at the moment than Brian could ever be.
But just as I'm thinking that, she glances up at me with sad eyes and says, "Thanks for letting me know," followed by a half-hearted smile.
I feel awful. I know she really likes him, and there's nothing I can do about the situation. I was kind of hoping that despite her unnatural, unhealthy, and perhaps even a little disturbing fixation on those omelets, maybe she actually was starting to not care so much. I think that would be for the best.
I watch her, not knowing how to respond, as she looks down and takes another bite.
"I still think he'll come around," I end up saying, reaching over and patting her forearm.
9
Confrontation
I'm nervously fast-walking to my locker after fourth period. All week long, the conditions have fallen perfectly into place for Bryson and I to cross paths and chat privately for an amazing few minutes--hopefully amazing for both of us. The basketball team has had a meeting before lunch all week in the science lab at the end of the hall, and Becca usually gets stuck for a few minutes past the bell in her fourth period class because of her long-winded economics teacher.
Even though I get here every day long before Bryson walks by, I'm worried as usual as I approach my locker. Worried that perhaps, for some reason, he passed by early this time, and I've missed my chance to get a step closer to him, and now he thinks I don't like him because I wasn't here, and now he'll never ask me out, and I'll never get my first kiss from him, and he'll never ask me to be his girlfriend, and we'll never get married and have kids together and grow old together and my life has absolutely no meaning whatsoever now?
?dramatic, I know. But as hard as I try, I can't stop that ridiculous string of scenarios from zipping through my mind every day as I stand here. It's kind of funny how guys can make you nuts sometimes.
Just as I'm calming myself down and pretending to shuffle books around in my locker to kill time, I look over and notice him coming down the hall. I quickly look straight ahead back into my locker and continue on with the whole book-shuffling charade, only now I'm pretending for him and no one else in the crowded hallway.
I monitor his approach from the corner of my eye, and when he gets relatively close I turn to him and smile.
"You ready for the big game next week?" he asks with a grin as he walks up, holding the strap of his backpack.
I playfully roll my eyes. "Ugh?yeah, I hope so."
To my amazement, I'm getting much better at this whole flirting thing. Despite my genius, three weeks ago I wouldn't have even been able to tell you what the word meant, let alone accomplish it. But I must say it's coming along nicely the more practice I get.
The only reason I playfully expressed concern about being ready for next week's game just now is because I mentioned to him the other day how nervous I was since I'd never cheered before. I could be wrong, but to the best of my knowledge, he knows nothing about my week-long reign of terror over the squad during our practices, or even that I'm the one responsible for that big, bulky, black boot on Alison's foot. And even though I don't see how he couldn't know--since gossip travels around this school faster than the plague--he hasn't said a word or asked me any questions about it. This means one of two things: either he doesn't know, or he knows but doesn't care. After thinking about it for a minute, neither scenario is all that bad.
As we continue to stand here in front of my locker, chatting and giggling, I notice Becca a little ways down the hall making a pit stop at the water fountain when she sees Bryson and me talking. She proceeds to waste time, drinking an unhealthy amount of water from the fountain and pretending to be totally engrossed in her phone, frequently looking up at us and grinning.
"'K, well, I better get to this little meeting," Bryson says, nodding in the direction of the science lab. "Don't want to miss any of the fun."
I giggle. "K, bye."
"See ya," he says, lightly pinching my arm, giving me chills.
I close my locker door and head for the water fountain to meet up with Becca.
"Sooo, how did y'all's daily chat go?" she asks as we begin making our way to the caf.
"Great as usual," I smile. But it was more than great, I'm on air right now. And just as I'm about to fill her in on everything that was said, I notice Summer glaring at me angrily while standing at her locker, surrounded by her posse of junior and senior cheerleaders, Alison included--strap-on cast and all--as they all follow Summer's lead and glare at me, as well.
My guess is Summer has once again seen Bryson and me talking and her anger has gotten the best of her, regardless of Becca's presence.
Clearly now the leader of the pack, she stands there bravely staring me down with her troops in line, and I'm seriously hoping by some chance Becca is not noticing any of this. In an attempt to increase that chance, I quickly begin telling her all about my conversation with Bryson, which will hopefully avert her attention even if she has noticed. It appears to be working and all seems well as we approach, until Summer takes a step back, half-facing her locker and half-facing me, now blocking my path.
I continue rambling on, desperately trying to maintain control of Becca's attention. As we get within a few feet, I nervously step to my left toward Becca to avoid contact with Summer. But before I even know what's happening, Becca grabs my arm and pulls me toward her, quickly side-steps behind me, then forcefully plows into Summer like a freight train into a semi. She flies back into Alison and Alex, causing the three of them to stumble backwards as they try to stay on their feet.
Summer throws her hands up, trying to regain her balance. "What the hell is your problem?"
"You're my problem, bitch," Becca quickly responds, her tone and expression even scaring me a little. She takes a step closer in their direction, clearly willing to take on the entire crew if necessary to get to Summer.
"I oughta knock your ass out," Becca says. Rather than being confident in their numbers, they all step back in fear even though Becca's eyes never leave Summer's face.
I'm horrified and extremely embarrassed as I cover my mouth wi
th my hand to hide a string of silent sneezes. Unlike Becca's run-in with Summer a few weeks ago in the caf, we're actually drawing a decent-sized crowd of spectators. And the more the crowd grows, the more I want to run and hide.
As far as Becca is concerned, on the other hand, this building crowd of curious and excited students is non-existent. She's yet to take her eyes off Summer, who is now standing motionless in fear.
Just as I'm about to grab Becca's hand and pull her away from the situation for lack of a better idea, everyone suddenly starts to disperse. When I look over my shoulder I see why. Our homeroom teacher, Mrs. Anderson, is cautiously making her way toward us, craning her neck to try and get a glimpse into the center of the crowd to see what's going on. But she's a hair too late.
As the crowd continues to scatter, Summer and her cheerleader clones are now frantically taking care of their locker business, loading and unloading books so they can quickly leave the situation, also.
"Next time I'm gonna take you out," Becca threatens as Summer scurries off. Then finally, after a minute of staring, Mrs. Anderson turns around and heads back to her room, and we begin making our way to the caf once again. Except now I'm shaking uncontrollably.
As terrifying as that whole episode was for me, I know Becca was only trying to protect me because I'm such a delicate wuss. Well, beating the hell out of a cheerleader is probably also an item on her bucket list.
But seriously, how many people can say they have a friend who would risk everything for them at the drop of a hat? Probably not many. I wouldn't change it for the world.