Page 109 of The Cheerleader

I’m almost desperate enough to talk to Liz about what’s going on with Bryan. But I can’t make myself ask.

She’s at her desk with the phone to her ear while she puts the finishing touches on her scrapbook of the football season. It may as well be a scrapbook for Bryan alone. We won the last game, and he ran for eighty-something yards, though he didn’t get a touchdown in spite of trying twice. Dane came through with a pass to Chuck for the win.

She rises and hangs up the phone. I want to ask her who she was talking to, but I don’t because she’s frowning.

“What’s wrong?”

“When I called Bryan over Thanksgiving to let him know that he got the waiter job, his mom said she would give him the message and was very tight-lipped about where he was. She’s usually more friendly. I just found out he went to Eldy’s house for the long weekend.”

“That’s… odd,” I say, not sure if it is odd. I know he has issues with his dad.

She shrugs. “It’ll be good to see him tonight. I haven’t talked to him since right after the last game.”

Me neither.

Bryan didn’t show up to Fletcher’s party two weeks ago, and Liz called him to ask why, but he only said he had homework to do. That didn’t make sense to either of us because he missed our tutoring sessions after that, and then we barely saw him after the last game except for a quick chance to congratulate him. I was at Liz’s side, so it felt stilted.

“He had a lot of press and other people wanting to talk to him after that last game,” I say. “Maybe there were NFL people there too.”

She chuckles. “You mean scouts? I’m sure he did. Eldy said there’s at least one team interested, but Bryan won’t talk about it.”

My heart blips like a champagne bottle popping. “That’s so exciting.” No matter what else is going on—or not going on—between us, all three of us, I genuinely hope he gets to play in the NFL.

“I think he might actually get drafted to the pros.” Her entire demeanor shows pure, thrilled excitement as if it were her dream come true and not his. Maybe it is her dream. Maybe they talked about their dreams together all these years so that they feel like when the other person’s dream comes true it’s the same as their own.

The idea fills me with too many wistful emotions, bordering on jealousy, I’m ashamed to acknowledge. I push my feelings aside.

“I bet he’ll make it,” I say. “Then we can say we knew him when.”

She laughs. “We’ll still know him. He won’t forget about us. He’s not like that.”

“He’ll still know you.” I force a smile, but it doesn’t match hers.

“Maybe he’ll have news about his NFL prospects tonight,” Liz says. “But I can’t ask him or he’ll accuse me of bugging him. You ask him.”

I laugh. “He’ll just ignore me. He’s good at ignoring questions he doesn’t want to answer.”

“You’ve really gotten to know him, haven’t you?” Liz asks. I squirm, turning away with a shrug, going back to the book in front of me as if I’m reading it.

The time we spent together in his room that night pops into my head like it’s a dream or something that happened long ago instead of a few weeks ago. After he missed Fletcher’s party, I had to admit to myself I’d been counting on another few hours alone with him. I’d been hoping for more of the intimacy, to unlock the feelings I have for him for years, in spite of the overwhelming guilt I get alongside these feelings.

When he didn’t show up for tutoring and gave me no reason when I asked him about it in class, I wasn’t surprised that he wasn’t anywhere to be seen after the last game.

Then we were all off for Thanksgiving, which felt like going home to a different world. The world where Dad’s still waiting on a job offer and we worked hard at not talking about the elephant in the room. It was a relief to return to school yesterday.

Getting nowhere and tired of my useless obsessing, I shut my book and give voice to my fear, albeit in a veiled way. “We’re supposed to have a tutoring session tonight, and I wonder if he’s going to show.”

Liz laughs, clearly pleased with the prospect of seeing him tonight. “You can ask him when he gets here.” She looks at her Timex. “Any minute now. Let’s go down and meet him when he comes in. I told the cook I’d show him the ropes.”

“You should go down by yourself then,” I say, cringing at the idea of her dragging me along like a third wheel, and I can’t do it anymore.

“Don’t be silly. He’ll be glad to see you, too. He likes you. He told me how helpful you’ve been and how grateful he is for your tutoring. I told him he should get you a gift at the end of the semester.”

Her words press down heavily on the sore spot of my guilty conscience. “Go without me. I’ll be down for dinner.”

She gets my message and leaves.

Dread and anticipation fight for control and unsettle me as I take my time to go downstairs to dinner. My legs feel shaky as I walk, hearing the escalating voices coming from the dining room, competing with each other to be heard, everyone excited after being away all weekend.