“Ugh, I know. I guess, these days I'm more excited about what comes after practice.” My pom poms rustle at my side as we walk back to the dark blue unfolded bleachers.
“Umm… what happens after practice?”
“I-I’ve been talking to someone…”
“Who issomeone?” She asks with a tone of disbelief in her voice. “It better not be that asshole, Zane…”
“No, it isn't Zane…”
“Spill…”
“Britt… the others are waiting on us…” Who was I kidding? The other cheerleaders didn't care if we were going to start. They would happily have a day off of doing nothing and looking down at their matching pink Razr phones.
“Are you serious? Look at them.” She has a point.
“Andrew…” I lower my voice, tucking my chin in so all I can see is the panther painted on the hard floor.
“Who?”
“Andrew Miller.” She looks confused, concerned, no wait. Maybe that's secondhand embarrassment.
“Who the fuck is Andrew Miller?”
“He sits next to me in Ferguson's class…”
“Wait.. you mean that guy with the pink and black hair?!” She covers her mouth and tries to hold in her laugh.Is it that crazy of an idea that I like Andy?Heat rises up my neck and onto my cheeks.
“I knew you would laugh…”
“Oh, come on, Candi. The two of you… it just seems so… I don't know… it just doesn't fit.”
“I know we don't dress similarly, or travel in the same friend groups, but he's the sweetest…”
“Stop right there. He might act sweet, but he looks scary as hell… Is he hot? Absolutely, but he’s always scowling at everyone. I wouldn't be surprised if he cut someone's throat if they looked at him wrong.”
“That's ridiculous…”
“Is it?”
“It is. Andy wouldn't hurt anyone.”
“Maybe not you, but have you seen those arms? I bet he could easily snap someone's neck.”
“Oh my gosh, Britt…”
“Listen… I'm glad you're talking to someone. I'm fucking celebrating that it's not your crazy ex. If scary Andrew makes you happy, that's fucking awesome… just be careful.”
“Thank you, Britt. It means a lot that you worry about me.”
“You know I love you, right?”
“Yes. I love you, too.” Her arms wrap around my shoulders as she still hangs on to her white pom pom handles.
Will you come to my show on Saturday?I rehearse the question repeatedly to the over-practiced chord on my bass. It's the one thing I've been terrified to ask her since the second time we talked.
“I know punk isn't really what you're into, but it would be awesome if you would come and watch me from the front row… We could totally do something afterwards. If not, it's cool, but if you say no, you're going to be missing some major Andy time.” I must look like a psychopath talking to myself and strumming along to one of the songs I'm supposed to be practicing for the upcoming show.
My vision rapidly moves from my PC monitor to the neck of my bass in hopes she comes home early from cheer practice.Wishful thinking, I know.
