Christy Miller Collection, Vol 2, Page 2

  Venturing a sniff of the concoction, Christy had to admit it smelled good. She teased her mom, saying, “Spices are your friends, aren’t they?”

  “What?”

  “You know how to put in just the right seasonings to make even leftovers smell as though you started fresh.”

  Mom gave Christy a puzzled look.

  “Never mind.” She realized what she was saying was not exactly a compliment and would be better left unexplained.

  Her mother stepped in to make a familiar point. “We need to be thankful we have food on the table, Christy. It may not be fancy, but we’ve never gone hungry, and we should be grateful for that.”

  “I know,” Christy said quietly. She pulled the silverware from the drawer and began setting four places at the kitchen table. The last thing she wanted to be reminded of tonight was how tight money had been since her family moved to California from Wisconsin. Or how all of them needed to work harder to stay on their budget.

  At dinner, Christy’s nine-year-old brother, David, monopolized the conversation. Christy and her mom and dad all listened patiently as David reenacted, with considerable exaggeration, his teacher’s facial expression when she found gum on her shoe.

  He was kind of funny, for a little brother. But Christy would never tell him that. It would only encourage his goofiness.

  As soon as David excused himself from the table, Mom leaned over, and a sweet smile spread over her lips. Christy knew that look. Her mother was trying to create an encouraging environment. Christy also knew that her mother was about to say something Christy probably wouldn’t be glad to hear.

  “Dad and I have gone over the paper you brought home from the cheerleading adviser, and we’ve decided that the only way for this to work is if you find a way to come up with half of the money.”

  “Half!” Christy squawked. “That’s more than three hundred dollars!”

  “Well,” Dad said slowly in his deep, authoritative voice, “is this something you want to do? Are you willing to commit yourself to the practices and the games?”

  “Yes.” Christy tried hard to hold back the tears that pressed against the corners of her eyelids.

  “Your mother and I think it’s a worthwhile goal. It’s also a big commitment. And an expensive one. We feel you should share a part of that responsibility by participating in the financial responsibility.”

  Christy wanted to say, “But you don’t understand! There’s more to this than me fulfilling my goal. Can’t you see that? This is something I need to do so I can take a stand on my campus.” But as usual, Christy couldn’t make the really powerful words come out, and all she said was, “How am I going to come up with that much money?”

  “You have to understand, Christy, that this expense isn’t in our budget. But we’re willing to find a way for it to work out for you if you’re willing to come up with your half. You could babysit this summer,” Mom suggested.

  “Get a position during the weekdays with someone who has small children. Perhaps you could advertise in the toddler Sunday school class you’ve been helping out with the last few weeks. You could let some of the parents know you’re available.”

  “Babysit? This summer?” This wasn’t a good time to mention to her parents that she had been planning to stay in Newport Beach all summer with Uncle Bob and Aunt Marti, just like last summer. Christy already had a long list of plans for things she and Todd would do. She hadn’t even considered the possibility of staying home in Escondido all summer—especially to babysit.

  “You decide how you want to come up with the money,” Dad said. “If you’re serious about cheerleading, we’re with you 100 percent, and we’ll find a way to come up with half the cost. But you’ve got to put in your share too. It’s time you learned there are no free rides.”

  “I definitely want to do it. I mean, I want to at least try out and see what happens,” Christy said.

  Mom sat back in her chair. “Before you give such a firm answer, why don’t you think about it some more. In the meantime, do you have much homework tonight?”

  “Tons.”

  “I’ll do the dishes, then,” her mom said. “You can do them tomorrow night. You’d better get at your homework.”

  In the sanctuary of her room, Christy found it impossible to concentrate on her “tons” of homework. She went over to her dresser and picked up the San Francisco music box her aunt had bought her on their trip there last summer.

  Winding the brass key on the bottom, Christy set it back on the dresser and watched the ceramic cable car move up the little hill as it played “I Left My Heart in San Francisco.”

  Wish I knew where I left my heart. It certainly doesn’t seem to be where it’s supposed to be tonight, Christy thought. I feel pulled in so many directions.

  She was convinced that becoming a cheerleader ranked as an important dream at this point in her life. It was a worthy goal. Weren’t adults always telling her to set goals? She believed being a cheerleader would be something she could always look back on and say, “I did it! I worked hard, and I accomplished my goal.” Plus, she would be able to take a stand for what she believed, as Todd had said.

  But she never dreamed she would have to come up with half the money. And babysitting all summer was practically the last thing Christy wanted to do with her precious free time.

  It seemed there were so many obstacles to her trying out for cheerleading. The incident with Renee had been discouraging enough. Now she had the money part of it to struggle with too. She never guessed it would be so hard.

  Do I want to be a cheerleader badly enough to really work for it? With a determined twist of the knob, Christy wound up the music box once more. Effortlessly, the little cable car took its free ride to the top of the glassy hill.

  Decision-making had never been Christy’s strong point, and she knew it. For three days now, she had wavered on whether to try out for cheerleading. Her legs ached from all the jumps at practice, and Renee had continued to take every opportunity to remind her that she was “lower” than the rest of the group.

  Every day Christy told herself it wasn’t worth it and she should skip practice. Yet every day she went, halfheartedly hanging in there, anxious for a good enough reason to stay, willing to accept a respectable reason to give up.

  At lunch on Thursday she looked for Rick. He had been a great encouragement when he walked her to practice that first day. Then he’d done one of his famous disappearing acts and ignored Christy. Or maybe he was avoiding her. Whatever it was, she decided it was time to get his opinion.

  When she found him clustered with his usual batch of senior friends, Christy boldly approached the group. Rick spotted her, smiled, and called out, “Hey, Rah-Rah!”

  Christy gave him a look she hoped communicated that he was embarrassing her and she wanted him to leave the group to talk to her. Rick read her expression amazingly well and stepped away from the group.

  “Don’t tell me,” he said, towering over Christy, warming her with his chocolate brown eyes and teasing her with his half smile. “You flunked your algebra quiz.”

  “No,” Christy said softly, “the quiz is tomorrow. It’s something else.”

  “It’s your parents, right? They want to move to Romania because housing is cheaper.”

  Christy let out a puff of a laugh. “No, Rick. It’s something I’m trying to decide.”

  Swarms of students passed them on both sides, making it a noisy, confusing spot to carry on a conversation.

  “Well, the answer is red.”

  “What?”

  “If you’re trying to decide what your best color is, it’s red. You look great in red.”

  Christy stared up at him without responding. This is pointless. Why did I think he would be serious long enough to offer any help in this situation?

  “Never mind,” she said and started to walk away.

  Just then the bell rang.

  “Wait a minute!” Rick caught up to her and grabbed her by the elbo
w.

  Christy looked at him, but she couldn’t decide what to say. She wasn’t mad at him, just confused, and his joking had made her dilemma seem trivial. She tried to think of a way to phrase her question: Rick, do you really, truly think I should try out for cheerleading? It sounded stupid and phony. She couldn’t think of how to rephrase it so that it sounded like a real problem.

  “I’ll meet you here after school, okay?” Rick let go of her arm and waited for an answer.

  “It’s really nothing.”

  “Just be here.” Rick walked backward and pointed to the spot where they had been standing. “After school.” Then he turned and sprinted toward the science building.

  Christy turned abruptly. She ran into a guy who was heading for the garbage can with a handful of trash.

  “Whoa, look out!” he said.

  Too late. A carton of fruit punch splattered across Christy’s arm, staining her white T-shirt with a huge red splotch.

  “Sorry,” the guy said, then hurried on.

  Christy felt like crying when she realized she’d have to go to the restroom to clean herself up, and then she’d be late for class. As if things weren’t bad enough, Christy heard Renee’s snippy voice behind her saying, “It’s your color, Christy. You look great in red.”

  Christy turned to face Renee, but Renee kept walking, her back to Christy, as if she hadn’t said anything.

  The tears came, hot and fast, streaming down Christy’s cheeks. That’s it! That does it! I can’t take any more of Renee. I’m not going to try out. Not now, not ever. Never! It’s not worth it.

  That was exactly what she would tell Rick too. He wouldn’t have to help her make a decision because she’d just made it once and for all.

  Christy’s blazing emotions stayed red hot until after school. With her jaw set, her walk brisk, Christy plowed through the maze of picnic tables, ready to give Rick the news. He stood there waiting for her—cool, tall, confident, oblivious to all the turmoil Christy had suffered that afternoon.

  “How’s my favorite Rah-Rah?” he called out.

  “I am not a Rah-Rah, and I wish you wouldn’t call me that!”

  “You’re going to be.” Rick smoothed back his wavy brown hair and shifted his books to his other arm. “Legs like yours, you can’t miss.”

  Christy gave him her best disgusted look and slugged him in the arm. Rick started to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” she asked defensively.

  “You. You crack me up!”

  That was it! With as much determination in her steps as she’d had when she first approached Rick, Christy bolted in the opposite direction.

  “Wait a minute. Stop!” Rick hollered, coming after her.

  Christy didn’t stop.

  Rick did. He stood still and said loudly and firmly, “I thought we weren’t playing this game anymore. You know, the one where you run away and I chase after you?”

  Christy stopped, but she didn’t turn around.

  “Come here.” Rick came alongside her and pulled her over to a low brick wall. He put his books down, took Christy’s books and put them down, then waited for her to sit on the wall.

  Rick sat next to her and in a deep voice said, “Now, will you tell me what’s going on?”

  “It’s nothing. Really.” She felt so immature. Why am I so emotional about all this? Why did I start to run away from him again like that?

  “Christy, come on! Don’t you remember how weird things were between us after Christmas vacation?”

  Christy nodded.

  “And remember that long talk we had? The one where we decided ‘no more games’? That’s what you said. ‘No more hiding and running away.’ So what’s going on?” Rick folded his arms across his broad chest.

  Christy looked down, blinking to hold back the tears. “I’m sorry, Rick. It’s this whole cheerleading thing.”

  “And …” Rick prodded.

  “Renee’s right. I’m not cheerleading material. I’m not going to try out.”

  “Yeah you are,” Rick said firmly.

  Christy didn’t look up. “Even if I made it, my parents say I have to come up with half the money. How am I going to do that?”

  “You’ll find a way.”

  “It’s not worth it.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  They sat silently for a minute while Christy blinked back a runaway tear.

  Rick’s voice turned smooth and persuasive. “If there’s one thing I know about you, Christy Miller, you’re not a quitter. You’re better than any of those girls, and you know it. You can’t let Renee get to you; she’s trying to make you mad enough to quit. Don’t let her. You have to give it your best shot. You have to try. Promise me you’ll try.”

  Christy looked up, clear-eyed, her mouth easing into a promising smile. “All right, Rick. I’ll try.”

  “Oh man,” he said, shaking his head at her. “If you only knew how you did that!”

  “Did what?”

  “It’s your eyes. You have killer eyes, Christy. You have this way of looking at a guy with those killer eyes of yours, and you don’t have any idea what you do to him.”

  Christy felt the blood rushing up her neck and racing to her cheeks. Then with a little more boldness than she usually had with Rick, she said softly, “Well, you have a way of using just the right words and making a girl feel like Play-Doh.”

  “Like Play-Doh?”

  “You know. All soft and mushy.”

  “Well, Killer-Eyes, that’s exactly what you do to a guy when you give him that innocence-and-bliss look.”

  Christy playfully batted her eyelashes and in a Scarlett O’Hara voice said, “You mean like this, Rick?”

  “Nope.” Rick’s expression remained serious. “That’s what makes it a killer. You don’t even know how you do it. It’s just you. It’s your innocence. Not many girls at this school still have that.”

  They looked at each other, and Christy felt warmed, energetic, and more encouraged than she had in days.

  “You’d better get going,” Rick said. “You’re going to be late for practice.”

  “Thanks, Rick,” Christy said, impulsively swinging her arm around his neck and giving him a buddy hug. Rick looped his arm around her shoulders and returned the gesture.

  Christy spotted Renee a few feet away, glaring at them. So Christy purposely held on to Rick even after he began to let go.

  He then put both his arms around Christy and, just to be funny, acted as though he were going to tip her off the wall. But he held on to her and pulled her back up. They both laughed, and Christy noticed out of the corner of her eye that Renee was gone.

  At practice, Christy gave it all she had, her enthusiasm making up for her lack of experience. Every time she glanced at Renee, she received flaming, snarly glares. If their adviser hadn’t been there, it looked like Renee might have charged Christy and scratched out her eyes.

  It didn’t matter. She was going to give it her best shot. She wasn’t a quitter. She had made her decision, and there was no turning back now.

  Christy could barely read her two chapters of history homework. Her mind was flooded with cheerleading thoughts. Mentally she ran through all the moves of the routine she planned to do for tryouts next Friday. She pictured herself in the blue and gold skirt and sweater the school had promised to all the girls who tried out. The adviser said all the girls should be dressed the same so the judges wouldn’t be influenced by appearances.

  Christy put down her history book and cleared a space on her bedroom floor. Facing the mirror on her closet door, she quietly went through the routine, making sure her smile was its biggest and brightest.

  She had told herself a dozen times before and now coached herself again to give it her best. What she lacked in coordination she could make up for with enthusiasm. After all, she had killer eyes, right?

  With one hand on her hip and the other arm jutting up into the air, her fist tight, Christy froze her position before the mirror and
critically examined her eyes, her smile, her stance. She liked what she saw. Taking one more vibrant leap into the air, she imagined she was jumping for the judges.

  “Christy?” Her mom tapped on the bedroom door then opened it slowly. “Are you still bouncing around? It’s after ten o’clock, and your father is already asleep.”

  “Sorry,” Christy said softly.

  “Did you finish your homework?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Christy, you’ve had plenty of time to do it. I don’t like the way this cheerleading is taking you away from your studies. If your grades suffer, you’ll not be allowed to go out for cheerleading. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, then. Get ready for bed, and I’ll wake you up when Dad leaves for the dairy in the morning. You can finish your homework then.”

  Being awakened at five-thirty in the morning to read history should be some kind of punishment for criminals Christy decided the next morning. She could barely keep her eyes open at the kitchen table. The textbook lay beside her bowl of cereal like a dried-up old mummy.

  “History is so boring,” she moaned to her mom, who poured a cup of coffee and joined her.

  “It wasn’t to the people who lived it,” Mom said.

  “Why do we have to study it now? What does it matter?”

  Mom’s round face looked fully awake, and Christy thought it must be from all the years they had lived on the farm and her mom got up before dawn. She was definitely a morning person.

  “The thing about history,” Mom said, “is that we should try to learn from other people’s choices, good and bad. Then we as a nation and as a people should try to make better choices, based on what we know.”

  “Huh?”

  “I don’t think you’re awake yet, are you, Christy?”

  With a huge yawn, she said, “I want to go back to bed.”

  “Why don’t you shower and get dressed? Then you’ll be more alert. Have you done all your algebra?”