Page 11 of The Cheerleader

“I’ll call Coach and let him know to come in an hour,” she says. “Whatever chores you don’t finish, I’ll finish myself.” She stands with her arms folded, as tall as my old man, wearing a fierce expression. The graying dark waves of her hair fall over one side of her face, and she brushes them aside, her eyes on me, silently and sullenly determined.

I nod, acknowledging her support, but there’s no way in hell I’ll leave a single minute of chores to Mom, even if my old man might let her do them just to punish me.

Coach Hammer will go along with the delay. He’ll do whatever I need, whether I ask or not.

I know he won’t balk at the change of plans, but I already feel like I’m taking advantage of him.

He never says anything about my old man’s attitude, at least not to me. He and Dad have been at war for my time and attention ever since I started playing Pop Warner football. That’s where Coach discovered me—his words, not mine—and recruited me from the public high school in Granby to play for Suffield Academy on scholarship.

My little cousin tries squeezing into the room, and Dad lets him by. He jumps on my bed, grinning like the ten-year-old boy he is.

“Off to play football, you lucky duck. I can’t wait to see a game. Coach says he might take me⁠—”

“Never mind what Coach says.” My old man’s voice is quietly firm as he shuts down Wally’s smile and along with it, his giddy anticipation.

“Come on, Wally,” Mom says. “Bryan has to finish the chores, and then we can say hello to Coach when we see him off.” She takes his hand and pushes Dad from the doorway as they go out. Dad leaves without gloating about winning the skirmish. Probably because he knows the war is far from over.

I drop my bag and pull off my shirt, replacing it with an old work shirt, and head downstairs out the back door. My crusty work boots sit on the porch waiting for me, and I switch them with my sneakers and head across the yard.

In spite of being sweaty and filthy when I’m finished mucking out the cow barn, I quickly wash my hands and change back into my clean shirt and sneakers without a shower. Coach honks his horn out front as I finish up.

He’s a brave guy to announce his arrival, challenging my old man to greet him. Last time, Dad didn’t bother saying hello to him or goodbye to me. Another year and nothing’s changed. If anything, my old man’s antagonism is worse.

Wally is yammering to Coach about Suffield Academy’s team while Mom smiles, offering him coffee and cookies when I come out the door carrying my duffel over my shoulder and a cardboard box in my arms.

Coach grins at me. “Let me help you with that.” He rushes to open the trunk to stow the box. I toss my duffel in the back seat.

“Sorry for the delay.”

“No problem at all. I’ll do my best to get you there on time.”

I turn to Wally and Mom and force a smile. It’s for a good cause. “There’ll be plenty of apples this year, and I’m counting on some pie in a care package.”

“I’ll pick the apples,” Wally says.

“You and what ladder?” I laugh at him. He’s small, but he has spunk. He reminds me of my older brother sometimes, a little reckless. Reminds Mom of Caleb too, which is probably why she took him in when her older sister passed and has been overprotective of him since.

She tucks him under her arm now. “Don’t you listen to Bryan. You can stand on a crate and get the low branches.”

“Don’t worry about me,” he says. “I’ll climb the trees to get the high branches.”

“I bet you will,” I tell him sincerely as a rare lump of emotion pushes its way into my throat. “Come here,” I rasp. Clearing my throat, I check the emotions down. He breaks away from Mom, and I give him a hug and then ruffle his hair because he hates it.

He swats at me. “Hey. Watch out. You know we’re definitely coming to a game this year.”

I nod and get in the car. I don’t hold any hope of my family making it to a game. Why should this year be any different? Because it’s my senior year? Possibly—no, make that probably—my last year to play football.

Coach backs out of the drive, leaving a cloud of dust that blurs my view of Mom and Wally for a second as they wave like mad. I turn away before I see Mom tearing up. It’s the one thing about my life at home that I can’t stand—more than rising at four a.m., mucking cow shit, hefting bales of hay, feeding pigs, and twelve-hour days. That’s all part of the life, and when I get into the rhythm, it soothes my soul. What I can’t stand is to see my mom cry.

I’ve seen her cry a sea of tears since we lost Caleb, and it never fails to stab me through the heart.

I walk into the team meeting ten minutes late with my duffel and box, and without huffing and puffing from the flat-out run from the front door. I take a seat in the back of the stuffy room with sweat pouring down my face and a slightly earthy smell clinging to me.

Tony Torino, head coach of the football team, stops talking and looks up at me.

I make no comment, while all the guys turn their heads my way.

Fletcher Ferris, a safety with an attitude, sits two rows ahead of me and opens his mouth. In spite of my warning stare, he says under his breath, “I knew it was you by the smell.”