Why We Fly, page 16
I was definitely thinking the same thing. But for the first time, someone else gets to be the bad guy.
“Well, we still need to practice it.” Leni folds her arms. “You never know what could happen.”
“Maybe next year,” Skylar says. “But this year? Not. Happening.”
Kendall adds, “Actually, can we talk about the plan for the rest of the day? These practices have been all over the place lately.”
Leni clenches her fists.
I can’t help but jump in. “This routine is good warm-up. We should run practice like we normally do. Let’s work on some sideline cheers and our halftime routine and close out with our routine for Nationals.”
Val applauds. “All right, the boss bitch is back! Never thought I’d miss the drill sergeant, but at least we have some order again. People, let’s get started.”
It took my life going completely haywire for them to finally see that all I was ever trying to do was bring some focus to the team. Feels good to be understood for a change. I bury a smile because I don’t want to gloat. Leni’s eyes are on the ground, and she’s taken a few steps back. Poor girl—Val’s comment had to sting. But this is what being captain is. If she wasn’t prepared for it, she had the opportunity to express that to Coach. She didn’t. That means she has to endure the consequences of her decision.
In the end, it’s one of our better practices in a while, even though I can’t make it through ten minutes without a coughing fit, which has happened quite a bit since I came back from suspension. It’s starting to attract the team’s attention; Coach studies me, and Val asks if I’m getting sick. Maybe all the time I’ve been spending in the shed behind my house is catching up with me. I can’t keep going like this.
* * *
Friday afternoon, we sprawl on the lawn by the field, enjoying our pregame snacks. The upbeat vibe from our last few practices is no longer present.
Jenni plays with her carrot sticks. “I’m not enthused for games anymore.”
“Me neither. You can feel the cloud hanging over us. People don’t even really clap for us when they finally let us out of locker room,” Skylar says.
Coach Pearce, who’s been sitting and eating with us, claps her hands. “Gather in, Rams.” We scoot closer together. “We can’t become so wrapped up in this one little thing we’re not able to participate in. We still have State and Nationals, and we are going to crush it. We’re going to show everyone who tried to hold us back this year that we’re still an elite squad with amazing routines. Despite the disappointment of the past few weeks, we must find a way to convert our energy into a winning spirit. Otherwise, what was it all for?”
Okay, that’s right. That’s something we can work toward. That’s something that has a formula I’m familiar with. I can’t guarantee a win for us, but I know what we need to do to work up to it. I feel a sense of relief, being able to focus on this.
The squad is sprawled out on the itchy grass, but I’m on my pop-up stool. As they gather up the remains of the snacks, I fold up the stool and store it in its purple canvas satchel. Leni has finished only half of the snacks she’s brought. She’s been withdrawn all week, her stress on display in a frown she normally wouldn’t show anyone but me. I hate to see it. I can’t remember the last time she let something get the better of her this way. It doesn’t happen frequently. When it does, it’s a big deal. Leni does not allow frivolous things, other than the occasional boy, to disrupt her psyche.
But losing the respect of the team wouldn’t feel frivolous to me, either. We’ve worked so long and so hard to be leaders, starting with the time we ran for president and vice president of the fifth grade. Taking a step back is not something either of us really knows how to do.
Part of me wants to comfort her. I can’t help but think that’s not my job, though. Not anymore.
* * *
Throughout October, my focus is split between two things: getting our competition routine solid, and working with my parents to get the suspension removed from my permanent record. I’ve been waiting to ask my guidance counselor, Ms. Murphy, to complete all her responsibilities for my early action application until we see if we’re successful. But now that the deadline is close, we have to have a conversation with her about what to do.
My parents wait for me outside Ms. Murphy’s office. “Hi, Mom. Hey, Dad.”
They respond by standing and giving me hugs. My dad flashes me a bright smile, the same kind he gave me when I was learning to ride a bike, fell off, and skinned my knee. He told me, “First, fall down. Now, riding is next.”
The door swings open, and Ms. Murphy greets us and waves us into her office, where she returns to her exceptionally neat desk. Other than the media specialist, she’s the only teacher who has such a large collection of books in her office. There are college guides, SAT/ACT prep manuals, a display shelf with face-out pamphlets about depression and anxiety, and a shelf dedicated to fiction.
I focus on Ms. Murphy, who speaks first. “Hi, guys. Nice to see you all. So, I did read your email, but why don’t you reiterate what exactly we’re discussing today?”
“I’m disappointed it’s come to this,” my dad says. “As you know, this is not my first attempt to address this situation. I tried going through the other channels, but things still haven’t been resolved as they should be.”
Oh my goodness. My father is a strong personality, and sometimes it’s a lot. I hope Ms. Murphy does not take this the wrong way. This is my last effort to rescue my academic career. We do not need to antagonize the guidance counselor when we’re depending on her for some help. Considering the hard work I’ve done all these years to get where I am, the fact that we’re even having this conversation is just so unexpected. I never thought I was on a path that could lead here.
“Have you heard anything about the appeal? Have you been given any indication if it’s looking good or bad?” Ms. Murphy asks.
“Our attorney thinks that based on Chanel’s stellar academic and behavioral record up to this point, we have a very good chance of having the suspension removed from her permanent record,” my dad says. “Further, an audit of punishments handed out at this school revealed that on no other occasion did a student’s exercise of their right to protest in a manner that did not disrupt classes receive such a long suspension. The lawyers are confident we’ll be able to show Chanel was unjustly singled out for an unusually harsh punishment, and I am too.”
I look down and notice my mother give my dad’s hand a little squeeze. He glances at her, and they lock eyes for a second. I’ve seen that squeeze before. Although my dad wouldn’t harm a fly, his stature and his tone when he gets excited can seem intimidating to white people. He takes a deep breath, and when he speaks next, I notice his voice has softened. His proud posture deflates, as it does whenever he is forced to unfairly censor himself in the presence of white people.
“Listen, I’m just trying to make sure that a child who has worked harder than I ever could have imagined—a kid who has never needed motivation from anyone else—doesn’t have her academic career threatened. It seems like there must be a more just solution.”
Ms. Murphy scoots her chair closer to her desk and leans in, almost as though she wants to make sure no one listening outside her door can hear what she’s about to say. “Nelly has been one of the bright spots in my time at this school. You are exactly right. She is self-motivated and smart and obviously gifted in academics and sports. However, my hands are tied. I have to send them everything that’s in her file. I suggest we wait it out and hope the administration does the right thing. If it does, I’m not obligated to say anything about the suspension.”
My mom pipes up for the first time. “Then I guess we wait.”
And there we have it—I’m going to miss the early deadlines. This is a disaster. I just knew Ms. Murphy was going to have an answer for me. She’s one of the smartest people in this building. If she can’t figure out a work-around for me, who can? We’ve got one last-ditch effort with this appeal. If that doesn’t go well, I’m concerned about my chances of getting in anywhere.
I stand up quickly. I can’t spend another second in here. It won’t be useful to me, and it will just keep reminding me of the no. “Thanks for seeing us, Ms. Murphy.”
“Anytime. If there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”
This meeting was literally about seeing if you could do something to help. But whatever.
* * *
A week later, a letter arrives from the Young Visionaries Project. I sit on the edge of my bed, twirling the envelope in my fingers for a ridiculously long time. Three months ago, when I discovered the program, I felt fully confident I would be a member of this cohort. I don’t feel that way right now. Once I open this, I’ll know. There will be no turning back.
The other applicants on the Shhhhh app are merely my peers, and the way they dragged me shouldn’t matter. Even though it’s a bad idea, I’ve continued to check the app over the last month, so I know two things: one, they have not stopped dancing on my grave, and two, some kids have already gotten in.
If Alana were here, she would have already ripped this envelope from my hands and given me a great pep talk about how amazing I am no matter what’s inside. I could FaceTime her. But the idea of reading a rejection aloud is mortifying.
I think about calling Leni. She’s the one person I’ve never been afraid to let see me in the raw. Val and Paris are great, but we’re not connected in the same way. I don’t have a desire to open that door with Leni yet, though. She’s probably busy with Three, anyway.
I take a deep breath and slide my letter opener—the mahogany-handled brass one my grandfather left me—across the top of the envelope, ripping it open.
Dear Ms. Irons,
We appreciate your application to the prestigious Young Visionaries entrepreneur program. As you know, we receive tens of thousands of applications for a very limited number of spots, and this year, our applicant pool was even more impressive than in past years. Unfortunately, we are not able to admit all applicants, and we regret to inform you that your application was not accepted. We know you will continue to follow the program and cheer on the cohort that was chosen. We wish you all the best in your future endeavors, and we are confident you will shine in all you attempt.
I tear the letter in half and then tear it again and again until I’ve shredded it into a pile of confetti. I snatch up all the shreds I can hold in one hand, pull my flowered bag out from behind the radiator, and march into my bathroom. I flick on the fan, pull my lighter from the bag, dump the remains of the letter into the sink, and set them on fire.
They go up with a whoosh but singe quickly, so I turn the water on to douse the flames and wash the remains down the drain. A small scorch mark lingers in the sink even after they’re gone. I check inside my flowered bag, and thankfully, I have a few cartridges left. I should have time before anyone gets home. I lower the toilet lid, take a seat, pull out my vape pen, and press the button. The layer of stress that had settled on my shoulders lifts off of me. I take out the lilac-and-lavender-scented aromatherapy candle I bought online and light it. Then I sit there.
It’s nice to let everything just be.
“Chanel Rose!” My mother’s voice rings out.
Oh my god. Did the smell seep downstairs? Why didn’t I go to my shed? I pull out an air freshener, spraying wildly, even getting on my knees to spray the crack under the door, and then scramble to get everything zipped back up in the flowered bag.
“Yes, Mom?”
“Put something decent on, then come downstairs. Your dad is taking us out for dinner tonight.”
I don’t want to be trapped in the car with them while I’m high. “Do I have time to take a shower?”
“No, he said he’s two minutes away. Come on down.”
I definitely need a plan, but I’m moving in slow motion. First things first. Clothes off. I head into my room and grab the first thing my hand touches in my drawer. I struggle to pull on the tights. Why did I think I could get tights on right now? But there’s no time to change course at this point. I take my gray sheath dress from the closet, toss it on, and run down the stairs, hoping the rush of wind will remove any remnants of my recent activity.
The front door is open, but the screen door is closed. It looks like Mom has already gotten in the car. I fumble for my keys, lock the door, and take a second to check myself out. I take a whiff of my dress, and all I get is a strong scent of fabric softener. Okay, I’m straight.
But as soon as I slide into the car, my father sniffs loudly. “What is that smell?”
Oh, fuck. I freeze. Maybe he’s talking about something else.
They both turn around and look at me. Dad leans way into the back seat and inhales deeply. “Have you been smoking marijuana?”
“No,” I say.
“You don’t think we know what weed smells like?” Mom says.
I’m too high to come up with something other than, “I would never do that!”
“Everyone out of the car,” Dad orders. He cuts the engine and marches inside without waiting to see if we’re following.
My mother shoots daggers at me from her eyes. My heart is beating out of my chest. I’ve never lied to them before. Omitted details, maybe, but flat-out lied? No. I’ve never had to be punished. I can’t even imagine what they’re going to do.
“Have a seat on the couch, young lady,” Dad says.
I do as I’m told. My parents go into their bedroom to confer before they talk to me. The silent wait is the most excruciating of my life. Going to the principal’s office, waiting to get punished, getting rejected from a prestigious program… I have gone my whole life without getting in trouble, and now I can’t seem to avoid it. Who am I?
I rock on the couch, clenching every muscle, hoping this is going to end with just a tongue-lashing and being put on punishment for a week. When they come back out, they’re a united front, and they are furious. They loom over the couch, and I wish I could sink into the cushions. My dad starts, using a tone of voice he has never directed at me before.
“How long have you been doing this? Don’t even try to sell me some made-up crap about you’re not doing it or it’s only this one time. Radio silence from the grand debater was a clear sign.”
I just need to tell the truth. “I don’t know. A while.”
“Oh, you definitely know. You’re not stupid, child,” my mom says. “You know. You may not want to admit it, but you know.”
“I’m sorry. It started at the end of last year. State, SAT prep, college tours, volunteering… It was just a lot. I was under so much pressure. I needed something to help me balance it all.”
“If you were struggling that much, why didn’t you talk to me?” The stern demeanor she had melts away. She looks a little hurt, and there’s a slight quiver in her voice. “I get that your plate was very full last year. We understand that. Why do you think we gave you the car? But this is not balancing. This is self-medication.”
Tears start to leak from my eyes. “I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it.”
“Clearly you cannot, child,” Dad says. “Your mom and I have discussed it. You are on punishment, during which time you had better think about what would have happened if you’d been caught by someone other than us.”
My mom adds, “I want to make it clear that this is not the end of this conversation, and I will be scheduling an appointment with a therapist so you can get real help.”
“I don’t know what’s gotten into you this year,” Dad says. “But it’s time you straighten up.”
“I’m really sorry.” I fight back a loud, ugly cry. “May I be excused?”
My dad nods and waves me away. I run upstairs, slide on my headphones, collapse on my bed, and cry until I’m too exhausted to keep my eyes open anymore.
17
Eleanor
The downtown campus of Georgia State doesn’t look much like the ones pictured in the college brochures that arrived in the mail last year. The urban campus sprawls over a few city blocks, more corporate-looking than collegiate. Other than university logos affixed to the buildings and the number of people walking around with loaded-down backpacks, you wouldn’t know you were on the campus of one of the largest colleges in Georgia.
In an alternate universe, Nelly and I would have driven down here together in the Bumblebee. Maybe Three would have come, and I’d have had to squish into the nonexistent back seat of the Bug to accommodate his height. Instead, I’m alone. Somehow, I’m in a weird place with everyone these days. Nelly and I are barely speaking. Three has come over a few times, but he doesn’t stay long, and we don’t talk the way we used to. It’s like the thrill we got at the beginning just from seeing each other, just from talking, has faded.
I zip up my cheer windbreaker against the chilly wind that sweeps between the high-rises. An early cold snap accompanied the last game of the football season. We’ve only had to wear warms-up during a regular-season football game due to cold one time in my four years of cheering at Franklin. But when the temperature dropped into the forties last Friday, I relented and ordered everyone to layer. We all still shivered our way through the halftime show.
Not pregame, though. We thought the administration would relent once the attention died down. The hallway conversations in school drifted from kneeling to championships when Three record-broke the team’s way into the State finals. Everyone moved on, which left a pit in my stomach, though I wasn’t able to explain why. We thought that meant the restriction on us would be lifted. There’s a tradition during the last game of the season where the underclassmen cheerleaders, along with some of the JV football players, form the tunnel, and the senior cheerleaders get to the lead the football team through it. We thought we’d at least get to participate in that. But Principal Carter didn’t back down. Coach Pearce stood in the locker room with a grim look and informed us that there would be no senior tunnel this year, though she’d argued our case to the administration. She’d tried, she promised. But we waited out the last pregame show of our high school cheer careers in the locker room, the tension as thick as the humidity wafting from the leaking shower stall.
