Laney
THE CHEERLEADERS ONthe sidelines chant: Wolverines . . . let’s hear you yell . . . blue . . . BLUE! Wolverines . . . let’s hear you yell . . . white . . . WHITE! Put it together what’s that spell . . . blue . . . white. The crowd echoes BLUE! WHITE! Then a cheerleader flies twenty feet in the air, touches her toes, and plummets back down to earth.
This weird phenomenon has become my life. Three months ago I couldn’t fathom spending a Friday night in the stands of a stadium watching a football game. Yet, here I sit—in the middle of Nowhere, Alabama—cheering on the Wolverines in the state championships. Nowhere is where my father’s from, and after my parents’ divorce, he decided we needed to move out of New York City for a while. Which brings us to the here and now. Please don’t get me wrong. I’m not opposed to football, but relocating to the Heart of Dixie has definitely opened my eyes to the magnitude, commitment, and love of the game in the South. My father has always been a diehard fan, but he’s become a different man living here. In New York, celebrity Chef Riley (that’s my dad) was going all the time. If not social networking on his phone, he was on the computer—if not the computer, he was in the kitchen cooking up new recipes. There wasn’t much time to sit back and watch four quarters. When we moved, that all changed. Lately he seems to eat, sleep, and breathe the sport, much like everyone else in this small counrty town. I don’t really get it. I do like the cheerleaders. My cousin, Miranda (the one who was flying through the air a minute ago), is co-captain. And honestly, if it wasn’t for her, I’m not sure how the transition from big city to small town would have gone down.
It’s been tolerable, so far. Especially when you get to ogle your chem partner every morning in first period. Said chem partner is also the quarterback currently kicking the other team’s ass. Just like he said he was going to do.Such the ego.
The first day I met Kamdyn Ellis he called me sugar, and I nearly knocked him out. I informed him I have a name, and he had better use it. He laughed at me and then corrected himself, calling me Lemon, instead. Because as sweet as I look, I’m totally sour. I’m fine with him thinking that. I’m not interested in his arsenal of southern charm, boyish good looks, or baby blue eyes.
Hey, I said I’m not interested, not dead. He’s hard not to notice. Especially when he’s sitting a foot and a half away from you, wearing low slung jeans, a tight Roll Tide t-shirt, and backwards baseball cap.
See, not only have I noticed his southern charm, boyish good looks, and baby blue eyes, I’ve also noticed the revolving door of women he has on his arm. Like, a new one every other week. Sorry, I’m no one’s hot and sweaty, solo, southern night.
So I keep my distance and flirt from afar, leaving him to his womanizing ways. Flirting with Kam has become one of the highlights of my day. Because, trust me when I tell you, living in Nowhere, Alabama, I need to be creative with my time.
