A Non-Blonde Cheerleader in Love (10 page)

Ugh! What a Neanderthal jerk. What year was he born, anyway? 1945? Not that everyone was a sexist in 1945, but, you know, I’m guessing there were a few more then than there are today.

I glanced at Daniel, willing him to formulate the perfect comeback, but he simply stood there, stock-still, his face growing blotchy and hot. No fair. One second he was happily teasing me and the next he was miserable. All thanks to his own brother. I would never understand boys. Why did they enjoy making each other unhappy?

Oh, but wait. Girls did that too sometimes. Witness my first few weeks at school, being tortured by Tara Timothy.

“So, what’re you two talking about? What to bring to the slumber party this weekend?” Lumberjack Bob asked, clasping his hands under his chin, all wide-eyed and breathless.

“Bite me, Bobby,” Daniel replied.

Okay, that was something. Maybe not the most inspired argument, but something.

“Tough words coming from a cheerleader,” Bobby said, pitching his voice up an octave on the final word. “What’re you gonna do next, high-kick me to death?”

Daniel looked mortified and miserable. I wondered why he stood there and took it. Why he didn’t just walk away.

“Hey, bro, when do you get fitted for your miniskirt?” Christopher asked, smirking. “That’s gonna be a proud moment for the family. I’m thinking I’ll take some pictures to bring home to Dad.”

All right. That was it.

“Leave him alone,” I said.

Instantly all the guys looked at me. It was as if they had forgotten I was even there, but now that they remembered, the mirth was universal. “Oooh! The little girl’s defending the little girl!”

“Little girl? Do you know how much guts it took for him to go in there and try out for the squad? Only a real man could do something like that,” I said. “I know you couldn’t,” I added, looking Christopher up and down.

His eyes darkened and he stepped toward me. “Yeah, Annisa. He’s a real man,” he said, patting me on the shoulder. “You just keep telling yourself that when you guys are baking cookies together on your next date.”

With that, the guys all cracked up and moved off, trailing one after the other past me so they could each have a chance to sneer in my face. I couldn’t believe it. How could people be so immature and closed-minded? Was this not the twenty-first century we were living in?

“I don’t know how you live with that guy,” I said, turning to Daniel.

Instantly, the earth dropped out from underneath my feet. Daniel’s eyes were full of humiliated anger and they were focused on me. Not his brother and his band of witless wonders, but me.

“Daniel?”

“What the hell was that?” he blurted. “Do you have any idea how much crap I’m gonna take for that?”

My mouth opened, but nothing came out other than a strained “I . . .”

“I can’t have a girl defending my honor, Annisa! Especially not now!”

Oh, God. Oops. I’d broken the guy code. See? This was what happened when I was around. Stupid mouth. Had a mind of its own.

“I . . . I’m sorry,” I said.

“Dammit,” Daniel said under his breath.

I didn’t know what to say. I hated that I had put that expression on his face. Well,
helped
put it there.

“Daniel, I’m really sorry,” I said. “I told you . . . brain fog. I’m not thinking straight this morning.”

Daniel sighed and looked at his feet. I was feeling kind of wistful for the playful banter of five minutes ago.

“It’s all right. Just . . . don’t do it again,” Daniel said finally.

“I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

The warning bell rang and we both had to get to classes at opposite ends of the school.

“See you later?” I said, biting my bottom lip and raising my eyebrows. I was going for irresistibly cute. I’ll admit it. I’m not above flirting for forgiveness.

But it didn’t work.

“Yeah. See ya,” Daniel said. Then he turned around and walked away without so much as a kiss on the forehead.

I could kill Christopher. Seriously. This was a great morning until he and his closed mind entered my world.

When my brain finally registered the fact that Daniel was not, in fact, coming back for a kiss, I turned and trudged off to class. The fog returned, but this time it took over my entire body. I had no idea how I was going to make it through an entire day of school
and
practice feeling like this.

It wasn’t that I didn’t understand how it worked. I did. Boys picked on other boys for being less than men. Happened all the time. Not that it was right, but it happened all the time. What I didn’t understand was why I was expected to just go along with it. Why was Daniel allowed to stick up for me, but I wasn’t allowed to stick up for him? Especially when he needed sticking up for?

Deep question. Definitely too deep for a girl in a morning fog.

 
I reached up to hang my favorite Hallmark Christmas ornament on our brand-new Christmas tree and a light, warm breeze wafted through the window, bringing with it the scent of tropical flowers. One of the little brass bells on the upper branches danced and tinkled. With a sigh, I dropped back onto the couch.

“This is just wrong,” I said.

My father finally pulled his head out of one of our many huge boxes of ornaments. His graying hair stuck out straight over his ears and his glasses fell down from atop his head, coming to rest on the tip of his nose.

“What’s just wrong?” he asked, pushing the glasses up toward his eyes and glancing into the box again. “Aha! Found another one! She can’t fool me!” he cried, ripping the tissue paper off a decrepit old nutcracker ornament. It had one leg, half an arm and what appeared to be bite marks on its face.

We’ve never had a dog or a cat or anything, so where those marks came from, I had no idea.

“This!” I said, throwing my hands up toward the window. “How can I be expected to fully immerse myself in the Christmas spirit when I have warm breezes coming in through my living room windows? I mean, you put lights on a palm tree, Dad. That’s just wrong.”

“No. What’s wrong is that your mother took them down,” my dad said, lovingly hanging the battered nutcracker on a prominent branch.

“Right. That was very wrong of her,” I agreed. “But Dad, look at you. You’re wearing a Hawaiian shirt! Does that not strike you as odd? It’s December and you’re wearing a Hawaiian shirt!” My brow knit. “And a mightily unattractive one, I might add.”

My dad was not known for Golden Hanger-worthy fashion sense, but this shirt brought him to new lows. It was covered with red and green flowers and had topless Santas hula dancing here and there all over it. They wore sunglasses and leis and grass skirts and the only Santa-esque details about them were their little Santa hats. I missed the days when my father had kept the AC cranked up to arctic levels so that we’d all feel more at home. My parents and I had spent our first two months as Florida residents sporting wool sweaters while people cruised by outside in top-down convertibles, half dressed, with zinc on their noses. At first I had hated it, but now it was Christmas and I wanted to be cold. Dad had sure picked the wrong time of year to give up
that
habit.

“Come on, kiddo. Don’t let it get to you,” my father said, fishing out another ancient ornament. “The weather isn’t important. The important thing is that we’re all going to be together and that all of our other traditions are going to be unchanged.”

“Right. Like our Christmas Eve snowball fight,” I said grumpily.

“So instead we’ll have a Christmas Eve dip in the pool,” my father said. “A splash war.”

Yeah. That’s festive.

“Aha! Here’s another!” my father cried, yanking out a plastic Santa with half a spotty beard.

“I don’t know why you bother putting all this stuff up,” I said, hoisting myself up off the couch. “You know Mom’s just going to get up in the middle of the night and replace it all with new balls and things.”

“Yes, your mother and I have different decorating styles when it comes to the holidays,” my father said, lovingly hanging the ornament. “But it just goes to show that opposites attract. Besides, I think it’s kind of fun, trying to sneak a few of these things by her.”

Different
decorating styles
?
More like polar opposite. His was tacky-traditional and colorful, with a huge emphasis on never throwing anything away—even the plastic lawn nativity set that had seen better days in, I don’t know, the 1970s? Hers was upscale, classic, white lights, fir garland and red bows only, please. We all knew what their styles were, but neither of them would ever blast the other’s tastes to his or her face, so instead they went all Navy SEAL on each other, switching up ornaments, wreaths and lighting schemes in the middle of the night or while the other was at work. I never knew which house I was coming home to at the end of the day. Barnum and Bailey’s Christmas at the Gobrowskis’ or a Martha Stewart Holiday.

But my dad was right. It did make it kind of fun.

“All right. Hand me one of those butt-ugly elves,” I said, holding out a hand.

“That’s my girl,” my dad replied with a grin.

Suddenly I heard a rumble in the distance and for a moment I thought it might be thunder. But it was too consistent and there was no lightning. And then it got louder, and closer, and closer, and louder, until it was clear it was one loud-as-Armageddon motorcycle and it was . . . stopping in front of our house.

My father and I exchanged a confused look and raced to the window. Our jaws hit the windowsill in unison. Parking a gleaming Harley in the driveway was none other than my older brother, Gabe Gobrowski. He wore a silver-studded leather jacket and torn jeans, and when he lifted off his helmet, his formerly well-coiffed red hair was shaggy and gelled on top. But insane-o fashion choice of all? He was sporting a mustache. An actual thick red mustache.

“Oh, I don’t think so!” my father said. “Michella!”

“I see him!” my mother shouted, already racing down the stairs. Her long red hair was down around her shoulders, having just been brushed out after being pinned up all day at work. She wore a pair of slim jeans, but her silk work shirt was still on and it was all untucked and wrinkled, hanging out sloppily—very un-Mom. She stuffed her feet into my father’s slippers as we all ran out the front door.

My heart flipped in glee. This was going to be good. Every so often my brother liked to completely change his style, keep people guessing, try on new personas. It used to be he’d test something out for a few months before changing it up again, but this year he was like a chameleon on speed. Every time I saw him, he was a whole new Gabe. Sometimes the parentals were down with his new style, sometimes not. Now he looked like he’d just rolled off the set of
Orange County Choppers
. Apparently that was a “not.”

“Gabriel Gobrowski!” my mother shouted.

“Mama!” Gabe cried, throwing his arms wide, still straddling the bike.

She stopped at the edge of the front walk. “
What
is
that?
” she shouted.

“It’s my new ride,” Gabe said, lovingly stroking the handlebars. “Sweet, isn’t she?”

“Not that!” my mother shouted, taking a few steps forward. “That!”

She pointed at his mustache. I snorted a laugh.

“Just a little facial accessory,” Gabe said with a shrug. “Makes me look tougher, don’t you think?”

Actually, it kind of made him look like a disco star.

“Oh, honey!” my mother lamented, placing her hands on either side of his face. “What happened to your hair? And your tan? And that nice suede jacket you had the last time we saw you?”

Poor Mom. Apparently she had really hoped Gabe was going to stick with the metrosexual thing he’d been rocking at Thanksgiving. Not that I could blame her. She was a fashion plate herself, so Gabe dressing like he’d stepped right out of a
Queer Eye
episode must have made her very happy.

“Sorry, Ma,” Gabe said. “That wasn’t really me.”

“And this is?” my mother said, shaking her head.

“For now,” Gabe said.

“Gabriel, where’s your car?” my father asked.

“Sold it,” Gabe said nonchalantly, swinging his leg over the motorcycle. He had on some thick black boots with a serious tread. Mental note: keep bare toes out of Gabe’s way. “Traded it in for this bad boy, actually. Anybody wanna go for a spin?”