Radiate (25 page)

“What’s wrong with your leg?” she asks. “You’ve got a bandage on it.”

I don’t want to frighten her with the
C
word, so I just say, “I had surgery this summer.”

“You’re still a cheerleader?” she asks with sweet, innocent eyes.

I beam a smile at her. “Yeah, nothing slows me down.”

Through a semitoothless grin, she says, “You’re cool.”

“Thanks, I think you’re cool, too.”

Halftime comes, and I’m totally exhausted. Not that I’ll admit that to anyone. Not to Lora. Not to my parents. Certainly not to Chloe. Instead, I man the drink table and pass out Gatorade, Coke, and Diet Coke to the visiting Highland cheerleaders. They’re nice enough and cheer on our band as they perform their program. I watch the familiar steps that I spent three years doing. When the band slides into the final formation and blares out our fight song, we take to our feet and clap for them as they file back up into the stands.

Then the game is back on with Highland accepting the kickoff. We nail them on the fifteen, and the third quarter is off.

“Push ’em back, push ’em back... waaaaaaay back, hey!”

“Defense!” Clap-clap. “Defense!” Clap-clap. “Defense!” Clap-clap.

“I said it’s great to be a Polk High Patriot! I said it’s great to be a Patriots’ fan!”

Nevertheless, there’s a strange niggling inside of me that tells me something’s not... right. I sense eyes are on me. I’m doing my best, but are people whispering about me, wondering what I’m doing out here with a bandaged leg and crutches nearby?

Are there mothers in the crowd wondering why their daughter wasn’t given the chance to replace me on the squad?

Do my fellow band members think I should be back in the brass section?

Jesus, is paranoia another side effect of chemo and radiation?

Seriously. I don’t need these stupid thoughts.

I don’t need any kind of darkness to overcome me and get me off track.

I shake out of the funk and spin to refocus on the game. I shouldn’t be making up dramas in my own head. Save that for my English compositions.

The third quarter isn’t a good one. Coy Parker, the defensive guy Daniel was concerned about, is all over the field, nailing our running back, Marquis Richardson, and sticking him into the dirt. The poor runner can’t gain an inch, much less a yard. Add to that, Highland manages to tie up the score at twenty-one each.

“We’ve got to change our offensive strategy,” I say to Lora.

“Go tell Coach Gaither,” she says with a laugh. She spins back to the crowd to start a cheer, and I join in.

“Whattaya want?”

“TD!”

“What’s that?”

“Touchdown!”

We hold up our hands with four fingers showing when the last quarter starts, and we begin chanting, “Fourth quarter’s ours!”

It’s a major defensive battle back and forth, and I fear we may have a loss on our hands. I can’t worry about my leg or who’s staring at me or what Chloe thinks of my performance tonight. We simply can
not
lose this game—not the first home game. That would muck up the entire rest of the season.

Just like in any college or pro game, everything turns on a dime in football. All my negative thoughts are erased when Daniel breaks free of the man-to-man coverage Coy Parker’s putting on him and he hauls in a twenty-six-yard pass from Skipper. Daniel tucks the ball and sprints into the end zone for the touchdown. He hands it off to the ref in a very sportsmanlike manner, although there’s a little chest bumping on the five-yard line with some of his teammates.

As time ticks down, the guys on the sideline storm the field. We’ve won! The Patriots are two and oh. We cheerleaders are right behind them, mixing in the melee of tired players. I propel myself like a marathoner on my crutches as I move through the sweaty, dirty crowd of Patriots and Highlanders congregating at midfield.

Then, I hear my name, and I’m scooped up into the strong arms of number eleven. My crutches fall to the ground, and I hold on as I’m swung around. Daniel is stinky and dripping wet; yet I don’t care. He sets me on the ground and kisses me right there in front of everyone on the field.

“How’d you like that?” he asks.

“Fantabulous!”

“I scored that for you, remember?”

I nod, unable to speak.

He places his hot forehead against mine and whispers, “My own personal cheerleader.”

***

“Come on, Hayley!” Lora calls out to me in the locker room.

“I have to finish with my hair!” I was so nasty hot after the game that I had to take a quick shower. Afterward, I attack a Conair, blasting it at maximum high as my wet hair flies about. I’ve got to get my ass in gear for Anthony Ricketts’s party.

Five minutes later, I pull my purse-size travel flat iron through my mostly dry hair, watching the steam rise as I drag it through. The iron snags on my hair and jerks out several strands. Yikes! Lora’s going to kill me as it is. I tap a smidge of powder to the deep chickenpox scar on the side of my nose and spread it across the rest of my face. I’m lucky I’m not more scarred, considering how badly I got the disease last fall. Mom gave me her long, white evening gloves from her prom days and made me wear them so I wouldn’t scratch myself. Good thing she did.

“Come onnnnnnnnn . . .” Lora whines at me. “Meet me at the car.”

“Be right there.”

Okay... I step back and check myself out in the mirror. My uniform is still clean, albeit a little damp from exertion. I actually look pretty good despite the crutches and bandage.

Outside the gym, Mom and Dad are getting into the truck. “So, you’re going to a party and then spending the night with Lora,” Mom reiterates.

“Oui.”

“No alcohol, Hayley,” Dad says firmly.

“Dad, it’s not that kind of—”

“I’m serious.”

“Yes, sir.” He’s so old-fashioned.

“And if Lora drinks, you call me and I’ll come get you.”

I kiss his cheek. “Thanks, Dad.”

Before they issue any more rules or edicts, I hop into the front of Lora’s Beamer.

The party is going full blast when we arrive. The music blares from the backyard. Good thing Anthony lives outside the city limits so there aren’t any neighbors who might complain.

Lora hooks her arm through mine and leads me into the backyard filled with tons of people. To the left, a barbecue grill is fired on high, grilling burgers, dogs, corn, and chicken. To the right, lounge chairs are strewn around the custom-made swimming pool. There’s a keg, a DJ, and even laser lights. Man, Anthony doesn’t mess around. Even though the food smells heavenly, I don’t dare eat anything. My nausea is back, and I wish I had a Snickers bar in my purse.

Damn .
.
. I’ll be glad when these side effects are over.

I watch as William tips his cup in Lora’s direction. He is so totally into her. Why not? She’s pretty and she’s a genuinely nice person.

I pour a Diet Coke into a cup so people can’t see what I’m drinking. I can pretend it’s alcoholic. It’s not that I’m a prude or anything—and I am underage, after all—I just want my wits about me this evening. Besides, my post-chemo tummy doesn’t need any intrusions. It would be just my luck to take a few sips and then puke all over the place. I stick out enough as it is already without adding on that stigma.

Man, if this is how we party after winning the home opener, I can’t wait to see what happens if we get to the state championship. A zip of excitement zings up my back at the thought of making it that far.

Lora points out over the lawn where most of the PHS Patriots roster is scattered about playing volleyball in a sandpit (aren’t they tired from the game?), chugging beer or roughhousing in the swimming pool.

Before I know it, a volleyball comes flying toward me and remarkably, I’m able to half herkie myself into the air—landing on my right foot—to avoid a smash that would have smarted like all hell.

“Dude, watch it!” someone shouts.

Daniel rushes over to my side. “I was going to ask if you were okay, but after that bit of gymnastics, I’d say you’re just fine.” He loops his arm around me and hugs me to him. When he touches me, I nearly jump away from the shock of the contact. I’m still not used to Daniel Delafield being into me.

“Seriously, are you all right?” Daniel asks, caressing my arm.

“Totally fine.”

“Throw the damn ball back, Delafield!” one of his teammates shouts out. He does as he’s asked.

Daniel cracks a crooked smile at me and then leans down toward my shoulder. Hot lips meet my skin in a surprising sizzle when he kisses me. He straightens and then lifts his eyes to me.

A smile paints across my face. “Oh, I think you can do better than that.”

There are a few catcalls around us as Daniel takes my hand and leads me into the house. People are everywhere, dancing and drinking and eating. Daniel weaves us down a long hallway and into a darkened room where several couples are making out to the light of the TV.

He indicates an available couch in the corner. “Over there.”

Next thing I know, we’re making out. Daniel is fiery hot and kisses like a professional. His tongue touches mine, and I feel as if I’ll explode into a million miniscule sections. His hands work themselves into my hair, and he strokes at the freshly shampooed length.

He breathes deeply and then whispers, “I love your hair. The way it feels and smells. Mmm.” Then he nibbles his way down my jaw line and neck to my ear. I am going to explode.

Daniel pulls back when his massive class ring gets snagged in my hair. I try to untangle us, but next thing I know, he’s holding a clump of brown strands.

“Eww... what’s going on here?”

“Damn, Daniel, you pulled my hair out.”

He examines the knot and then tosses it over toward a silver garbage can. “Sorry, babe.”

“It’s okay.”

Without another thought, I press my lips back to his.

Just when you think it can’t get any worse, it can.
And just when you think it can’t get any better, it does.

—Nicholas Sparks

Two Saturday mornings later, I wake up in my bed with a pile of hair on the pillow and stuck on the mattress. This has been happening little by little the past couple of weeks.

This is more, though.

A lot more.

My hands crawl across the sheet to make sure it’s actually mine.

It’s mine.

No doubt about it.

I sit up, and my heartbeat stammers my panic.

“Son of a bitch!” I scream out in a mixed cocktail of fear, anger, and disbelief.

The doctors all told me one of the main repercussions of chemotherapy is hair loss. Any idiot knows that. Since it didn’t happen immediately to me, I thought I’d sidestepped it.

But you can’t dodge the Grand Canyon of side effects.

I’ve pretty much been ignoring the clumps of hair in my brush by flushing the wads of evidence down the toilet. I have thick, thick hair to begin with, so maybe I didn’t really notice it was thinning.

Since ponytails are the “thing” for the varsity cheerleaders, I’ve just taken to wearing my hair up all the time hoping people wouldn’t notice how the thickness was diminishing. By game time last night, only I knew how bad it really was when I tugged my hand through my hair only to pull back a fistfull of chestnut strands equal to what Daniel had caught in his ring after the second game.

I stare at the rat’s nest underneath me in the bed and sadly call out. “Dad!” I run my hands into my hair and there’s an even bigger knotted mess on the crown of my head. “Dad!”

I don’t know why I think to call for him instead of Mom. He bounds up the stairs two at a time.

“Are you all right, Little Kid?”

“Look,” I say, pointing to my mattress.

Dad’s face falls for a moment, then he tries to soothe me. “The doctors said hair loss was a possibility.”

I tamp down my dread by swallowing hard. Fiery heartburn flames up my throat, threatening to consume me. “It’s been four weeks since my chemo. I didn’t think I’d lose my hair.”

I sniffle a bit as Dad goes to my dresser in search of my paddle brush.

“I’ll take care of that knot.”

He sits on the bed and I put my back to him so he can get a good angle. He carefully tugs the brush through my long hair, working at the knot on the back of my head.

“Remember how I used to brush your hair when you were a little girl? You’d sit in front of me as I’d watch the news.”

I nod. “I always loved it. Why did we stop doing that?”

He snickers. “You grew up and learned how to brush your own hair.”

I let out a muffled laugh and languish for a sec in the memory. “I guess you’re right,” I finally say. “Thanks for doing this now.”

I sit quietly as Dad gently strokes through the mess on top of my head. Five minutes later, Dad speaks to me, barely above a whisper and a quiver in his usually brave voice.

“I’m so sorry, Hayley. It couldn’t be helped.”

My chest aches from the massive hammering of my heart against my ribs. First, I shift so I can see the brush. It’s full of my brown hair and there’s also a substantial pile in Dad’s lap. I’m almost afraid to turn and look in the mirror.

I have to, though.

I have to face myself.

The reflection I see is not me.

It’s an image of a girl I don’t recognize.

One whose eyes are ripe with horror and doubt.

But this girl is me.

Through some miracle of the moment, I find my voice.

“I-i-i-it’s gone . . .”

“Not all of it,” Dad says in a hushed tone.

Not even his tender voice can salve this wound.

“Enough of it’s gone,” I say. “Like, you can see my head... everywhere.”

My shaky hand reaches up to find only a few stray wisps of hair remaining on my scalp. My bald, white scalp.

Is this really me?

I thought I was past everything and back to my life. Now
this?

I’ve seriously lost all my long hair?

Before I can stop them, tears stream from my sleep-filled eyes. I can’t halt them any more than I could keep the roaring river from tumbling over Niagara Falls.