Cheerleaders Don't Cry

17

Marcy Hannon

It felt a bit like a bruise, something that would never fully fade away because it kept getting punched, over and over again. This wasn't the first time that I'd been tossed aside - it wouldn't be the last. Typically, the pain faded more and more each time until I could barely feel it, but this time had hurt so much more than all of the rest. This wasn't a bruise, it was a bullet wound.

I spent the last few days of winter break searching for distractions, trying to push all of the nasty thoughts out of my head. I read ahead in AP Calc and AP Stats for the start of the new semester. I cleaned my room. I tried not to think of the silence of my phone, and all that it suggested. As school approached, my mind incessantly attempted to convince me that all was well. Maybe he forgot, it reasoned. Maybe it was just a bad dream. Maybe his phone broke. Maybe he thinks it was funny and you'll laugh about it later.

Maybe he hates you.

I had trouble sleeping the night before school resumed. After much frustration, I eventually gave up around 4:30 a.m. and took a shower. I changed my outfit four times before settling on a soft knit blue sweater and green jeans. I curled my hair, decided against it, straightened it, decided that straight hair made my face look too big, curled it again, and then finally opted for a simple french braid. My body was abuzz with anxiety. I was nervous, why was I nervous?

I arrived at school at 7:45. As I was heading to my first hour, I noticed myself subconsciously scanning the hallway for Cooper. I didn't know what I would do if I saw him - maybe avoid him, maybe confront him, maybe throw up right in the middle of the hallway. They were all fairly plausible.

"Hey Marcy," somebody said. I turned towards the voice. It was Sam, a guy on the swim team that I'd slept with a couple of times last summer. He was tall, with curly blond hair and a slight crook in his nose. He was standing by his locker, holding the door open and slinging his backpack into it.

"Hi," I replied curtly, distracted.

Sam stepped out into my path. I stopped abruptly, craning my head to see his face. Apparently he wanted a conversation.

"So how've you been?" he asked. It was insincere - they never actually cared. They always wanted something.

"Good," I lied, shifting on my feet. My eyes drifted past his shoulder, still subconsciously looking through the sea of people. "I've been good."

"You know," Sam said, closing his locker door and leaning against it with his arm. "I think I lost your number."

My gaze snapped from the hallway to Sam, suddenly focused. "I never gave you my number," I said stiffly.

Sam hesitated, and then smiled good-naturedly. "Right, right. I think I got it from one of my friends. Um ... but anyway, I think I lost it." He pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it out, an offer. "Do you think you could, maybe ... ?"

At that moment, Cooper appeared as he turned the corner at the end of the hallway. He walked to his locker, a mere fifteen feet away, and slung his backpack in, retrieving a notebook and a textbook. He shut his locker, turned around, and immediately locked eyes with me.

My breath caught in my throat as a tense interval passed.

Cooper saw Sam, he saw me - and he rolled his eyes, and walked in the other direction.

"Marcy?" Sam prompted. I realized that he was still holding out his phone.

I pushed it back towards him. "I'm sure one of your friends can give it to you again," I said bitterly, before walking away.