“Do you want me to knit
you something, Valerie? Something cheerleadery.”
“Ahh, Mom, please don’t
knit me anything. Seriously. I mean it. It’s completely unnecessary.”
“So, that would be a no?”
“Yes. No. Please, I am
begging you not to knit me anything.”
It was a moot point,
really. If my mom started knitting me something now, whatever it was she had
conjured up that was indicative of a Downers Grove High School Trojan
cheerleader would most certainly not be finished until at least after Easter.
Maybe Christmas of next year. She was still
working on a crocheted afghan for my brother, who I suspected would have long
since graduated from college by the time that task was completed.
“Well, okay,” she said.
“If that’s what you want.” Did I hear relief in her voice?
“Besides, I don’t even
want to be a cheerleader.”
“What are you saying? Of
course you do. I’ve got a permanent headache from listening to you and
Katherine practicing your cheers. Why would you put in all that hard
work and—”
“I never wanted it, Mom.
It was Kit’s idea. And I thought she did really good.”
“Well, Valerie.”
I waited a minute. Then,
“Well what?”
“She did well, not good.”
I sighed. “Okay, well. I just went along to tryouts with
her because she was a little nervous to do it alone. But I never in a million
years thought they would pick me and not . . .”
“Not her? You got a place
on the squad and she didn’t?”
“Mom, you can’t say
anything to her. Promise me you won’t. It’s crazy that they didn’t pick her.
I’m a million pounds heavier and—”
“You most certainly are
not heavier. You are just well-rounded, that’s all. She’s too skinny. And
frankly, she’s not what I would call a dancer, whereas you are a natural—”
“I’m going to turn it down, but
please promise me you won’t say anything to her.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,
is this how it’s going to be with you two? When you’re up for congresswoman or a
judgeship or chief of surgery, are you going to back down so you don’t hurt her
feelings?”
I was flattered that my
mother saw me figuratively reaching such lofty heights. My own ambitions, however, stretched even higher, literally: I wanted to be an air hostess for Pan Am. “Promise me, Mom.”
My mother put her arm
around my shoulders. “You are a kind girl, Valerie Caldwell. And a loyal
friend. Maybe by next year your pal can fatten herself up a bit and get over
her klutzy dance moves. But I promise, I won’t say a word.”
I wasn’t sure,
however, that I could trust her.
