Looking for Changes

I was a cheerleader in high school.
Yes, I’ve heard all of the jokes.
No, I did not forget my skirt.
No, I never tried to look up the girls’ skirts.
Yes, I had a girlfriend…well, kind of…it was a work-in-progress. In progress for about five years, but I knew, eventually, that it would work out. Maybe two days after the senior prom or three days prior to her moving across the world like “Carmen Sandiego” and I would try to track her down.

She was a cheerleader, so, I thought, to spend more time with her, I would try out for the squad. It wasn’t too hard: the cheerleader coach had always wanted guys to use as bases to perform some aerial stunts and for some volume in the cheers…I was not required to do any of the dances but, I admit, I knew them. I could do a few well-rehearsed hip moves and leg turns that would make Madonna feel lethargic…but I felt that it would be best if I just stood by and clap or shout on command. The only person on the squad who knew that secret was my friend—who I wanted to be a bit more—Melissa Anderson.

Melissa was steamed on the day I showed up for practice. Wait, “steamed” is not the answer. More like pissed. Like, pissed on, not off, because that’s even worse and there’s a stench and staining involved. Okay, so bad mental image there, sorry.
Anyway, she actually slapped me in front of all the girls trying out because she knew that I had a guaranteed cheerleader sweater coming my way. I didn’t need a golden buzzer to go to the finals. The other potential tryouts—there were twenty for five slots—had to practice and perform three group cheers, a stunt, and one dance routine to that bonafide, will never get old for a million years, song “Cotton Eyed Joe”. I had to some of the motions, but nothing that required a kick above my head—even though I knew I could do it.

There were two other guys who obtained a spot in the winner’s circle: Mike and Chad. Mike had played football for three years but injured a tendon in his leg and ruined his ability to run at full speed. His injury did not prevent him from lifting his own weight on a barbell nor did it stop his booming voice. Chad was a star on the basketball court but decided he wanted to do something different, so he turned in doing half-court baskets to basket tosses. Compared to them, I should have put on a shell, skirt and some ribbons in my hair and tired out with the girls. Where, because rhythm was not one of my strong points, I would have been thrown out of the competition after the first round.

So, the cheer squad for my senior year consisted of eighteen girls and three guys. The only person I wanted to work with was Melissa, but, instead, I found myself teamed up on most stunts with Heather, a smaller junior who never wanted to make small talk. She was always business. Timing, choreography, weight-training; Heather had cheerleading her blood. My blood ran hot because Mike worked with Melissa a lot and it annoyed me; but, I didn’t make a fuss, didn’t make a huge deal out of it because Melissa was my ride home from school after practice.

“You should do the dance routine.”
“I am not going to perform the moves for ‘Rumpshaker’.”
“Why not?” Melissa asked as she shifted into fifth gear.
“I don’t wanna zoom-a-zoom-zoom-zoom and a poom-poom. You do know what ‘poom poom’ means, right?”
Melissa drove like Danica Patrick and she never got pulled over.
“Yeah, and I’m trying to talk Andrea out of it.”
Andrea was the head cheerleader and was always a cheery, happy, “hey, how ya doing” kind of person until someone makes changes on her. Then she became a demon born of hellfire and scorn. She had picked the song and the routine.
“I don’t want to even be in the same state when you tell her.”
Melissa grinned and then accelerated.
“Did you ever get the airbag repaired?”
“Not yet. Dad’s waiting for something else to break down.”
I pulled my seat back as far as I could.
“Aw, c’mon. I’m a safe driver.”
“You’re a careful driver.”
“Same thing.”
“The speed limit is 65 and you’re near, is that ninety?”
“Only eighty-five.
“Only,” I replied with a nod and raised eyebrows. “Are we trying to match Han in the Kessel Run?”
“I’ll have you know; I know what means. Mr. Smarty-guy.”
“From whom?”
“From Mike.”

I really wanted to hate Mike right then, but, since I hadn’t tried to make a move on Melissa myself in the past five years I knew her why was I getting so worked up into wishing Mike instantaneous death, or a maiming by wild animal or, worse yet: an extreme bout of food poisoning from the previous day’s burrito day in the cafeteria?

I mean, Melissa and I were friends, we always had been, and she never dropped any hints that she liked me other than that. Sure, we’d stick up for each other. Yes, we would have heart to heart talks about how life sucks at times and yeah, we also talked about what would happen in the future: she would be dating “The Rock” and I just threw out the name of an actress that I heard of at the time. Perhaps Cassandra Peterson was not the best choice at that moment.

“Make sure you’re ready to leave on tomorrow.”
“I will be,” I replied as Melissa took a sharp right to get off the interstate.

Tomorrow was the day the eighteen of us would leave for Central University for a week of “Cheer Camp”. I was quasi-thrilled to learn that the girl to guy ratio would be at least a hundred to one and those were great odds if one were searching for a long-distance relationship or perhaps a short fling somewhere on campus. My mind almost went into hentai territory as I envisioned myself and Melissa in a corner somewhere, but I snapped back. It wasn’t good to have a glassy-eyed stare when she was right next to me—and seemingly about to rear-end a late model Mercedes in front of us.

Melissa dropped me off in front of my apartment building. We said our goodbyes and she took off down the road like her car could fly. I lived on a second-floor apartment with my mom. Dad? He was usually out of the country…a part of the divorce that mom was fine with. There were times that I talked with him, but for the most part he would send me a postcard or a letter. He would call every lunar eclipse or so.
“Lin, is that you?”
“Yeah, mom” I replied.
“When were you going to tell me?”
I couldn’t tell if she was worried, mad, curious, or if she finally found out the vodka bottle only had water in it.
“About?”
“You’re a cheerleader?”
“Uh, yeah.”
Mom walked out of the living room and stared at me like I had grown a second head or a tail.
“What?”
“It’s just something I didn’t expect you to do.”
“That makes two of us.” I replied as I walked down the hall to my room.
"The school sent a permission slip and some paperwork about a cheer camp. Mind telling me when you’re going to talk about that?"
"Surprise?" I opened the door to my room and sat my backpack next to the bed.
“You’re the one who is going to be surprised. Cheerleading takes a lot of work.”
“Not for me. I just get to stand, clap and shout most of the time.”
“No moves?” Mom asked and then crossed her arms in front of her in disagreement.
“I’ll let Melissa and rest of the girls on the squad do that.”
“Five years of gymnastics and you just want to stand and clap?”
“Hey, it looks good on a college transcript, right?”
Mom huffed and then looked down at the papers.
“You were going to wait until Sunday to tell me about this, weren’t you?”
“We leave tomorrow morning.”
“Lin! What were you thinking?”
“I’d just go in the morning with Mel. Walmart’s open twenty-four hours.”
“Lindell Julius Armitage! You need the correct shoes, shorts and workout shirts.”
“These are fine,” I replied as I lifted my dark grey and if-they-get-wet-my-socks-get -soaked, has seen better days running shoes.
“You need new clothes.”
I rolled my eyes. I hated shopping with extreme prejudice. If asked to either go shopping or allow my right hand to be crushed, then I would learn to write as a southpaw. Besides the time wasted looking at ridiculously priced but made by the lowest bidder merchandise, I would have to put up with mom talking about clothes and showing me various things, I didn't want to look at, acknowledge, or try on.
We arrived at the store and I felt like waking towards the street and stepping right into traffic—ANYTHING to avoid going inside any store whatsoever. If it couldn’t be purchased off of Amazon or eBay.com, then it wasn’t needed. My clothes were fine. A little worn, maybe. My shoes, yes, they were falling apart but I didn’t care.
“You cannot go to cheer camp looking like you’re from Hooverville.”
“From where?”
“Doesn’t matter. Let’s find some clothes for you. Do NOT complain about the prices. That’s my job.”
I rolled my eyes. If only Mom was like that when I “needed” a PlayStation 4. I couldn’t care less so I haphazardly went through the clothes: warm-ups, shirts, socks and just picked up what looked like fit me based on sizes. Except for the shoes. I figured that I would get the best pair of shoes that I could…even if they were a very expensive set ofNike’s.
I brought the gear to the checkout and Mom’s expression at the sight of the price tag on the shoes made her switch out cards. I pulled my hair from off my face and lashed it into a ponytail.
“You said not to get all hyped about the price. They’ll last a while.”
“They’re white, Lin. You’re going to need to take care of them. You should get some water-protection.”
“Why?”
Mom leaned in and whispered in a low roar. “If I’m buying a pair shoes that costs almost as much as a car note then I want them to last.”
“Well, we could put these back and start my car fund? I’m for that.”
“Go back to the department and get some Scotchguard.”
“Some what?”
“It’s a spray. It helps protect materials from water.”
I trudged out at first but then took off in a light sprint—figuring the faster I got this spray the faster we could leave. I had survived the entire time without anyone talking to me except for someone to find the pair of shoes I requested. The guy’s expression was a bit weird when I asked for a size nine-five. I didn’t care, I just wanted to get it over with.
“Miss!” Someone said from behind me.
I kept on with my pace.
“Miss!” the same voice, but louder, “I need you to stop running.”
I stopped to see who was running behind me and met up with an older man with a clipboard in his hands. He wore a store uniform.
“Are you talking to me?”
“Yes, you need to stop running.”
All I could do was frown.

I sat in the passenger’s seat and glared out the window.
“What are you mad about?” Mom asked as she started the car.
“He called me ‘miss’. Continuously, mom.”
“He just wanted you to stop running.”
“He became my shadow as I walked the rest of the way, got the spray and walked back to the register.”
Mom chuckled a bit. I failed to see what was funny about it.
“Maybe you should cut your hair.”
“No way.”
“That might stop the confusion.”
“Not my problem.” I replied as I turned to her.
“Then you can’t complain when a sixty-year-old man calls you ‘miss’."
“Slash didn’t have to worry about anyone calling him a girl.”
“From the back he might have. People wore some strange stuff in the nineties.”
“I’ll grow a beard.”
“And be a lumberjack one day?”
“A what?” I asked as mom just smirked. “You’re weird, mom”
“I’m a parent, it’s my job. Let’s stop for Subway.”
“No thank you,” I replied with a huff as any form of meat from a store like that combined with a bus ride would equal everyone unable to breathe for the duration of the bus ride and if that was too much information for you, think about I felt when I learned of my condition and it was more than just flatulence.
“You can get a veggie.”
“Not helping, mom.”
“Tuna salad?”
“There is not a smidgen of fish in that and you know it.”
“It’s not meat, at least.”
Instead of offering an alternative, she turned the car into the parking lot, parked in front of the door and handed a card over to. “Italian BMT, dressed and some Sun Chips.”
“Would you like to super-size it too?”
“Yes, a large is fine.”
I took the card, got out and closed the door. Mom could eat whatever she wanted and never gain a pound. I could barely eat anything without some gastro-intestinal issue occurring. Some people assumed I was rude when I would decline a taco or a slice of pizza. I would have to tell them over how much I wanted to have a gnosh of what was once sweet manna from the heavens that was a Doritos Locos but would have to decline. Not that I would wish it on anyone, but, if I could bottle it and sell it—without being sued by the FDA—I’d have more money than Elon Musk.

The restaurant’s lights were ultra-bright with the neon flashing off the yellow and green. I had to wince a little bit and adjust my eyes.
“Welcome to Subway.” The lone guy behind the counter said.
I blinked a few times and waved to him.
“What can I get for you?”
“Umm, a large Italian, everything on it, and some chips.”
He nodded and proceeded with getting the bread. I turned around to see mom sitting in the car with the headlights on. I stared at her for a few minutes wondering why the lights, and the engine it seemed, were still on. Did she want me to just dash and grab a sandwich? Probably she wanted to keep the air conditioner at negative thirty degrees. I pivoted my feet and spun around to see the guy behind the counter dart his eyes from a downward direction towards me and back to the prep line.
Was he staring at my butt while making a sandwich?

Off the Ground