The Cheerleader (bespoke)

Prologue
Susie


May, 1967, Suffield, CT
“Did you see that boy in the ditch?” I jump up from the hard bench seat as the school bus drives past him before coming to a stop. I press my face to the window, trying to recapture my glimpse of him. Heart hammering, I grab my book bag, shove past Natalie, who squeals when I step on her foot.
“Where are you going? This isn’t your stop.”
Ignoring her question, I run down the aisle to the front of the bus, heart still flying around inside my chest like a caged bird, and rush down the steps without looking back at the bus driver, who tells me the same thing. This isn’t your stop. It’s Liz’s stop, and she’s at home sick for the second day in a row.
Mom said it was okay to go over after school and bring her a get-well package. But instead of turning toward Liz’s house, I turn around and run back to where I saw that boy.
When I reach him, I’m out of breath, and I drop to my knees at his side. His face is bloody, and his arm has a big ugly piece of glass sticking out of a gouge in his skin. He’s hurt bad. I want to help him, say something to make him feel better, but I can’t think of what to say. My throat is closed up, clogged by something. My chest is tight, and my tummy feels like I have rocks rolling around inside.
He looks at me, not saying anything. I can see his pain. But it’s not the kind of pain that comes from a bloody cut.
Anger explodes inside me. Someone did this to him. I reach out and pull the glass out and throw it down like it’s red hot. Then I take off my jacket and wrap it around his arm as tight as I can.
He grits his teeth. I don’t want to hurt him, but since he’s not saying anything, I keep going and get my hanky to wipe the blood off his face, but I mostly smear it because I don’t have any water. I don’t know what I’m doing, but the compulsion to do something to stop his pain, to soothe him overrides my normal common sense.
I look through my bag and I don’t have much. Except candy.
“Eat this. It’ll make you feel better.”
The expression on his face changes, a small subtle change hinting at a smile. Maybe.
He takes the candy and I let out a deep breath of anxiety while I watch him eat a piece.
He swallows, and maybe it revives him because he finally talks.
“You have to go. Don’t tell anyone.”
“What do you mean? Don’t you need help? An ambulance? I can call—”
“No. Don’t.” His eyes plead in desperation. I want to ask him who he is, who did this to him, and why it’s a big secret, but I realize he won’t answer me. He says no more, dismissing me. He shifts his body to stand, and he’s bigger than I thought.
He pockets my hanky, and I let him, relieved that he’s keeping it for some reason I can’t figure because it’s my special lace hanky my Aunt Mabel gave to me. He unwraps my coat from around his arm easily, and it’s all bloody. My attempt at stopping his bleeding didn’t work too well.
We both look at it, and he doesn’t bother trying to give it back to me, tucking it under his arm instead.
“Thank you.”
I try shoving the rest of the candy at him, and he’s reluctant to take it, but I don’t back down, desperate to provide him with something sweet. After a long pause, staring at each other in silence, he takes the candy in his other hand, his good hand, and walks away.
“Wait…” I don’t know what else to say, can’t find any reason to give him not to go except that he must be too hurt to get far.
He doesn’t stop, and instead, he picks up speed until he’s running, and I watch until he disappears around the bend in the road.
It takes me a few minutes to calm my jitters before walking back to Liz’s house and knocking on her back door. Her mom answers.
“I’m sorry Liz isn’t up to visitors today, Susie. I’ll call your mom to come get you.” She looks unsettled and closes the door without inviting me inside, and that unsettles me.
But not as much as my encounter with the boy in the ditch who ran away, without help, wounded and brave.

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