Happy reading :)
One of the duties of a Pom-Pom girl was to be one of the centers of attention at those pep rallies the school held, and the first one I ever participated in was just before the first game of the season.
I had been nervous about it all week. Miss Sterling had told us about the pep rally at practice, and all the other girls had looked thrilled, but I just wasn't used to that sort of attention. And just about everybody could tell how nervous I was, so two days before the pep rally, I walked into history class with my stomach all in a knot. Missy was off at a dentist's appointment, so the only person to talk to about it was Two-Bit, which was unfortunate, but I had to talk to somebody.
"What's up, honey?" he asked me, obviously noticing something off. He was sure perceptive. "Bee in your bonnet?"
He thought he was so funny. I shook my head. "It's nothing."
Two-Bit raised an eyebrow. Jimmy just sat there silently, not even bothering to feign interest in our conversations or trying to bother me anymore. Fine by me. "Don't BS a BS-er, kid. What's with the face?"
See, I don't know why I even bothered talking to him. This boy who had spent the first weeks of school, day after day, annoying me to my wit's end, was now trying to become some sort of confidante. I thought we were supposed to hate each other – fate, he had said. I was a good girl, and he was a bad boy, and he was the most irritating person I had ever met. And wasn't I still supposed to be mad at him? I was still mad at him.
But boy, did he know how to get you talking.
I sighed. "Well, if you must know – "
"Oh, I must."
"…if you must know, I made the cheerleading squad, which means I have to be on stage at the pep rally on Friday, and I'm a bit nervous about it."
He scoffed. "Why? Ain't like you gotta do much more than stand up there and look pretty."
"I know, but still. Everyone's gonna be staring at us. We'll be in our uniforms and everything. It's just…look, I'm not that nervous, just a little."
"Well, you ain't got no reason to be, cuz in my humble opinion – "
"Mr. Mathews?"
We both looked up at Mr. James. He didn't seem mad, at least. "Would you kindly refrain from your flirting with Miss Stevens so we can begin class?"
Mr. James gave Two-Bit a droll look while the rest of the class tittered, and I felt myself turning red, but before I could even think about it, I was laughing, too. Two-Bit smiled at me. "Sure thing, Mr. James," he said. "Take it away."
Mr. James shook his head one more time before turning to the board and starting class. I could barely pay attention to him, though, because I couldn't stop looking back at Two-Bit. The lights were down because Mr. James was using the projector, and Two-Bit looked like he was going to use the opportunity to doze off, but I needed to know what he was going to say before he got cut off. In his humble opinion…what?
About midway through class, I reached behind me and dropped a note on his desk. I could hear him open it even over Mr. James droning on.
I just feel weird getting up in front of people. It never used to be my thing. I wasn't exactly popular at my old schools. – Bridget
I don't believe that. You're the BEE's knees now. Get it? Huh? – Two-Bit
You're insufferable. You know that?
So I've been told. You ain't the first girl to tell me that.
Again: insufferable. Can't imagine I'll be the last, either.
Ok then. Whatever helps you sleep at night. You can stand in front of a few hundred people and look pretty. I could do it. And if I could do it, you definitely can. Got it?
And then there I was, Friday afternoon, standing on the stage between Missy and another one of the girls on the varsity squad, a lucky freshman named Phoebe Child, all dressed up in my uniform and smiling until my face felt as though it would split open. Standing there, looking pretty.
The actual pom-poms were an important part of the whole get-up, so of course they were there, too, and we rustled them up and down instead of clapping. The pep band played the fight song, we did some of the cheers we had learned in practice to rile up the crowd, and then we sat down as the principal stood to speak.
Principal Vernon prattled on about what great boys these were, how they were the epitomes of hard work and honor and determination and teamwork and etc. "These young men have all the God-given abilities to make great ball players, that's for sure," declared Principal Vernon, earning him a low rumble of laughter from the players and teachers. I didn't see what was so funny, but I kept smiling anyway, just like the rest of them.
The team captain spoke, too, droning on about how we would beat our rivals this weekend, how this was our year to take state, how great the guys were, how great the coaches were...in other words, he was a regular brown-noser.
They finally released us to go to our lockers and go home, but Cherry and Bob had other plans for me.
"Bridget!" Cherry called. I turned around and saw her standing with Bob, and they were both motioning me over. "You remember Jerry Thompson, don't you?" she asked when I got over to them. God, with the way she was smiling and talking and hanging onto Bob's arm, you would think they were married.
"Sure," I nodded, and then Bob was calling for him.
"Hey, Thompson! C'mere!"
It was like the parting of the Red Sea. I remembered what Jerry looked like from when we played tennis together, but I hadn't really noticed him around school before. Well, suffice it to say, he was just as handsome inside the confines of Will Rogers High School as he was glistening with sweat on the court.
I was a goner. I thought I was a goner the first time we met, but I saw Jerry Thompson for the second time and I absolutely fell in love.
"Jerry, you remember Bridget Stevens. Cherry's friend," Bob reintroduced us.
"Of course," Jerry grinned, and he shook my hand again, pumping just as hard as last time. My stomach flip-flopped. His voice was like liquid gold, hitting me like a wave. Wow wow wow. If that wasn't the most wonderful-sounding person outside of Paul McCartney I had ever met. "It's nice to see you again."
"You, too," I said, voice kinda giggly and high-pitched. I must've been making a real ass of myself, but Jerry didn't seem to notice or care.
He must've noticed how stupid I was acting, the dumb smile on my face and blush to my cheeks. I was sure he must have thought I was an idiot. But how could that explain the blush creeping into his cheeks? Maybe he was trying his best to make himself look good to me. No boy had ever done that for me before. I fell in love with the idea of Jerry Thompson being tongue-tied over me.
"Anyways," Bob drawled, "Cherry, what was it you were wantin' to tell 'em?"
"Oh!" She exclaimed. "Right. Bee, we just wanted to tell you Jerry's one'a the players whose locker you're gonna have to decorate for homecoming. It's tradition to decorate the players' lockers, and it always comes up sooner than you think, so…" She looked at Jerry, and he looked confused for a moment. "So maybe you should tell her your locker number, right, Jerry?"
His eyebrows shot up. "Oh, uh – right. Yeah, it's 1304."
I smelled a conspiracy here, and I wondered if Jerry was picking up on it, too.
"Good to know," I said, looking at him one last time. "Well, it was nice to see you again."
"Yeah, you, too."
Cherry looked incredibly, annoyingly pleased.
"Bridget! We're leaving!"
I looked over and saw Vickie with her hands on her hips, standing by the entrance to the auditorium. She was getting impatient, and an impatient Vickie is not something I really wanted to deal with. I sighed.
"I should probably get going." I turned to Cherry and raised my eyebrows, silently asking her if she would be coming with. She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, You're on your own this time. I pursed my lips.
"Prolly should," Bob said, eyeing Vickie. Ugh. God knew – hell, even Cherry knew – that Bob was always looking at other girls. But at Vickie? One of our friends? Disgusting.
I flicked the three of them a wave, and started to walk off the stage towards Vickie, who was leaning against the wall by the door. "You're lucky I waited for you," she said once I got there. "Marcia and Missy already left, and I don't exactly think Bob wants you hangin' around him and Cherry."
I rolled my eyes. "Like I couldn't tell," I spat. "Cherry just wanted me so she could tell me about having to decorate Jerry Thompson's locker for homecoming."
Suddenly, Vickie was a lot more interested in what I had to say. Her eyes got big, and she was biting at her lip. "Jerry Thompson?" She repeated. "They hand us a list of players for locker decorating, so she really didn't need to tell the two of you face-to-face. Sounds like she's trying to set you up. Funny – she's not usually one to play matchmaker."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh." I rolled my lips, looking at her shyly. "So…what do you know about him?"
Vickie smiled. "Why do you want to know?" She teased.
My stomach did another somersault. "No reason," I shrugged, but her smile just got bigger.
"Does someone have a crush on the quarterback? Huh, Bridget Stevens?"
I shoved her. "You can just shut up, Vickie."
"I bet he's into you. I bet that's why she pulled this little stunt. He's probably talked to Bob about you."
We had gotten to the parking lot by that point, walking towards Vickie's car. It would be nice if someone were into me, but what were the odds? Boys were a mystery to me. I had no idea how to get one to like me.
"Please don't say anything, Vickie," I begged. "To anyone. Just drop the whole thing, okay? You know it isn't true just as much as I do."
"Oh, we don't know that," Vickie sang. "But fine. I'll stop talkin' about it if you're gonna be a prude."
I got in the passenger seat and slammed the door. "I am not a prude."
She glanced at me and smirked. "Sure you're not. C'mon, Bridget. You're a good girl."
"So are you," I shot back.
"In some ways," Vickie said easily. "In other ways…not so much."
As we drove away from the school, I stared at her, trying to figure out what she meant, and only one thing came to mind.
xXx
It's a real shame Ponyboy Curtis isn't much of a talker because he is a fascinating person.
We were working on a master's study – I had chosen Monet, he had chosen Van Gogh – when suddenly he completely stopped what he was doing, set down his paintbrush, and looked right at me and asked, with all the seriousness in the world,
"Do you fish?"
I blinked. "No," I said slowly. I most certainly did not fish. There was no way I would ever want to waste my time sitting by the water, surrounded by worms and bugs, trying to reel in a flopping, gasping, slimy fish. "Why do you ask?"
Ponyboy looked back down at his painting and shrugged. He began to work again. "Well, trout season's in a couple months, but I can't remember when it's carp season. I haven't gone fishing in a while, and I wondered if you might know." He glanced at me again. "But I guess girls don't do a lotta fishin'."
I considered this kid as he waited for me to say something. I took my time, noticing the brownish-red hair and light freckles covering his skin. I saw how he was sitting slouched over his painting, instead of as though he had a metal rod up his back like he usually did – he carried a lot of tension in his shoulders. Did I really make him that nervous? What in the world did he think I was going to do to him?
"Guess not," I said. "But maybe some."
"Yeah," Ponyboy said. He looked down at the painting I was working on, trying to imitate Monet's Impressionist style. "Do you like Van Gogh?"
Suddenly, Ponyboy was full of questions. He had hardly spoken to me since the first day of school, so I didn't get the sudden change. At least this question was related to what we were doing in class and not about fish, of all things. "Yes. I really like his sunflowers."
"Me, too," he said distractedly, "but I like his blue phase better. Like 'Starry Night.' I read about it in a book."
"For this project?"
"Nah. I checked it out from the library a while back. I read about it in there. But that's why I picked Van Gogh for the project."
Ponyboy had completely turned his attention back to his painting, his tongue just peeking out in concentration as he worked. Even though he was only two grades below me, that little tongue poke made him seem impossibly young, like a little kid. It was sort of endearing, and I felt bad about whatever it was about me that made him uneasy.
"I'd like to hear more about that."
"Huh?" He asked, eyebrows narrowed.
"I'd like to hear more about his blue phase. If you want to talk about it, that is."
As I worked on my study of Monet, Ponyboy told me about Van Gogh until the bell rang.
xXx
"Hey, Bridget."
I turned around and smiled when I saw Jerry walking towards me. Boy, was he gorgeous. I ran a hand through my hair, pulling out a few knots that had been tied during the day. "Hey, Jerry," I said. "What's up?"
He shrugged. "Not much. Can I walk you to your next class? I'll carry your books."
It took everything I had not to melt into a puddle. Carry my books? When had a boy ever offered to do that for me? Never. I smiled even wider and held my books out. "Would you?" I asked, acting as though this sort of thing happened to me every day. "You don't really have to."
"Ah, I don't mind," Jerry shrugged. "Really. Where're you headed?"
"History, room 104. You know where it is?"
"'Course I do," Jerry laughed. "I've been here longer than you, ain't I?"
"Well, yes, I suppose you have."
"Then I'll be able to get you there no problem."
The talk between us was amiable as we walked to Mr. James' class. Jerry was sweet and asked lots of questions. He clearly knew how to impress a girl.
"Same time tomorrow?" Jerry asked as he dropped me off. He was smiling. I loved that smile. Truth be told, I still love it.
"Same time tomorrow," I repeated, and I headed into the classroom and sat down. I must've looked real happy, because Two-Bit noticed and felt compelled to comment on it.
"What's with the smile, Stevens?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow.
"None of your business," I sang.
He rolled his eyes. "I figger it must have something to do with the quarterback, don't it? Mister Jerry Thompson?" I blushed. "Thought so. Lookit you – you're in love."
He deadpanned this, but he was smiling, so I figured it was a joke. I shrugged my shoulders. "I'm not in love," I insisted. "I barely know him. He's just a nice guy, is all. How do you even know about it, anyway?"
Two-Bit laughed. "That's what they all say. He's just a nice guy. I swear, there ain't nothin between us, he's just a friend! I've heard it all before, Honey Bee, and I know about it cuz I know about everything."
I just shook my head and turned away, smirking to myself as Mr. James started in on his lecture all about life in pre-Revolution America.
xXx
My father was not a fan of Bob Dylan. He thought he should quit music and stick to politics; that he was wasting his time trying to become a singer and should instead put his ideas and activism to good use. It wasn't the usual reason people didn't like him, so it seemed to be an opinion that was uniquely my father's.
But every time I listened to him, I just became more and more convinced that I needed to get a guitar. Instead of banging away on piano keys and playing at Carnegie Hall, I should just get a guitar and become the next Joan Baez.
"Bridget, turn that down, would you? I can hear that racket all the way down here!"
I rolled my eyes. My poor, poor father. Would he ever learn?
"Yes, Daddy!" I called down, turning the dial down.
But a few minutes later, I just turned it right back up, even louder.
AN: Thanks for reading!
