Radiate (3 page)

There’s a melee of faces in and out of my vision congratulating me, welcoming me, coming at me so fast that I feel I might faint dead away.

And then, before I know it,
he’s
standing right next to me.

Daniel Delafield in his O’Neill Surfboards T-shirt and baggy gym shorts. His thick, wavy brown hair is held back off his face with a pair of sunglasses on the top of his head. He smells sweaty and musky and all boylike from being outside roughing around with the guys. I gasp a deep breath when his blue eyes turn my way.

“Good job, Hayley,” he says nonchalantly, as though we’ve been the best of friends for years.

He knows my name?

“Um... thanks, Daniel. I’m totally super-juiced.”

Daniel smiles. “There’s a party at Anthony Ricketts’s house this weekend. You should come.”

“I should?” I can barely breathe.

“Of course. All the cheerleaders will be there. You’re one of them now.” Then he knocks into me with his shoulder, all playful like, and flips the end of my ponytail.

“Oh. Okay. Awesome. Cool. Definitely.”
Shut up!

“See ya . . .” he says, and then he’s off.

You’re one of them now.

Yes, I am. I’m a cheerleader. And senior year is going to be like none other.

***

“I’m so proud of you, Hayley!” my mother, Nan, says when I burst through the back door of the house to report my news. “I knew you could do it!”

She hugs me so tightly that I actually feel the love and pride coming from her. “I guess all of those gymnastics and dance classes with Miss Kathy have finally paid off.”

“Totally,” I say with a grin.

“Call your grandparents and tell them,” Mom says. “Mother will be thrilled.”

My gray kitty, Leeny, rubs on my leg and I bend down to hoist her into my arms and give her kisses all over her face. “Oh, I will in a bit. When will Dad be home?”

“He should be here any minute. He closed the store early tonight.” She pulls the roast from the oven and starts basting the meat. The aroma of steaming potatoes, carrots, and roast beef fills the air. Yankee pot roast—one of my all time favorite meals. Awww... Mom did this in anticipation of my making the team. Knowing her, it would have been termed a pick-me-up had I not succeeded.

I hear Dad’s truck pull under the carport and the door slam. Leeny jumps from my arms to run and welcome him home. I gasp when he walks in with my brother, Cliff, who must be home for the long weekend from his job up north in Birmingham, and a bundle of balloons that read “Congrats!” and “You Did It!”

I burst out laughing. “What were you going to do with those if I hadn’t made the squad?”

Dad hugs me to him. “Not an option. Fred Grimes stopped in the hardware store. Ashlee called to tell him the news.”

I slump. “He told you?”

“He wanted me to be prepared. And aren’t you glad,” he says with a wink. Dad kisses the top of my head. “Congrats, Little Kid.”

“Yeah, Hay. Way to go,” Cliff echoes. “Just don’t go sleeping with all the football players now. Wouldn’t want to have to come back to high school and kick some ass.”

I smack him hard on the arm. “Geesh, Cliff. Don’t be gross.”

Our scrumptious dinner is interrupted by phone calls and texts galore. Grandmother and Granddaddy call from across town to tell me how proud they are of me. Sadly, I don’t hear from my older sister, Gretchen. Then again, we never really hear from Gretchen unless it’s a major holiday or the obligatory call from Boston when it’s someone’s birthday. She’s the oldest and sort of the black sheep of the family because of
something
that happened when she was in high school that no one will tell me about. Still, after helping load the dishwasher with the dinner dishes, I run upstairs to leave a message on Gretchen’s Facebook page to share my news. My Uncle Roger, Mom’s brother, calls from San Francisco where he works as a doctor, and Dad’s sister, Aunt Eva, calls from New York. You’d have thought I just won the lottery.

Well, I did. I hit the high school equivalent.

And life will never be the same!

Toughness is in the soul and spirit, not in the muscles.

—Alex Karras

June in south Alabama is one thing and one thing only: blue-blazing hot.

But the ultraviolet rays have never felt better on my skin than they do today. I literally skip out of the house in my PHS shorts and Varsity Cheerleader tank top as I toss my purse and my gym bag into the front seat of Dad’s truck.

Today marks the beginning of cheerleader practice. And I am champing at the bit to get over to Brittney Alexander’s house for the first session. We’re voting on captain, and then we’ll find out who our partners are. I’m beyond jazzed!

“Hey, Hay,” a voice calls out to me, interrupting my thoughts.

I tent my eyes over my sunglasses to block out the glare and get a good look at who called out to me. The voice seems familiar, but it can’t be . . .

Or can it?

There’s no way the tall, muscular figure approaching me is who I think it is. However, a skitter of surprise bolts me to the ground as recognition takes over and my mouth drops open. “Oh my God. Would you look who’s back?” I say with laughter in my voice.

He walks across the driveway, sauntering really. Funny, he never sauntered before. Soft brown eyes light up when he smiles at me. Gabriel Tremblay. Gabe used to live across the street from me before his family moved to Cincinnati, Ohio, after sixth grade. He was a gangly, geeky kid then, but we were tight as two neighbors sharing a mud pie could be.

Now, I take in his appearance from his green Scooby-Doo “What Happens in the Van Stays in the Van” T-shirt to his well-worn Levi’s with the cuffs turned up, just like he did when we were younger. Others might barely recognize him, but I’d know that face anywhere, even though his hair is a bit longer, with bangs sweeping down over his forehead. He’s seriously a lot taller, and he’s been eating his Wheaties or working out like a crazy person as I take in the broad chest and his rippled arms. He’s certainly a far cry from the scrawny ninety-pounds-soaking-wet kid that he was back then.

“Awesome to see you, Gabe,” I say, and then move forward to give him a neighborly hug. He shyly returns the affection, though his eyes land on my chest to take in the words spread across my shirt.

“Gabriel. I go by Gabriel now.” Hmm... how grown up. Although, I bet his nana still calls him Gabby.

“I haven’t seen you since Vacation Bible School when we were eleven or something.”

He nods and grins. “Right. ‘Onward Christian Soldiers,’ bagged lunches, and macaroni art.”

“Something like that,” I say softly. “Then y’all just up and moved.”

“Yeah, well, you know how things are,” he says as he kicks at a rock in my driveway, sending it scooting back into the flower bed.

Gabriel turns to me and I feel somewhat awkward standing here not knowing what to say to him. Which is totally weird, because Gabriel and I used to play together all the time. We each collected Hot Wheels and would make paper towns for them to drive through. He killed a nest of earwigs in my front yard when I was freaking out that they were going to attack me. And he bandaged my knee when I fell off my bike because his dog, Cricket, came out of the yard, barking like all get-out and scaring the crap out of me.

But right before we started seventh grade at Polk Middle School, Gabriel and his family just... up and left. He didn’t say goodbye, there was no neighborhood sendoff or party, and he and I haven’t talked since. Sure, I friended him on Facebook last year, but he hasn’t been the kind to obsess with updates.

Gabriel’s father frequented Matthews Hardware, my dad’s store, but not even gossip from the barbershop next door could produce a reason as to why the Tremblays moved out of Maxwell so suddenly.

“So . . .” I say with a bit of a sigh while shuffling from one foot to the other.

“So,” he echoes. “You’re a cheerleader now?”

The beaming smile returns. “Yeah! Crazy, isn’t it?”

“Things really do change,” he says.

“I’m actually on my way to practice.”

He balks a bit, as if to leave. “I just wanted to say ‘hey.’ We’re three houses down. Bought the Lucas place.”

I turn to glance at the brick Colonial that’s had a For Sale sign since January. “Awesome.” It’s the only thing I can think to say. Then I blurt out, “What are you doing here? I mean, back in Maxwell.”

Gabriel chuckles at me. He scratches his chin with his thumb and forefinger. “That’s direct.”

“I didn’t mean—”

He holds up his hand. “No, really, it’s okay. People are bound to ask.” Then he continues. “See, my grandpa’s really sick, and we don’t know how much longer he has. Mom and Dad decided to move back to help take care of him.”

“Oh, Gabe... I mean, Gabriel, I’m so sorry,” I say, thinking about his sweet grandpa whom I haven’t seen at church in forever. I’ve been so caught up in cheerleading that I hadn’t even noticed.

“It’s okay.” He shrugs. “It is what it is. So, here I am, back in Maxwell.”

I smile sweetly. “It’s really great to see you. You’ll have to come over some night so we can catch up.”

His eyebrow lifts. “I bet your social calendar’s a little too full these days for a boring night at home going down memory lane.”

There’s no bitterness in his voice, but I do sense regret from him. Regret for ever leaving town? Or regret for coming back. Either way, I do my best to welcome him back. “You should come to Skipper O’Rourke’s party Friday night. Everyone will be there.”

I’ve been to so many pool parties and backyard barbecues since I won my slot on the squad in mid-May, I can’t keep them straight now. “I bet there’s still time to try out for the football team, if that interests you,” I add. I remember back to elementary school where Gabe, I mean, Gabriel was a pretty promising peewee football player. He could outrun them all.

Gabriel shrugs again, that thing so many boys love to do when faced with something they don’t want to answer. “I actually ran into Coach Gaither at Pasquale’s Pizza the other night. He was impressed by how I’ve, um... filled out and up. I think he said I was ‘buff,’” he says with a laugh.

I laugh heartily at the break in tension and then move to knock him on the upper arm. “Dude, you
are
buff.”

“Lots of hours in the gym,” he says with a slight smirk.

“Are you going to try out for the team?”

“No... I don’t really want to do sports anymore. But Coach Gaither asked me to be a trainer for the team. Weightlifting. Drills. Stuff like that. Pretty cool, huh?”

I bob my head up and down. “That’s awesome, Gabriel. It’s great to have you back in town.”

The back door opens, and Mom sticks her head out. “Hayley! Ashlee just called, looking for you. Said you didn’t answer your cell.”

“I’m leaving!” I yell back. “Just saying hey to Gabriel. You remember him, right?”

Mom steps out and wipes her hands on her tan pants. “Why, Gabriel Tremblay. Look at you all grown up! I’d heard your parents were back.”

I watch as Gabriel’s tanned face reddens under Mom’s scrutiny. “Hey, Mrs. M. Nice to see ya.” Then he turns back to me. “I’ll catch you another time, Hay. Have fun at cheerleader practice.”

“Thanks!” I say, waving to his retreating figure.

As I watch him saunter—and yeah, he does—back to his house, I can’t help but note how he’s grown up and changed from the kid I knew. Guess we all grow up eventually.

***

“Again!” Chloe Bradenton shouts out through her blood-red megaphone with “captain” written on it in white lettering. Yeah, like I didn’t see
that
one coming.

My new partner, Lora Russell, and I exchange glances, and she rolls her eyes. I give her the “Don’t look at me, I didn’t vote for her” glare and wipe my sweaty palms down the side of my navy blue athletic shorts as I’m trying to catch my breath from the dance routine we’ve been practicing for the last two hours.

When we first arrived at Brittney’s, there was the whole hugging and laughing and drinking Diet Cokes stage, followed by a secret ballot for captain. I voted for Lora, since I’ve thought for the past two years she was the best cheerleader PHS had. She actually understands the game of football and knows what cheers to start when. But Chloe took it in a seven to five vote. Think she voted for herself? So, imagine my surprise and delight when newly crowned captain, Chloe, assigned Lora Russell to be my flyer because Chloe wanted Lora’s former flyer partner, Melanie Otto, to be her flyer. So, now, Lora’s retraining as a flyer from being a base. It’s a bit of a mess, all to accommodate Chloe and her desires. Whatever. The terminology and politics. What can I do?

Lora bends over and puts her hands on her knees to catch her breath.

“Is she always this bitchy?” I ask.

Lora rolls her eyes. “Welcome to the squad.”

Chloe snaps at everyone, and, I swear, I think Tara Edwards is going to cry. Poor freshman. “We’ll stay here all day until we get these moves right, ladies!”

I snicker at the situation. When most kids my age are busy spending their summers traveling with their family to cool places, going to Disney World or visiting relatives, possibly even touring potential college campuses, I’m standing in Brittney Alexander’s yard sweating like some sort of farm animal and gyrating to a Techno beat like a spastic reject from the Pussycat Dolls.

But I won’t complain. Like the McDonald’s slogan, I’m
lovin’
it!

And I think it’s awesome that I’m paired up with Lora. We’re going to be a great match.

Speaking of loving it, Chloe adores the power she wields over our cheerleading world. The movie
Bring It On
was right in terming it a “cheerocracy.” Chloe is the head dictator.

And so it begins.

For the next two weeks of practice, Chloe is the task master, keeping us on point. While she’s helpful with the dance routines, jumps, and moves, she tolerates me at best. I’m working hard, sweating as much as the rest of them, and getting stronger. I lift Lora over my head as if we’ve been doing it for years. Chloe laid out the intense, aggressive summer practice schedule, and she let us pick which PHS uniform to retire and which new one to purchase. (We ditched the ugly midriff-revealing white sweater and split skirt and went for a new crisscross back with a straight front skirt. Totally chic.) At the end of the second week, her mother served the team a mega-welcoming formal tea and made everyone matching hand-painted water bottles decorated with our names, our graduation year, and the Patriots’ logo. You’d think Chloe could take a page from her mother’s book of hospitality and friendliness.