Radiate (5 page)

Shaking my head, I say, “I only played the message for you like six times already.”

She giggles. “I know. I just have to keep pinching myself. Let’s get in there.” She swabs a tube of gloss over her lips for good measure.

We grab our beach towels and trudge through the in-need-of-mowing grass, around the side of the house, and through the black wrought-iron gate. These sandals are killing my feet. I don’t know if it’s because they’re new or because that damn stupid pain in my leg won’t go away and only keeps intensifying.

I brush the thought aside and consider going barefoot.

Football players and cheerleaders are everywhere—people I’ve merely passed in the hallways or sat next to in class the past three years. A few of them haven’t given me the time of day since we were in Mrs. Keegan’s kindergarten class. Now they wave at me and include me in their fun. It’s a veritable potpourri of Pops—what the popular kids at school are called—and I’m now part of the pack.

As we’re surveying the scene before committing to a specific position, Ricky Knoxville, the center for the Patriots, chooses
this
particular moment to catapult his two hundred and fifty pounds of offensive lineman girth into a cannonball formation, slushing at least one-third of the pool’s contents projectile toward . . .

“Watch out, Hayley!” Tara screams.

Lora dives to the left, but I’m anchored in place in my new shoes.

Keeeeeeeeersplash!

Water cascades over me in a wall of ozonated liquid, drenching me from formerly curly-coifed head to fashionably sandaled toe.

“Holy crap!” Madison calls out, rushing over to me with her towel. Mine is drenched.

I want to be sick. I want to cry. There goes my makeup. There goes my hair. Stupid Ricky. Stupid fat-ass dive bombing the pool and making me look like a drowned rat.

Lora swipes her towel under my eyes. “Your eyeliner’s running.”

“Great. Just fan-freaking-tastic.”

“It’s okay,” my partner says, trying to soothe me.

“It’s so
not
okay.”

Daniel chooses that moment to appear by my side. “Damn, Knoxville,” he says to his friend. “Way to treat a lady, ass clown?”

Ricky clings to the side of the pool and tries not to laugh. “Sorry about that, Matthews.”

I’m not surprised that Ricky knows my name, because his older brother, Eddie, used to date Gretchen before she left Maxwell. So, I try to be a good sport despite the drenching and laugh through my embarrassment. Things could be worse, right? “It’s okay, Ricky. It’s not a party until someone gets soaked.”

“Good attitude,” Daniel says while patting me on the back. It’s all I can do to keep my knees from nobbling together at his closeness. “Here, come over to the cabana,” he says. “I’ve got an extra towel and a dry shirt you can put on.”

The thought of wearing something of Daniel’s all night makes me swoon like one of the O’Hara sisters at the Twelve Oaks barbecue.

I follow him over, still wondering how I caught his eye and got him to notice me. Guess I shouldn’t look a gift horse in the mouth. I don’t even know what that means, but my dad says it all the time.

“Get out of those wet clothes,” he instructs.

Trying not to laugh at how suggestive it sounds, I do as I’m told. I wrench off my soaked T-shirt and take the towel Daniel offers me. As I’m standing there in my bikini, I can’t help noticing he’s checking me out. Wow. Daniel Delafield is giving me the once-over, and it appears he likes what he sees.

Dabbing my face with the towel, I luxuriate in the softness of the fabric, coupled with its Downy freshness. “Thanks,” I mutter from behind the cotton. From the way he’s smiling at me, I don’t care that my hair is wet and stringy and I don’t have a stitch of makeup on anymore. He certainly doesn’t seem to.

He passes over a long gray T-shirt that reads “Property of Polk Patriots.” “This should do if you get cold.”

“You’re so sweet to me,” I say, all Southern belle-y sounding.

“It’s easy to be sweet to someone as cute as you.”

My breath hitches in my throat as I try to comprehend the words. Did Daniel Delafield just say I’m cute?

“Th-th-thanks, Daniel,” I say.

The cabana is angled away from the party and is shadowed by the setting summer sun. Burnt orange, yellow, and a hazy purple dance on the horizon and are reflected in Daniel’s twinkling blue eyes. He reaches for another towel and begins to dry my hair in the tenderest way... just like my dad used to do when I was little and I’d sit in front of him as he watched the nightly news.

“Your hair is really pretty,” he says, stroking it with the towel.

Although it’s still quite hot out this evening, I have chills up and down my arm.

“So is yours,” I say, not thinking, and then laugh at myself.
What a dork.

Daniel doesn’t seem to think I’m a geek or anything. He slowly moves his left hand into my hair and uses his fingers to comb the wet strands. Almost as if he’s worshiping me, he strokes the tresses carefully and then turns me to face him.

“I’m glad you’re on the cheerleading squad. It’ll be nice to see you standing on the sidelines rooting for me.”

My pulse has surely stopped because all I can feel is his finger on my cheek.

My tongue darts out to wet my lips and I say, “Just like when I was your spirit pal in ninth grade.”

Daniel seems perplexed as he runs through his memory bank. Then he grins widely. “Oh right! You made me the peanut butter crisscross cookies. Those were awesome.”

He remembered.

“Yep, that was me.”

His eyebrows dance up. “You were my cheerleader even back then.” Then he leans forward.

I hold my breath knowing what will surely come next.

That moment that I’ve only imagined.

The dream that will soon be a reality.

Right here, in the twilight of a Thursday evening in June, Daniel Delafield pulls me to him and gives me the most amazing kiss that I’ve ever had—okay, I’ve only had two previous ones to compare. Strong, firm lips, a warm tongue, and the soft whispers of promises yet to come.

I am literally melting in his arms. Nothing else matters. Not my smeared makeup or messed-up hair or the forceful ache thudding in my left leg.

I open my eyes and see Daniel smiling down at me as he moves to nibble at my ear. Mmm... nibbling’s good. Me likey.

However, over Daniel’s shoulder, I notice Gabriel Tremblay watching us from off in the distance by the water slide. He’s glaring, in fact. Disapproval—or perhaps even disappointment—crosses his features.

Flashes of memories photograph me in a blinding light. I remember when we were both just kids in school, not in a clique or part of the Pops scene, but in a simpler time when high school status didn’t matter as much as getting dirty and playing until the sun went down. Now, Gabriel is also a Pop by de facto of his team trainer status. I’m one because I’m a cheerleader. Are we posers? Visitors invited into the feast to sample the treats we’ve only heard about before?

We’re both outsiders in a new world, and his eyes tell me we both know it.

Even if I am making out with one of the most popular guys in the whole school.

I slice my eyes away from my neighbor and concentrate on the hunk and a half in front of me. I’m
not
a poser. I earned this spot in the PHS stratosphere. No one’s going to make me feel bad about where I am. Not Gabriel. Not anyone.

I glance back at Gabriel and telepath my thoughts to him. After a second, he turns away and climbs up the water slide. So be it.

Returning my full attention to Daniel, I slide my hand up his bare shoulder and coyly ask, “So, where were we?”

And for the next two hours, we make out in the cabana like the high school kids we are.

***

June is as steamy as ever in Maxwell, and I wished like anything that my parents had actually put that ground pool in several years ago when the hardware store was thriving and Dad was looking for a good investment. Instead of the luxury, he put the money into home improvements and bought Mom a new Viking accessorized kitchen and a fifty-six-inch flat-panel television for our den.

Because, if we had the pool, I’d be lying on a blowup float right now relaxing and cooling off from the immense workout we’ve just had. It might help with the nagging pain in my leg, too.

“Ready to go, Hayley?” Lora asks after toweling off her face.

“Yeah. Gimme a sec.”

The cheerleaders are sprawled out all over my backyard as each set of partners practices moves like the scorpion pose and the star. Lora and I have a few moves of our own that we want to try out to impress Chloe.

I dash into the house and into Mom and Dad’s bathroom, looking for the Aleve. It seems to be the only pain reliever that’s really helping with this annoying pain-in-the-buttocks leg injury. I toss two of the blue pills to the back of my mouth and then cup my hand under the faucet. The water is cool and refreshing as I wash the medication down.

Staring into the mirror, I say, “Work, dammit. I’ve got too much to do to be injured.”

Back out in the yard, Chloe eyeballs me and sneers. “Just because it’s your house doesn’t mean you can take a break whenever you want.”

Not particularly liking her tone of voice, I say, “I had to pee.”

She harrumphs and goes back to working with Melanie.

“Let’s try that move again,” Lora suggests when I return.

I assume “the position,” crouching with my legs bent and my arms held over my head, ready to accept my flyer. Lora plants her foot in the small of my back and literally crawls up me to straddle my shoulders with a sneakered foot on each side. I stretch my arms high to grasp her calves as she gets her balance. I steady my weight between my feet and make sure Lora doesn’t fall off, even though Ashleigh and Samantha are standing by spotting her.

“Don’t lock your knees, Lora,” Ashleigh instructs.

I feel my partner relax a bit more. I’m not calm, though. My body sings out its soreness. My leg, in particular, aches like I’ve just run the Boston Marathon—twice.

Chloe is suddenly up on us and growls my way. “Hayley, stop holding your breath!”

I let out a gust of air, unaware that I had it pent up.

“You can’t do that,” Chloe tells me, completely in my face as Lora still teeters on my shoulders. “You’ll black out, drop your partner, and we’ll be down two team members. This is all about perfecting our routines for camp at the beginning of August. Everyone has to be in top form so we can bring home the top trophy for once.”

While I’m technically listening to her, I can’t help but acknowledge the continuing dull thump in my left calf muscle. The Aleve just ain’t cutting it. Tears sting the backs of my eyes as I realize I’ve got some sort of sports injury. It’s quite common for cheerleaders, only I don’t want it to stop me.

Great .
.
. just great.

I’m certainly not going to fess up at this point, especially with Chloe now on the rampage about cheerleader camp.

I call up to Lora, “Ready? Dismount.”

Lora steps forward and hops down. I catch her at the waist as her feet touch the ground. Immediately, we position ourselves again for a stunt. I spread my legs shoulder width and bend my knees. Lora places her left foot at the apex of my thigh and torso and then swings her right leg up to do the same. I grab her underneath her armpits and steady for the move.

“On the count of three,” I say. “One... two... three.” And down... up. In a swift action, I hold Lora in the air as she splits her legs out to the side and holds them up with her arms.

“Whoohoo!” Brittney hollers. “Awesome move.”

“Straighten your left leg, Lora,” Chloe instructs. “I like this stunt.”

Trying not to grunt, I say, “Saw it on ESPN last summer.”

“I like that, Matthews,” Chloe compliments. “Taking the initiative. Good job.”

The adrenaline high of Chloe’s praise is enough to divert me from my pain.

“Okay, girls,” Chloe says, clapping her hands. “Good work. Time for a break.” She twists to face me. “You got any food in this joint?”

I smile back, thinking I just might manage to impress the ice queen after all.

Running inside the house, I snag the cooler with the ice-cold water and Gatorade that I’ve been chilling since this morning. True to her word, Mom not only made egg salad sandwiches, but she also set out bowls of chips, a platter of fresh strawberries and cantaloupe, tuna to scoop up onto lettuce, and sun-ripened tomatoes from her garden. Since not all the girls are into carbs, this is a good selection all around.

“Need help?” Hannah Vincennes asks, bounding into the kitchen behind me. She’s a sweet African American girl who can do an aerial backflip like nobody’s business. Her jet-black hair is slicked back into a high ponytail and her dark skin shines with sweat. “I could drink about eighty bottles of water right now.”

“I’m with you.” I stoop to tug the cooler out, and my left leg hitches a little bit. I wince out in surprised pain. “Son of a . . .”

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“Yeah, I guess . . .”

Glancing down at my sore left leg, I notice a small knot poking out midcalf. I rub my hand down the length of my limb, pressing firmly where a bump now appears to be. “That’s strange,” I note, nonchalantly. “Must have hit my leg somewhere.”

“That’s a nasty bump,” she points out.

“No worries,” I say. “Part of the business, right?”

Hannah scoffs. “Girl, by the time we get to camp in August, we’ll all be bruised and battered. Battle scars. Battle. Scars.”

I laugh nervously and try not to think about what might be ailing me. There are hot, hungry cheerleaders to feed.

To fear is one thing. To let fear grab you by the tail and swing you around is another.

—Katherine Paterson

Monday morning, I wake up with one thought:
I’m afraid.

I’m not talking scared at the annual haunted house scared. I mean, truly afraid. Like heart palpitation-y fearful.