Page 45 of The Cheerleader

“Let’s get started on the essay.”

When I walk in the front door of the apartment, I find Eldy in the living room sitting at one end of the couch with an empty bowl on the TV tray in front of him. Mack sits on the other end, still eating. They look freshly showered, their second shower of the day, with real soap this time.

I should take my second shower before eating. Instead, I pass straight through the living room to the kitchen, barely answering Eldy’s grunt hello. I’m surprised to find some dinner left for me: spaghetti, red sauce from a jar, and meatballs, albeit the frozen kind.

Not what I’m used to at home, cold and far from ideal. But my pocketbook can’t keep me in good meat and vegetables, and I need the calories. I take my bowl into the living room because we have no kitchen table or chairs.

Chuck walks into the room from the hallway door and takes the last seat in the heavily soiled Barcalounger. I settle for standing against the wall, scooping a forkful of mystery meatball into my mouth and chewing. He waves a loaf of French bread at me.

“You want a hunk of this before I devour it?”

I swallow, and my stomach is immediately grateful. “No thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

Eldy snorts and rolls his eyes. “You need more meat on your bones, Granger. Look at you. No fat.” His sarcasm doesn’t bother me, and I would normally ignore him, but he’s starting to look soft even though he’s fit. If I had to guess, I’d say it was the beer padding his muscles.

“Exactly,” I say in between mouthfuls. “I could use more muscle. Too many unproductive calories in bread.”

“I may not be a nutrition expert,” Mac says, “but I’m pretty sure unproductive calories is an oxymoron since the definition of calorie⁠—”

“Fuck you,” I say. He knows what I mean. Though he does have a point. I’m not good with words. It’s one reason I keep them to a minimum. Maybe I don’t always say things right, but I know what I meant is right.

I know what a calorie is—a unit of energy. I know energy is productive. But bread—too much of it, or too much spaghetti for that matter—feels like it weighs me down, makes me less productive somehow. I may not be good at explaining it, but I know my body and what makes it tick, what makes me go and what doesn’t. I’m very good at observing things.

“Bryan has a point,” Eldy says, taking a long gulp of Pepsi—which has enough sugar to count as dessert—before he continues. “He’s a finely tuned machine. The boy—or I should say, man—has more energy than anyone on the team. He can go on forever.”

Holding his bowl close to his face like he’s going to pour the spaghetti and meatballs down his throat in one gulp, Chuck pauses as if he’s snapping out of a dream.

“Who can go on forever? You talking about me? Are the girls spreading rumors again?”

Eldy throws a pillow at him, and I almost smile, snorting instead.

“I wouldn’t bet against you,” I say.

“There’s my man.” He winks at me. “I wouldn’t bet against you either if it comes down to it.”

This causes a giant groan from Mac, and Eldy pretends to cough up his food.

After we eat, I clean up because the others are too lazy. I refuse to live in a barn, knowing too well from the farm how food can attract insects and rodents.

Eldy comes into the kitchen and leans against the counter, tossing his football up and down. I know he has something on his mind.

“Where were you? Not like you to be late for dinner.”

“None of your business.” I know I’m only postponing the inevitable, but the last thing I want to share with him is anything to do with Susie.

“What’s really up with you and Liz?” No surprise his first guess is about Liz.

“Nothing. Like I said the last dozen times you asked.”

“Then why did you hyperventilate when I mentioned a couple of weeks ago that I might want to⁠—”

“Don’t. Say it.” I slam the clean pot on the counter with unnecessary force, creating a loud bang.

“Fuck. That’s a sore spot if I ever saw one. You’re still hooked⁠—”

“No. I’m not. That doesn’t mean I don’t care about her. I don’t want to see her thrown to the wolves.”