"I WON'T BE A NOBODY!"
People always act surprised when they hear all the things that have happened to me. Indeed, there were many times when I felt I was the only teenager in the world who felt the way I did, who went through what I did in high school and the four years that followed.
And yet, almost every time I'm asked to tell my experiences in front of a group, someone will come up afterward and say, "I know exactly what you went through," "That happened to my sister," or "When you were talking, I realized you could have been me."
So while I now realize my life may have taken some unusual twists and turns, I've come to understand that what happened to me and why it happened aren't unusual at all. However, it is my story. And it really began the first day I got off the bus in front of Grove Junior High School.
The two-story, limestone-brick building seemed to tower over me. Countless windows reflected the late summer sky and testified to the presence of more classrooms, more teachers, and more kids than I'd ever imagined in one school.
I walked hesitantly but excitedly up the semicircular driveway as bus after bus disgorged a stream of boisterous junior highers. Passing through those open front doors, I found myself being swept along in a surging river of humanity.
The first feeling that struck me was fear. A cold, gnawing sense in the pit of my stomach told me I didn't belong. While everyone else knew each other, I was alone. Although this was the first day of the school year, everyone else seemed to know the routine. Everyone else had a comfortable little niche, but I was a displaced stranger, hopelessly caught in the crowded hallway current and about to be sucked into a terrifying black hole of anonymity.
My second feeling was one of determination. I would do whatever it took to avoid anonymity and to rid myself of that terrible fear.
It didn't take long to learn the foolproof recipe for instant popularity in my new school. The trouble was that I didn't have enough of the right ingredients.
As in every school, the cutest kids were popular. They have distinctive looks, gorgeous hair, engaging smiles. I wore my straight, dull brown hair short, my ugly brown glasses shielded my eyes, and I couldn't smile without revealing my braces. So I knew I couldn't count on my looks for popularity.
I noticed right away that the popular kids tended to be sharp dressers — the ones with the sophisticated, fashionable clothes. I immediately determined to trade my elementary-school look for the trendier look of Seventeen magazine and more importantly, the ninth-grade in-group. By the end of the first week of school I'd begged and badgered my mother until she took me to the biggest department store in Chicago and bought me some new clothes. But all I got was a couple of new outfits because that's all my mom said she and Dad could afford right then — which leads me to another ingredient of popularity.
The popular kids seemed to be the kids with the most money, who lived in the ritziest subdivision and had gone to the nicest and newest elementary school. I lived in a modest house; we weren't poor, but we didn't have much excess money sitting around after the bills were paid each month. So I could never afford to take dance classes or join in the other little extracurricular activities the popular kids seemed to do.
Yet another popularity factor I had no control over was parents. The popular kids seemed to have great parents who were totally permissive, paying for big parties and generally encouraging their kids to get involved in the social scene. In short, other kids' parents seemed pretty with it, plus a lot of them seemed to know one another and to socialize frequently.
My mom and dad, on the other hand, thought I was too young to be wearing nylons, using makeup, or piercing my ears. Because they were ten to twelve years older that most of my classmates' parents, they socialized with a different, older crowd — people with grown children like my sister and brother, who were eleven and seven years older than I. As a result, my dad and mom seemed almost totally out of touch with my world. While they thought I was too young when I tried to look more adult, they thought I was too old when I just wanted to be a kid.
That's why we had the biggest fight of my life that Halloween. All my seventh-grade friends and all the kids I wanted to be friends with were planning to have a big party and go trick-or-treating. My mom told me I couldn't go.
"You're too old for trick-or-treating," she said.
"But everyone else is go—"
"You're not 'everyone.' And you're not going!" she said.
I didn't give up. I reasoned and argued. I cried. Finally I screamed and yelled with such ferocity that I was surprised almost as much as my parents. But they didn't budge. And I felt certain that the fun and opportunity I missed that night set my social life back so far that now I'd have to work even harder for popularity. Despite my parents and all the other factors I couldn't change, I saw some strategies I thought could improve my chances.
I did everything in my power to be where the popular kids were. For example, I turned down the opportunity to take honors courses because I didn't want to be seen as one of the books-and-brains set. The most popular kinds were in the mainstream classes, so that's where I wanted to be. I spent hours writing notes in class, consulting with my friends about what we'd wear the next day. I spent more hours on the phone calling the right people; making plans for parties, sleepovers, and football games; gossiping about particular boys I liked in hopes that the word would spread.
While I never felt I achieved the popularity I longed for during seventh grade, I did see how I could attain it for the next year. I would become a cheerleader. The cheerleaders were undeniably the most popular girls in the school. When tryout time came in the spring, I'd be there. I'd win a spot on next year's cheerleading squad, and I'd be popular beyond my wildest dreams. From the time I set that goal early in the fall of my seventh-grade year, I lived for that day. I went to every ball game and studied the routines. I practiced at home in my room by the hour. When my chance came, I was going to be ready.
Almost ninety girls showed up for the junior high school tryouts that spring, all vying for eight spots on the next year's squad. And if those odds weren't bad enough, the coach told us only one or two seventh graders would be selected; the rest of the spots would go to eight graders.
Even so, I felt I had a good chance. Waiting and watching there in the gym as other girls performed for the panel of teachers and coaches who would pick the squad, I knew I was ready. Of all the other seventh graders trying out, I felt certain my toughest competition would come from Kim Calkins. Not only was Kim pretty and athletic, she had the advantage of years of gymnastics and dance classes. But, I told myself, I have the advantage of enthusiasm and determination.
When my turn came, I gave it my all. In no time my tryout was over, the panel thanked me, and I went home, hoping against hope that my all had been enough.
I lay in bed that night, staring at the familiar shadows of my darkened room, unable to sleep. A slow-motion replay of my tryout ran over and over through my memory. I tried to analyze every move I had made. I tried to interpret every expression on the judges' faces. And I wondered if the next morning, my personal judgment day, would ever come.
I thought back to my elementary school years when I had gone with my parents to every high school football game to watch my brother play. Fred had been the captain of the team, so, of course, he had dated the captain of the cheerleading squad, I'd stood on the sidelines screaming out the cheers along with the cheerleaders, dreaming of the day when I would be out there in front of the crowd, dating the quarterback, being liked by everyone. That's what I'd always wanted. Now more than ever.
Lying there in bed, I even bargained with God. "Lord," I prayed, "if you'll just let me make the cheerleading squad, I promise I'll cheerfully obey my parents. I'll pay closer attention in confirmation class. I'll pray more. I'll be a good girl. Please just let me make the squad."
Sleep finally came. And, of course, morning quickly followed. With it came homeroom period — the time for daily announcements. I sat at my desk, oblivious to everything around me. A dozen times I looked up from my mindless doodling to make sure the PA speaker still hung on the wall above the teacher's desk. Finally, the intercom crackled with static and the principal's voiced boomed out: "We'd like to congratulate the following members of next year's Grove Junior High cheerleading squad." Then he started reading the names, beginning with the girls who would be ninth graders next year.
I waited for my name to be read at the very end. But as the tension mounted inside me, I lost count of the number of names already called until I heard the words I was listening for: "And the only eighth grader on next year's squad will be" — the pause seemed eternal — "Kim Calkins."
In that instant all my dreams for the coming year were crushed. I was sentenced to another twelve months as a mere spectator of school life. I'd have to be an eighth-grade nobody just like I'd been a seventh-grade nobody. And there was no one I could tell how much I hurt.
As things turned out, eighth grade wasn't a total loss. I got involved in sports, playing field hockey and girls' basketball. I even served on the student council and got elected as an officer of the Girls' Athletic Association (GAA). I made a lot of friends and had a blast in GAA. The cabinet would sometimes get together for overnights at our P.E. teacher's house, and it was there I remember my first serious discussions about the subject of sex. I was pretty naive: "My parents have had three kids. Does that mean," I asked, "they had sex three times?"
My P.E. teacher laughed so hard I thought she was going to fall out of her chair. So did all the other girls, most of whom were older ninth graders.
I'm not sure they realized my question was serious. I laughed along with them and pretended it wasn't. But it didn't really matter. I enjoyed being the life of the party and making everyone laugh, intentionally or accidentally. In fact, I was earning a reputation in school and out as something of a cutup. I'd often stand up in class and mimic a teacher whose back was turned. And when the class would erupt with laughter, I would drop into my seat and adopt the most innocent expression imaginable the split second before the teacher turned around.
But what I really lived for was another shot at real popularity — as a ninth-grade cheerleader. All the new activities and other stuff were just groundwork.
As spring approached once more, I practiced by the hour. I sought advice and help from the older cheerleaders. And I did everything else I could to let the coaches know how serious I was about being a cheerleader. When tryouts came I performed my routines for the judges and went home even more nervous than I had the year before.
This time my final year in junior high was at stake. If I was a nobody again in ninth grade, I would go into high school the following year as a nobody. I knew it would be even harder to escape anonymity in high school that it had been in junior high. So I told myself, This could be my last chance.
The next morning loudspeakers throughout the school declared the happy news. Everyone in school heard my name read as one of the next year's cheerleading squad. All my work and planning had paid off. Popularity was finally within reach.
A couple of weeks after the announcement, the new cheerleaders met after school with our P.E. teacher — who was also our cheerleading sponsor — in the health classroom. There we took measurements for new skirts and sweaters and rejoiced in our good fortune at being the squad to get brand-new outfits. Then our sponsor handed out slips of paper and asked us to vote for the squad member we wanted to be our captain. When she collected the votes the rest of us headed outdoors for our first official practice. We were standing outside the door of the gym still discussing which cheer to work on first when our sponsor walked out to join us. "Okay, girls," she said. "The captain of next year's squad is going to be Becky."
I'd never been happier in my life. In fact, happy doesn't really describe what I felt. Ecstasy was more like it. I wasn't going to be a mere cheerleader. I was captain of the cheerleaders. Ninth grade was going to be a great year. Guaranteed.
As I accepted the congratulations of my teammates, I especially noted Kim Calkin's reaction. She smiled her acceptance of me, but I felt certain she had to be disappointed. As the only second-year member of the squad, she must have been expecting to be chosen captain.
I smiled back at her, trying hard not to gloat — at least on the outside. Inside I couldn't help thinking, I'm gonna be captain! I finally beat Kim at something that matters! It's really true! I'm gonna be captain!
I was so certain that being a cheerleader would bring me the satisfaction, the accomplishment, and the popularity I'd always dreamed of that I decided to concentrate totally on my cheerleading. I'd belonged to an AAU swim team since I was eight. And that summer before ninth grade my synchronized swim took home a seventh-place purple ribbon at the junior nationals held in Davenport, Iowa. But when that meet was over I broke the news to my swimming coach that I was giving up swimming in order to have enough time and energy for cheerleading.
Our squad practiced hard all summer. We went together to cheerleading camp. And I tried to exert my leadership through enthusiasm and hard work. I must have been working too hard one practice just before school started in the fall. I pulled a muscle and the doctor put me on crutches.
But I wasn't about to relinquish my leadership of the squad or my spot in the limelight. When the rest of the cheerleaders ran out on the field for the first cheer at the season's first football game, I followed as quickly as I could on my crutches. I took my appointed place in the line and stood for a moment surveying the crowd and savoring the moment. Then I shouted out the signal, "Ready! Okay!" and we launched into our first official cheer.
My injury lasted through the first three or four games. While I couldn't do cartwheels, mounts, or any of the gymnastic routines, there was nothing wrong with my mouth. Or my lungs. I could yell and cheer. I could captain the squad. And doing it all with an injury only illustrated my determination and commitment.
Cheerleading was as fun and wonderful as I'd ever dreamed. But it was also a responsibility I took very seriously. I remember one practice during basketball season. The entire squad was practicing in the hall outside the gym after school. I had the planned practice routine written out on three-by-five-inch cards so I could check off each item as we covered it.
When a couple of the girls started goofing off before we finished, I lashed into them. "The rest of us want to practice. We're working hard so we can represent our school. And I don't even think you two care." I went on to talk about the image we projected as cheerleaders, about school spirit, about how we needed to depend on each other as teammates, and more. By the time I finished my speech I was in tears. And so were the two girls. They apologized to the squad, we hugged, and practice went on.
Ninth grade went on as well. And I gloried in the spotlight. I was no longer anonymous. All the teachers in the school knew my name. All the other students knew me. I was Becky the cheerleader. Captain of the cheerleaders.
And yet I didn't feel popular. How could I? I didn't have a serious boyfriend. Maybe next year, I told myself, if I can just make the high school cheerleading squad as a tenth grader, then maybe a football player will want to date me. That would be the ultimate in popularity, the dream of dreams.
So in April, when tryout time came around once again, I filled out my application to become a Central High School cheerleader. I knew I had a good chance. My grades were good — over 3.5 for my ninth-grade courses — and I had a year's experience behind me. I tried to write all the proper things in answer to the application essay question, "What are the responsibilities of a cheerleader — in school and out?"
I think the responsibilities of a cheerleader, in school and out, would most of all be to represent the school in the best possible way. We should be proud to be cheerleaders and be proud of our team and school as well. I think a cheerleader should have a good attitude toward the team, no matter what the team's standing is. A cheerleader should never think a game is lost until it is all over. She should never give up and always have a positive attitude for the team she is cheering on to victory. A cheerleader should want to give extra time and effort to the squad and cooperate with the other cheerleaders. She should get good grades and try her best to uphold the name of the Central High School cheerleaders.
I went to all the clinics where the older cheerleaders went over the cheers, jumps, and skills required for the tryouts. I practiced like crazy, both alone and with the other members of our junior high squad who also planned to try out. And on the last Thursday afternoon in April I went to the high school gym to try out against all the ninth graders from all the other junior high schools in the district, plus tenth graders from the high school who wanted to be junior varsity cheerleaders the following year.
Almost a hundred girls sat in that huge gymnasium, all of us dressed in dark shorts, white tops, socks, and tennis shoes. And one at a time we were called up to perform a dozen required and optional skills raging from simple jumps and cartwheels to roundoffs and back handsprings. Then we each did three cheers alone and another with a group of girls. The judges rated us on our skills and also noted personal qualities of appearance, pep, crowd appeal, poise, and posture.
And for the third year in a row I made the uneasy trek home, feeling I'd done my best yet wondering if it would be enough. I remembered the thrill and the excitement of making the squad just the year before. But I couldn't forget the terrible pain of losing in seventh grade.
At least this year I knew I wouldn't have to spend another restless night wondering and worrying. If I were selected, I'd know later that evening. It was tradition that the varsity cheerleaders would drive to the new cheerleaders' homes to give them the good news and present them with a congratulatory corsage to wear to school the next day as a victory symbol.
Of course, I was too wound up to eat supper. I couldn't even sit still. All I could do was wander nervously from one end of the house to the other, watching out the front windows for a car or pacing to the phone. While I desperately wanted to call my friends from the junior high squad to see if any of them had heard anything yet, I didn't really want to know that they'd been visited and I hadn't. I wish someone would call me, I thought. But a phone call won't tell me what I want to hear. It would only mean one of my friends has no news, or bad news. So every time I stopped and looked at the silent phone, I thought the worst and hoped for the best.
I was almost eight o'clock when a car pulled into our driveway. My heart and my stomach did a flip-flop as I saw Shawna Davis, the captain of next year's varsity cheerleaders, climb out and start up our walk. I met her at the front door; she congratulated me for making the junior varsity squad, handed me my corsage, gave me a big hug, and promised we were all "gonna have such a great year!" And then she was gone to take the good word to someone else.
I raced immediately to the phone. I hoped my friends had good news, too. But what really mattered to me was that I was going to be a high school cheerleader. The dream was coming true. And I had to tell someone before I died of excitement.