The Val & Kit Mystery Series

Tuesday, October 1, 2019

Cheers!




“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.