Backlash (14 page)

I gaze at Christian DeWitt’s picture, the cursor hovering over the Confirm button. He’s seriously hot. I can’t believe he wants to friend me.
It can’t hurt
, I tell myself, clicking Confirm.

I’m about to get off the computer when I hear the plink of Facebook chat.

I can’t believe it. It’s
him
. Hot-as-anything Christian DeWitt! Hey, congrats on making cheerleading! he writes.

Thanks! I’m pretty pumped. : )

So, how was the rest of your day?

Pretty good. How about you?

Better now.

What was the matter before?

Stuff. You know, it happens, right?

Don’t I know it!

At least you’re having a good day …

Good doesn’t even begin to describe it. I made varsity cheerleading team, and now this amazing-looking guy is chatting with me. When I think about where I was a year and a half ago, I can’t even believe this is happening.

Yeah. Pretty awesome day.

And my day just improved because I’m talking to a cute girl like you.

He. Thinks. I’m. Cute. !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I suddenly worry, though, that this is so weird and sudden. What if he’s some middle-aged creeper pretending to be a teenager, like when the police come to school to give us those “Be Very Afraid of the Internet” talks?

But if he’s friends with all these people I know and all the kids at his own high school, he must be legit.
Do you need glasses? ;P
I type.

Come on, don’t be modest. You’re really pretty.

Pretty? He seriously must be blind or something.

“Lara, are you done yet? You’re not the only one who has homework, you know!”

Figures, just as I finally have some gorgeous guy telling me I’m cute and pretty, my sister butts in and tells me she needs the computer.

Gotta go
, I type, hoping that this isn’t the last time I ever hear from him.

Chat soon! he writes.

Smiling, I log off Facebook.

“It’s all yours,” I tell Syd, and I head upstairs. My life really is turning around, and I couldn’t be happier.

Y
OU’D THINK
it’s Mom who didn’t make the cut for varsity cheerleading by the way she’s stomping around the kitchen, breathing fire and smashing pots and pans down on the counter.

“I’m going into school tomorrow morning to talk to Coach Carlucci,” she fumes. “This is ridiculous! How can she cut
you
and let
Lara Kelley
on the team?”

“Mom!
No!
” Bree shouts. “Don’t do that! It’ll just make things worse!”

“Worse, how?” Mom asks. “How can things be worse than you not making the team?”

Bree stares at Mom. Her fists are clenched, her face is turning red, and I see a tear escape the corner of her eye. She looks like she’s either going to let Mom have it or start crying hysterically. I wish she’d finally let Mom have it. I mean, it’s not like she
wanted
to make cheerleading that much anyway. Maybe it’s a good thing she got cut.

Her mouth opens and I think,
Come on, Bree …

But then she starts crying and runs out of the room. A minute later we hear her door slam.

Another typical evening in the Connors house.

Mom picks up the phone and calls Dad. “Sean — how long till you get home?”

Yeah, Dad — we need you here to bring on the sanity.

“Oh, Bree’s in her room having another tantrum.” Mom sighs. “I just don’t know what’s got into her … Yes, I know hormones, Sean. But there’s more to it than that … Okay, see you soon.”

She hangs up and takes out the potato peeler.

“Liam, peel these potatoes for me, will you, please?”

Great. That’s what I get for hanging around to watch the drama. Stuck peeling potatoes while Bree has another tantrum and does nothing.

I start peeling the stupid potatoes.

“At least you’re not giving me problems right now,” Mom says.

But like an idiot, even though it’s not my fight, I start doing just that.

“Bree didn’t even
want
to do cheerleading, Mom. Maybe it’s a good thing she didn’t make it. Now she can try out for something else.”

The look on my mother’s face when she turns to me makes me curse myself for opening my big mouth.

“A good thing? Is that what you think, Liam?”

“Forget it. Never mind,” I mumble.

“No, let’s hear this,” Mom says. “Why, Liam? Why is your sister getting cut from the team after we’ve made sacrifices to pay for her to go to cheerleading camp every year a good thing?”

“Because …”

Why did I say anything? This isn’t my problem. It’s Bree’s. And you never win an argument with Mom, especially when she’s in a mood like this. I sigh.

“Really, Mom, forget it. You’re right. It’s bad. Whatever.”

She’s not happy with me, but at least she lets it go, so I can finish peeling the potatoes and escape to watch TV until Dad comes home.

I turn on the news, which isn’t much of an escape, but Mr. Phillips tells us we should keep up with what’s happening in the world if we want to be part of debate team. I flip from one cable news channel to another, wondering how the same story can sound so different depending on which channel I’m watching.

I always thought the news was supposed to tell it like it is.

There’s only so much news I can take before I switch to one of the science channels. Watching things get blown up in the name of science makes me feel better.

My father sticks his head in the living room when he gets home.

“Hey, buddy — how’s it going?”

I roll my eyes. “Great — if you like living in the middle of a war zone.”

“Yeah, I gathered there’s been a disturbance in the Force,” Dad says. He’s a
Star Wars
geek, but he leaves it up to me to figure out who’s Darth Vader in this particular episode.

He sits down on the sofa next to me, just as there’s a really epic explosion on the TV. “Wow. That was awesome!” he exclaims.

“Yeah. It was kind of like that between Mom and Bree, but I’d rather watch it on TV than in real life at home.”

“I hear you, Liam.” He gets up from the sofa with a grunt. “I’ll try to go impart some Jedi wisdom to the warring parties.”

“Good luck with that,” I mutter.

But I lower the volume on the TV so I can overhear his conversation with Mom. He’s the calming one. Maybe I can learn something.

“I’m going to go into school tomorrow and talk to Coach Carlucci,” Mom’s telling him. “It’s ridiculous that Lara Kelley made the team and Bree didn’t, and you know it.”

“I don’t know anything, Mary Jo,” Dad says. “Maybe Bree had an off day and Lara was in top form.”

“But if she just had an off day, Coach should take that into account,” Mom says. “Everyone has off days.”

“Honey, you told me Bree said she wanted to try out for dance team. Maybe she didn’t give the tryouts her best shot,” Dad suggests.

“That’s not the way I’ve brought up my daughter,” Mom says. “I’ve told her she’s always supposed to give everything her best shot, no matter what. Did I get to where I am today by half measures?”

“Of course you didn’t. But she’s a teenager. She has to learn these things for herself,” Dad says.

“So you want me to let our kids fail?” Mom says. “Is that what you’re asking me to do?”

I hear her stirring something on the stove; the metal spoon is clanking angrily against the side of the saucepan.

“I don’t want the kids to fail any more than you do,” Dad says. He’s starting to lose his Yoda-like calm. “But they’re going to face disappointments in life, and they need to learn how to cope with them without us rushing in to try to make it better.”

“So then they’ll be disadvantaged,” Mom argues. “You think Kathy Kelley isn’t pulling strings with the mayor to get whatever she can for
her
kids?”

“Yeah, and do things always go so well with Lara?” Dad says. “Just because other parents are doing it doesn’t mean we should.”

Score one for Dad by bringing up Lara’s imperfections.

Mom grumbles her response, so I can’t hear what she says. But from the tone of her grumbling, I can tell that Dad’s won this round. Now he’ll go up and talk to Bree, and hopefully peace will be restored in the Connors household in time for dinner — which is good because I’m starving.

I
HATE
my mother. Nothing I do is ever enough because I’ll never be
her
.

What if I don’t want to be her? Does she ever think about that? What if I want to be
me
, whoever that is?

Like I’ll ever get a chance to even find out, living with the Great White Shark Mom.

If she goes to talk to Coach Carlucci tomorrow, I’m never going to speak to her again. Ever. I will
die
. Seriously, die.

There’s a knock on my door.

“Go away, Liam!” I shout.

“It’s Dad. Is it safe to come in?”

He says it in a joking way, like he knows how mad I am at Mom. Dad’s gotten used to acting as the United Nations peacekeeping force between us.

“Yeah, okay.”

Dad comes in and closes the door behind him.

“Doing your homework?”

“Trying to.”

“It’s hard to concentrate when you’re upset, huh?”

I nod.

“Heard about cheerleading.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t even look at him. I don’t want to talk about it.

“Look, Breenut,” Dad says, calling me by a nickname from when I was a baby. “I know Mom’s upset you didn’t make the team, but it’s not the end of the world.”

That’s when I turn to him. “Do you mean that?”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”

I have to swallow a lump in my throat. At least one of my parents doesn’t think I’m a total disappointment.

“In a way, I think this could be good for you. It’ll give you a chance to try something new. Didn’t you say you wanted to try dance?”

“I did. But it’s probably too late to try out now.”

“Well, how about exploring some other interests?”

That would be good if I could think of any. But it’s pretty much been cheerleading all the way my whole life.

“Like what?”

“Anything. Newspaper. Debate. Volunteering. School dance committee. At last year’s open house, they had a list of clubs as long as my arm. Longer, even.”

“I’m not going to do debate like Liam, Dad,” I tell him. “Forget it.”

“I just used that as an
example
, Bree,” Dad says. He sounds a little irritated. “Choose whatever strikes your fancy. But try something new. Experiment while you’re young, before you get stuck in a track and it’s too late.”

He sighs, and I wonder if he feels like he’s stuck and it’s too late. Did he dream of owning his own plumbing supply store when he was my age? Didn’t he ever want to get out of Lake Hills and go somewhere else?

“Okay, okay, I’ll think about it. Thanks, Dad,” I say, turning back to my desk. “I’ve got to finish my homework.”

Dad comes over and kisses the top of my head.

“Go easy on your mother, Breenut,” he says. “She means well.”

Whatever feelings I had of being understood disappear. As Dad walks out of the room, I can’t help wondering if he asked Mom to go easy on me, too.