The Cheer Leader (3 page)

This picture is unexposed; it is very dark and it is grouped with all of the pictures from the Girl Scout campout. There are pictures of a bonfire, bags and bags of G.S. cookies, Cindy posed by a tree, Tricia swinging from a tree, Lisa with a Tootsie Roll Pop (oral fixation), but it is the dark one that I am concerned with. It could be another picture of the cookies or the bonfire, but since it is so dark and scary looking, I see another picture: I am in the tent and everyone else is asleep. I have a dire need to use the bathroom but I am afraid to walk down the path to the latrine; I should have gone earlier when the whole troup went to shine their flashlights down the latrine to look but I was engrossed in a winning way conversation with the scout leader who I hoped would give me my cooking badge even though that very day she had caught me burying my food in the woods. (To get the badge you had to eat what you cooked.) She was no April Fool and I had missed my chance to use the bathroom. There, in the dark, perched on a ratty little cot, I sit, my legs crossed tightly, humiliated, guilty for not having one badge on my sash, and suffering that excruciating pain of not being able to use the bathroom. I couldn't go out beside the tent because I was scared of frogs, snakes and whatever else might be out there, and
so through the darkness, I endured the hurt, the little pee shivers that made me jerk involuntarily, the hurt pride of not having one badge. It was my first real experience with the pains of loneliness, failure, darkness; the pains which come when one denies those very natural bodily functions. I have felt this way on various other occasions (even when I did not have to use the bathroom and was not sitting on a ratty little cot in a Girl Scout tent somewhere in the mountains). The likenesses are that there have been times when I really didn't know where in the hell I was except in a bed, under a tent, under a sheet, an exposed ghost; and again, I did not always finish what I started. This is why I feel that this one mysteriously dark, unexposed picture is very important to my life in general.

It is a holiday and I am celebrating the fact that this country owes its birth to Chris Columbus, by sitting in the bathroom. I am wearing my new old blue bathrobe and it is just the right length because it reaches the tops of my bobby socks. The bathrobe was comfortable and the pink scarf that I wore on my head seemed to hold all of my thoughts together. I felt like a poet and so I spent hours making lists of words that rhymed so that I would have them when I was ready to let myself go. At that particular time, it was easier to fool everyone, especially Daddy who always got a real kick out of the “dress-up” pictures. Had he known then what he came to know later, he probably never would have laughed and teased
me so, and thus would have robbed me of something very special. Teasing, when done properly, can be one of the finest indications of love, and it is quite sad when people decide that they will not ever do it again. Of course, I can't blame them. Who wants to feel responsible for hurting someone that they sincerely love?

In this picture, I am at VBS (Vacation Bible School) and I hate VBS because I have to see people that I feel I should not have to see over the summer. I am wearing a long purple dress and have just fished Baby Moses (a Chatty Cathy all wrapped up in a beach towel and put in a fruit basket) out of the bullrushes (a large azalea bush). Ralph Craig is Goliath which is why he has a rock taped to his forehead, his tongue out of his mouth and is lying flat on his back. Cindy is all wrapped up in long silky blue scarves because she is Mary and she is holding Baby Jesus (a Betsy Wetsy in swaddling clothes). Beatrice had wanted to be Jesus all grown up but the teacher would not let her. The teacher thought that it was acceptable for Betsy Wetsy to be Baby Jesus but that no one should try to play grown up Jesus. Beatrice got very angry and this is why she is all wrapped up in towels and lying on the ground right near my bullrushes. She had told the teacher that if she couldn't be Jesus, that she would be Lazarus and play dead just like Ralph Craig.

Even in this prominent position of the princess' maiden who discovered Baby Moses, I look somewhat perplexed. It is because Ralph Craig, before his death scene, came
up and whispered a word to me that I did not know, a word that you would say if you used the name Buck in the Banana Nanna Fo Fanna song. I did not know that it was an ugly word, though I had my suspicions, so I did not tell the teacher. Too, as ugly as I thought Ralph was, I liked to look at him sometimes. I changed my mind after I asked my mother to define the word. Ralph had said that that was what he was going to do to me. It made me afraid of him and yet, I still had to look at him even though I did not want to. It was like he had a power; even Beatrice was in his spell because later that same week when he commanded that she pull up her skirt or get a busted nose, she obliged. I realized that being popular did not mean that you had everything. Beatrice had an experience (self-exposure) which I would not have for a long long time. This one incident at VBS caused a lot of trouble because it made me afraid of boys and what they had. I think it also had a hell of a lot to do with the knot that I would get in the pit of my stomach at the very mention of VBS.

I am upset in this picture because I feel that I do not fit in. It is an odd thing because outwardly, I do fit in; I am one of the most popular girls in the fifth grade (along with Cindy, Lisa and Tricia McNair). It has been this way for some time, our four names always said together as if it is one name, TriciaLisaJoandCindy; I am third in line. We maintain this close friendship so that other people will not be forced to make decisions about whom they like
best (that choice comes much later). However, I also learned something very important from all of this, something political; there are divisions within groups that have already been divided from other groups and ideally should be whole. They are not; nothing is whole; even people, without realizing, split themselves up into little parts. This theory is one that came to mind much later, for then I was simply confused by the issue. You see, all three of my best friends had asked me in private to be their best friend and I had avoided answering for suspecting that they had asked each of the other two the same so that they would eventually be everyone's best friend and therefore have power. For times such as that, I had chosen for my answer, huh. Not “huh?” but “huh,” like “I see” or “Oh, yes,” and thus had not committed myself to any particular belief. This tactic works, for the person then assumes your answer to be whatever they would like for it to be and yet, there is no proof of exactly what the response meant. It is confusing, but then it was the easiest way to maintain my position. Noncommittal is easy or at least appears to be for it allows you to stay on the up and up with everyone. The problem, of course, is that you eventually have no opinion that you can think of except that which is thought by others and you never know if what they think is true or false. Monkey see, monkey do.

I was disturbed by other things as well. For instance, sometimes Tricia tried to hold my hand and I felt that I was much too old for that. There was a motive behind it. Was it a subtle suggestion to the others that we were best
friends? Was it a way to make Cindy and Lisa try harder to be her best friend? Or was it that strong human urge to expose and possess people who do not wish to be exposed or possessed? I was saving my hands for a future encounter with a male for that struck me as being normal and when done tastefully, with discretion, I thought could be a worthwhile event. Naturally, I did not reveal this thought for it was one of those very sound, very old, bathroom, bathrobe thoughts that I had to save just as I saved my hands.

Here, Cindy is holding hands with Tricia and it is strange to see because Cindy was my friend first and yet, she doesn't seem to be bothered by holding hands with a girl. Nor, was she bothered when Tricia turned and spoke directly in her face. It was my belief that people just shouldn't do that and yet, I was helpless to make them stop. A reprimand on such an issue would have committed me to an inescapable opinion that would set up a conflict between myself and the other three popular girls, three to one, and I had no desire to be on the outside. I had ideas that I needed that position, that if I hung in there, one day, my name would come first. Although I clearly had thoughts and opinions I did not reveal, I felt that I had to do one silly thing so I would not be rejected and could fit into the popular picture. I said, “Boolahbuster! Boolahbuster!” and then I squatted down and made a frog noise. This kept me in for a good two weeks without holding hands.

We were sailing along on the Pinta, the Nina and the Santa Marie. This is little Andy sitting in the bathtub. He is surrounded by little plastic boats and stretched and tattered Huzzy whom he loves (in a way that I never did). On this very sacred day, Andy chose to play with himself (if you know what I mean) more than he played with the boats and I was quite distressed by this. Bobby saw a great deal of humor in the situation and Mama passed it off as a normal response. They did not see that little Ralph Craig glint in Andy's three-year-old eyes as I did. I thought that Mama should possibly beat him but she didn't and I had to console myself with the thought that after me, there was very little sense left for Andy to receive, sort of like, “where were you when they passed out the brains?” Of course, now I realize that that is not how it works and that Andy is quite intelligent in his little assy way. He was merely into blatant exposure while his sister was discreet, tactful, mysterious and sneaky.

I am getting ready to go to Moon Lake with Tricia. She is wearing a hot pink two piece that shows her navel, an “inny.” The rest of us are wearing one pieces with skirts around the ass. Lisa has a look of discomfort on her thin bird face because she has (just three hours before) started her period for the first time. She is very early, but I learn in the future that Lisa is early in whatever
she does. She is the first person that I know of (in my age group) that has one and she will tell us all about it at the lake after we have all been swimming and she hasn't. Tricia will act like she knows all about it and Cindy will ask lots of questions. I will not say anything as I usually don't when I am perplexed. Lisa's descriptions will so link periods to tidal waves that I will spend the next two years of my life in constant fear even though my mother will try to soothe my prepubescent worries.

Here I am with Jeff Johnson. We are getting ready to ride our bikes up to the Quick Stop to get a can of boiled peanuts and two strawberry Icees. Bobby is the smart ass that takes the picture as a subtle way to give me hell for having a boyfriend. I don't really but Bobby won't listen to good sense so I make a face and Jeff just smiles this real nice smile that Bobby will call a sissy smile when the pictures come back long after Jeff is gone.

After Bobby takes the picture and blows a kiss to me when Jeff isn't looking, we ride to the Quick Stop. This day, I don't have to pay half for the peanuts or buy my own Icee; Jeff buys as a going away present because it is his last day in Blue Springs. Looking back, I am glad that Bobby took the picture (even though at the time I hated him) because otherwise, I would not remember what Jeff looked like that summer. He was about the same size as me (short) except he was much thinner and he had pale skin (a freckled sunburned nose that prompted me to call him Rudolph most of the time), soft pale hair and eyes
like pale gray tissue paper. He was the kind of person who looks much better in black and white and thank goodness, that's what kind of film Mama always bought for Bobby because it was so rare for him to take a worthwhile picture. This picture is good though, and it makes me think of the few things that I knew about Jeff Johnson. He was two years older, from Maine, spending the summer with his aunt (Mrs. Monroe, wife of fat Mr. Monroe who took our pictures for us on holidays), and he was different from any boy that I had ever met. He didn't try to find out if you wore a bra or if you had ever kissed or if you had started your period, like Ralph Craig and a bunch of boys had done in the fifth grade when all the girls were given a book called
Growing Up and Liking It.
Beatrice had had to go home that day and if I had by then heard Lisa's description of periods, I probably would have gone home, too. No, Jeff Johnson was different; he liked to talk about fishing and bombs and poker and just the way that he talked made him sound so smart that on that last day, I confessed to him that I wrote poetry and thought that Christopher Columbus was the most wonderful person to ever live. That last day, he held my hand and it made me feel real strange but sort of good inside and he told me that he would send me a picture when he got his braces off. Just before we left that day, Jeff poured all the peanut juice out in front of the curb (our curb) and we watched it run through all the drink tabs and cigarette butts. I didn't look up but while we watched that juice, he put something cool on my finger and with my thumb, I could tell it was a ring of some
sort; actually it was a pop top, but I wore it for a long time after that. Finally after a long time, I put it in a box with lots of other junk and forgot about it. I never heard from Jeff and Mrs. Monroe never mentioned him; I figured for years that he was still wearing braces and that was why. Naturally that was dumb, and I see it now; I also see that being in love and being dumb are often simultaneous actions which my future years seem to portray more blatantly than a silver pop top and one black and white photograph of a skinny Yankee kid with braces that no one else in the neighborhood would have anything to do with, and a summer nurtured by boiled peanuts and strawberry Icees. I guess the most important thing to point out is that I had actually engaged in hand-holding, I had found someone, temporarily, with similar interests and I hadn't had to act a certain way. Even more important is remembering that after all of that, I never heard from him, not a single shitty little Yankee postcard, and I should have remembered that for future reference but unfortunately it was hidden from me by my subconscious who chose, instead, to remember that rubbery knee, sweaty palm, coronary palpitating feeling that I had experienced holding hands with Jeff Johnson, there in front of the Quick Stop in Blue Springs all summer when I was eleven.