Radiate (27 page)

My eyes are sunken into my face. Sad. Lost.

The real me—the Hayley who doesn’t let shit get her down—is hidden behind this wall of synthetic fibers.

I feel like a fraud. A farce. Someone wearing a façade.

Like I’m ashamed of what I went through.

Like I can just stick this, this, this... thing on my head and cover up the fact that I had cancer.

Like I can tuck the surgery and scars, chemo and radiation up underneath a wig so no one can see them.

Besides, is the wig for me to feel better about myself or for other people not to feel sorry for me?

I’m not going to do it.

I politely swipe Mrs. Brady’s fidgety hands away from me and remove the “designer” wig.

“Thank you so much for your help, ma’am. I’m all set.”

She balks. “But—”

“I am who I am,” I say to both her and my mother.

The woman gathers the plastic heads and huffs off into the back.

My eyes meet Mom’s in the mirror. She places her hands on my shoulders and gives me a supportive squeeze.

“I can’t do it, Mom,” I say quietly as the emotions reach a boiling point within me.

“I understand, sweetie.”

“It’s just not me.” I spot myself in the mirror one more time. My brown eyes shine out at me, glistening with the tears I’m about to shed. “They can take me as I am or not at all.”

And with that, the teardrops roll lazily down my cheeks.

This is the third time I cry. Mom and I sob quietly together. Then we dry our eyes and leave the WigWam hand in hand.

Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house.

—Matthew 5:15

When I walked out of the house this morning, Mom told me not to hide my light under a bushel. It sounded corny at the time, but as I cruise the hallway at school, I realize that if I put off positive energy and confidence in my state of baldness, that “light” that I emit will spread.

People still give me the once-over, and I hear whispered words: “bald”; “cancer”; “cheerleader.” Yeah, well, tell me something I don’t know. I simply smile and find my locker to stash my books.

I hold my bald head up high and pretend it’s the absolute hottest look for the fall season.

Gabriel appears next to me with a large shopping bag from Macy’s. “Look what I’ve got for you.”

I screw up my face. “You went shopping for me?”

“Nah, I raided our storage at home.” Peering into the bag, I see a bunch of baseball caps. “You remember my big sister, Camille, right? She’s in school at UGA in Athens. Two years ago, she went through this hat stage. Mom and I thought you could use these.”

My heart warms as I rummage through the bag. There are several NFL caps including the Falcons, Dolphins, Jaguars, and Saints. There are also a well-worn Georgia Bulldogs hat and a brand-new black and white hounds tooth one for the University of Alabama. I find a Diesel, a DKNY, a Mickey Mouse hat, and a floppy straw beach hat.

I hold the straw hat up and giggle. “I don’t think this one’s appropriate for school.”

Gabriel pushes the bag into my hand. “They’re yours to do as you see fit.”

“Thanks, Gabriel. This is totally sweet.”

For good measure, he rubs the top of my head like he’s shining a bowling ball, and then he points to his own shorn look. He’s taken to doing this a lot to me. I don’t mind in the least. “Don’t worry, hair grows fast.”

I’ve noticed many of the football players who shaved their heads are sporting some new growth. Most look like they’ve returned from military boot camp.

Two depressing Virginia Woolf reads later, Gabriel and I pack up our books and head out of AP English Lit.

“I think the hounds tooth would go great with your black shirt and jeans today,” Gabriel says with a smile.

“Oh yeah? Well, I am a Crimson Tide fan.”

“See you sixth period. Be prepared for the workout of your life.”

I salute him and head back to my locker to retrieve the Bama cap. He’s right. It looks
très
cute.

***

Later that day, I discover Gabriel wasn’t kidding when he said he was going to test my limits.

I grit my teeth as I push the leg press forward.

“Grrrrr . . .” I grind out. “Damn, how much weight do you have on there?”

He moves to check. “Fifteen pounds. Again. Three sets of ten. You can do it.”

Can I?

I have to.

This is my rehabilitation.

I push again and feel as though the scar on my leg is going to rip open.

“Arrrrrrrggghhh . . .”

“Remember... no pain, no gain.”

“I honestly want to smack the person who came up with that,” I say when the weights fall back into place.

Gabriel keeps encouraging me. “What’s the mantra?”

“Hurts so good... hurts so good.”

“Good girl. One more set and we’ll move along.”

I count the final set in my head.

Eight .
.
.

Nine .
.
.

Ten .
.
.

“Phew!” I reach for the towel and mop the sweat off my face. I giggle for a moment as I swipe the fabric over my head.

“What’s so funny?” Gabriel asks.

“I don’t have to worry about messing up my hair now.”

We chuckle together and it feels good. He’s not poking fun or laughing at me. Hell,
I’m
laughing at myself. He’s enjoying the moment with me, and that means the world.

“Yo, Tremb,” Skipper O’Rourke calls out. “Spot me, dude?”

Gabriel looks over to our star defensive back who is stretched out on the free weight bench. “Sure thing.” Back to me, he asks, “You good over here?”

I give him a mock salute. “Yes, sir!”

I concentrate on my upper-body strength now, working on three different machines to exercise the deltoids, pectorals, and trapezius. Gabriel’s a good coach, teaching me the different muscle groups and how they can help me when I’m lifting Lora. With the firmness I have in my upper body, it doesn’t matter that I can’t run or jump. I can toss any of our flyers and help anyone get to the top of our pyramids and stunts.

“Who’s the new guy?” I hear Daniel calling out. He then stops next to me on the bench press and makes eye contact. “Oh, Hayley. I was only kidding.”

Ouch.
“You’d better have been.”

“Smooth, Delafield,” Skipper notes, flat on his back.

Daniel reaches out to run his hands through my hair as he’s become accustomed to doing, only there’s nothing there to stroke anymore. Awkwardly, he pulls his hand away and instead rests it on my shoulder. “So . . .”

“So . . .”

“Do you have practice after school?”

“Every day,” I say with a smile. I try to read his thoughts, but I’m not exactly psychic and he’s not particularly demonstrative when it comes to emotions.

“Meet me after and I’ll give you a ride home.”

Now, that’s the Daniel I’m used to. Maybe my lack of hair won’t put a wedge between us after all.

Following two hours of dance practice and a new pom routine, I gather my things and plop down on the tailgate of Daniel’s truck. I toss a Dolphins baseball cap on my head, turning it backwards with the bill pointed at my back. I’m sure I look ridiculous. I was never a hat person before chemo, and something tells me I’m not exactly one now. But I appreciate that Gabriel made the effort to try and make me feel better.

The sound of heavy football pads hitting the flatbed startles me to attention.

“Ready to go?” Daniel asks. His face is red from exertion.

I climb into the truck and adjust the air conditioner vent to blow directly in my face. Daniel does the same, and then we get going. We pretty much ride in silence through the fast food strip of Maxwell until he pulls into Crower’s Fried Chicken. Usually, I salivate at the thought of their chicken nuggets and special sauce with the poppy seeds. However, the odor of the hot grease that floats in the air surrounding the restaurant makes me want to gag.

“You want anything?” Daniel asks.

“Diet Coke?”

“That’s it? I have money if you want food.”

I cover my nose and mouth and try not to wretch. “I’m okay. Still nauseated from my treatments.”

Fortunately, it’s a quick transaction, and Daniel passes a very large soda and straw to me. I gulp down the cola and try not to let the smell of his food make me ill.

Soon, we turn down my street, and Daniel parks in front of my house. It seems as if he wants to talk. I wonder if this is the breakup speech. I guess I wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to date the bald chick.

Finally, he looks at me and says, “I’m sorry about your hair. I feel really, really bad for you.”

Annoyance boils under my skin. “I don’t want your pity, Daniel.”

“I wasn’t pitying you, I promise.”

Maybe I’m too sensitive, but I can’t help saying, “It sure sounded like it.”

“Not at all.”

I lick my dry lips with my even drier tongue. “I need your support, Daniel.”

“I understand.” He lowers his voice. “It’s just that you had such pretty hair.”

If I agree with him, I sound like a self-aggrandizing bitch like Chloe Bradenton. I sit quietly for a moment and gather my thoughts.

I swallow hard and spill my guts to him. “You have
no idea
how hard it is to wake up each morning knowing I have to go to school looking like this.” I point to my scalp for good measure. “Not only that, I have to retrain the muscles in my leg to work again. There’s no nerve there anymore to tell my foot when to lift up and down. I’m literally having to learn to walk again. I feel like an idiot.”

I can see he’s a bit ashamed. “I had no idea, Hayley.”

“My only goal is to live a normal life and not melt into a little pile of goo every day.”

“Seems you’re handling things pretty amazingly so far,” he says, and smiles.

“I’m trying. Really, I am.” I glance at his hand on the seat, and I so much want to take it. It’s his move, though. Mustering up a strong breath, I say, “I need to know if you’re going to be there for me.”

He stretches his large hand out and weaves my fingers into his. “Don’t worry, Hayley. You can count on me.”

***

Week five into school, I’m sitting in French II, mentally walking through the pep rally routine we’ll be doing Friday instead of reading about famous Francophones and deciding who to do my oral essay on. French is the last thing on my mind when the Patriots are still undefeated. It’s up to us cheerleaders to keep school spirit at an all-time high to keep the players and coaches supported and motivated.

The intercom rings out, and Mademoiselle Saunders, my teacher, instructs us to listen up.

It’s Mr. Parish, our principal. I know exactly what could be so important as to interrupt third period. According to Mademoiselle Saunders’s wall calendar—the one with the large pictures of the Eiffel Tower—it’s mid-October, which means one thing.

Homecoming court nominations.

I bounce a bit in my seat in anticipation. Homecoming’s not for two weeks, but it’s an unspoken tradition at Polk High that the varsity cheerleaders are a shoe-in for nominations. I don’t know if there’s ever been an instance in PHS history where that hasn’t happened. Cheerleaders
always
get nominated.

My pulse picks up, and I’m breathless with anticipation. Of course, I don’t expect to actually make the court or anything, but like any Oscar nominee will tell the press, being nominated is an honor in and of itself.

“Attention students,” Mr. Parish says over the PA system. “In recognition of PHS’s upcoming homecoming celebrations, I’m pleased to announce this year’s homecoming court nominees. Starting with the freshman class . . .”

I listen up to names I don’t really recognize until he says, “Madison Hutchinson.” Awesome, little Madi is the first cheerleader on the list.

“Next, our sophomore nominees are Lauren Compton, Samantha Fowler, Paige—”

I tune out as Mr. Parish mentions the other three nominees, all of them non-cheerleaders. The tradition continues.

I’m certainly not surprised when Ashleigh, Tara, Hannah, and Brittney complete the ballot for the junior class. That just leaves us five senior girls to fill the nominations for the twelfth grade.

I sit tall in my seat and smooth my sweaty palms on the sides of my pants. The only other time I’ve heard my name on the loudspeaker was last spring when Mr. Parish listed the new squad.

This is truly a moment to remember and to cherish, so I tug out my BlackBerry, scroll to the Voice Note function, and press Record. Why not?

With my heart ticking away like a time bomb in need of diffusion, I listen closely to the principal.

“And the nominees for the senior class, the list of which will include those girls eligible for homecoming queen are... Chloe Bradenton, Lora Russell, Melanie Otto, Ashlee Grimes, and . . .”

And me!

Say it .
.
. Hayley Matthews!

“Furonda Garrison.”

Who? What?

The breath rushes out of my body, and I fear I’m going to slide to the floor in a massive heap of disappointment. I hear a snicker behind me as if someone else noticed that my name wasn’t on the list.

Furonda Garrison’s a nice enough person. Pretty. Head majorette.

She’s not a cheerleader, though.

I am.

I was supposed to be nominated.

So much for school tradition.

Eleven of the twelve varsity cheerleaders are on the nomination ballot.

I’m the only one left off.

Gulping down my pride, I raise my hand to get Mademoiselle Saunders’s attention. She nods in my direction. “May I please go to the bathroom?”

The teacher clicks her tongue at me and waves her finger.
“Veuillez le dire en français.”

Say it in French. Right.

“Oh, um . . .” I think quickly and stumble over my request as I do my best to keep the hot tears that are building behind my eyes from falling in front of my classmates. “Um...
est-ce que je peux satisfaire vais la salle de bains?
”