Page 138 of The Cheerleader

She nods her head, looking pleased. Her relief is so great that any possible negative effect doesn’t seem to penetrate her mood. “We need to keep the house spotless to show to prospective buyers,” Mom says. “The real estate agent recommended that we not decorate for the holidays.” There’s a slight crack in her smile.

“No Christmas decorations.” The chink in my composure breaks open. Nausea threatens, and I close my eyes against it as the car keeps moving. Whatever settling happened inside me since I saw Liz is shaken up. Nothing is settled now. The craving for home, my bedroom, and snuggling in my bed among all the familiar surroundings of my idyllic childhood, to recalibrate, to calm and ground myself surrounded by the comfort of my home environment and the joy of the holidays rockets through me.

But that’s not to be.

“I know,” Dad says, looking at me in the rearview mirror. “Not even a tree. This real estate lady could give the Grinch a run for his money.”

“Maybe we should take a page from the Grinch story,” Mom says, turning to me. “We don’t need the trappings of Christmas to celebrate and be joyful.”

She smiles at me, and I swear I feel a spark of joy. Maybe it’s a leftover spark from last night, or maybe I needed the reminder about how lucky I am, how much I have. The last thing I should be doing is moping around feeling bad about Liz and Bryan and all the complications of our relationships.

I’m so lucky to have the family that I do, one that supports me in every way, and they don’t have that basic gift. I’ve also been lucky to have them as friends, as inspirations. I need to be a good friend—to both of them.

I also need to be a good daughter to my parents because they’ve been through a lot, dealing with the problem of Dad’s career and the family’s finances the best way they know how.

“It’ll be exciting to find a new home in California,” I say, trying to feel it, knowing it should be true. “Exactly where will your job be, Dad?”

A selfish corner of my soul hopes it’s San Francisco or nearby, but I laugh at myself on the inside and drop the notion.

“I’ll be at McDonnell Douglas in Huntington Beach, about forty miles south of Los Angeles.” Dad pauses and says, “There are opportunities with the company for a math major.”

Our eyes meet, and I think about how to respond to that. My first instinct is to tell him no thanks, but I force myself to consider other possibilities. I know he’s trying to be helpful.

Mom’s about to answer for me, and as much as I appreciate her support, I need to handle this for myself.

“I plan to be a math teacher, Dad.”

He hides his disappointment as best as he can, but I see it.

“I’ll be fine, Dad. According to my advisor at UConn, I have a good chance of finding a math teaching position. I enjoy working with kids and tutoring. I tutored all last semester, and I get satisfaction from helping people.” My words ring true in my head and my heart, and Dad nods.

Mom reaches back and pats my hand, smiling. “Good plan, sweetheart. You’re a natural teacher, so giving and caring. Teaching will be perfect for later when you want to have your own family. Have you been seeing any special young man? How about that handsome football player? How are things going in the romance department?”

Mom waits for a response, and after clearing the cloud of panic, I tell her the only thing I can. “It’s complicated, Mom.”

I need to call Bryan. Desperation to talk to him, to hear his voice, to tell him about my heartbreaking confrontation with Liz, blasts through me, disintegrating me. Little pieces of my life fall away while chunks of a new strange life hurl toward me.

And I just can’t keep juggling it all.

Chapter Forty

Bryan

As my determination arcs to its crashing point, I reach for the phone and, with a steady hand, dial my parents’ house—I don’t want to think of it as home anymore. I wait while it rings, thinking stupidly of the exorbitant cost of the long-distance call. It’s lunchtime, and I picture my old man sitting at the kitchen table eating his sandwich, same one, same time he always does.

“Hello.” It’s my dad’s gruff voice, same as always, full of banked anger under the lifeless drone.

“Dad, it’s me.”

“What do you want? What are you doing calling in the middle of a workday⁠—”

“It’s important. I have NFL scouts interested in me.”

There’s nothing but my old man’s heavy, disturbed breathing on the other end of the line, and I wonder for a moment if he’s okay. But if he’s not, he’ll have to tell me, and he’d never do that.

“I have an agent, and he set up a meeting with the San Francisco 49ers to talk about possibly playing for them. They plan to draft me.” I pause, and this time he responds.

He snorts. Doesn’t say a thing.