By the next cheer practice, I walk in a new woman. I can literally feel the stares at my feet and sense the other girls thinking, “Well it’s about time.” Everyone else has had their white leather cheer shoes for some time now, while I’ve practiced in my white/turning yellow canvas ones.
And just like little kids that run faster with new shoes, I cheer better. The shoes are way lighter than my heavy, clunky things, and my kicks just seem to go a little higher. We practice for two hours, and it marks the first time I actually feel like part of the team. Don’t really know if it has anything to do with the shoes, but things are just clicking. I remember the choreography. I hit stunts. My jumps are rockin’. I’m soaring high, and the thought of being crowned Homecoming Queen while wearing a fancy dress makes a quick appearance in my head.
Now that I’ve got my shoes, I’m thinking I really need the $120 pair of jeans I saw the other day. And that would take me, what . . . an hour on the poker table?
“Let’s run the dance one more time and then we’re outta here.” Rylee, the cheer captain, leads us into the dance again. The music begins to thump, and I go through the motions because I am too excited about my soon-to-be new jeans to think about anything else. Rhinestones or no rhinestones? Decisions, decisions . . .
Should I go back tonight? The fact that I was just at the casino two nights ago makes me a bit nervous. But then again, the casino peeps should remember me and not bother to ask for ID . . . right?
After the dance, Rylee jumps in front, faces us, and readjusts her headband.
“Practice again tomorrow. If you haven’t paid choreography fees to Miss Mound yet, do it by the end of next week. Good practice today! Can’t wait for football season!” She claps her hands, and the group of ponytails disperses to grab their bags and water bottles.
Shit. Choreography fees.
I’ve got my work cut out for me. For sure.
Choreography fees plus rhinestone jeans equals . . . poker. TONIGHT.
I check my phone, grab my bag, and head for the parking lot. The days are still long, and the sun is still shining. I trot across the parking lot to my lonely car, and wonder if I could win enough to buy me a new one. Well, of course I could!
I throw my things on top of a pile of junk that sits upon more junk. Random stuff that, at a glimpse, would make me appear to be a packrat. America’s Junkiest Cars. Now there’s a reality show waiting to happen. Sunglasses, umbrella, empty chip bag, and I know my geography binder is under there somewhere.
Anticipating the check-in call to Dad, I start to consider my lie options.
I’m going to the library. Nah.
I’ll be at Cassidy’s. No. He drives by her house on the way to his night shift.
I’m washing my car. Nah.
I’m going to Walmart for some personal items. Now there’s something he won’t question.
As I pull out of the school parking lot, I hold one hand on the steering wheel and dig around in my purse for my phone with the other. When I find the little, cheap thing, I decide that with my future abundant poker winnings, a smart phone is definitely on the “to buy” list.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“Just put a gourmet dinner in the oven. I’m trying a new recipe. Are you comin’ home?”
“Dad, frozen pepperoni pizza is not a recipe.”
He laughs.
“It is when you add extra Parmesan cheese.”
Here it goes.
“I won’t be home until later. I need to run by Wal-Mart for some personal things, and it may take a while.” No matter how close I am to my dad, the mention of personal things is ten kinds of awkward.
“Oh okay, honey. Do you still have that twenty I gave you last week?”
That twenty was gone in two days.
“Yeah, Dad. I’ll use that. It’ll be plenty.”
“Alright, honey. If you don’t get home before I leave, be careful and call me before you go to bed.”
“I will. Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, honey.”
That was easy.
I’m two miles into the drive before I decide my cheer practice clothes won’t cut it in a casino. Although there’s no picture of a mascot, anyone could look at my clothes and pin me a cheerleader. But I can’t go home to change.
I have $102. I need every cent of that for the poker table, which rules out stopping to buy a new shirt.
Unless I go to Goodwill, a place Dad and I frequent from time to time.
I head for the store and brainstorm how I’m going to wash a shirt without going home. This could be complicated. When I walk in, it’s the same, familiar, old lady perfume stench. It’s crowded, and there’s a screaming kid on the loose with no apparent supervision. Flipping through the clothes, I look for the one with the least amount of snot, lint, or crust.
A long sleeved button-up should suffice. That way I can keep my t-shirt on and wear it as a jacket, and the dirtiness will only touch my skin from the elbows down. A pretty lavender plaid will do for $2.49. Although the shirt will be on my body in twenty short minutes, I don’t allow it to touch any part of my car, like it has cooties or something. I tuck the bag into the floorboard, away from my other stuff.
As I drive to the casino, I am over-the-top excited. I can’t get there fast enough.
Is this the same high you get from smoking pot?
I park in the back because I know what I’m doing. I reach down for the shirt. Usually when I wash a thrift store shirt I switch the washing machine setting to hot and use an extra scoop of detergent. Never have I put on a shirt straight from the bag.
I pull it out.
Ew . . . I remove the price tag using my teeth. EW.
Then I shake it out and pull it on.
Ew.
Ew. Ew. Ew. EW.
I feel as if bugs are crawling into my hair. To escape it, I repeatedly squirt mango body spray all over myself and hurry up and get out of the car.
When I walk up and see Cute Mafia Guy is working the poker room, I disappear to the bathroom before he sees me. I double check my makeup, powder my face, and then take a long look at myself in the full-length mirror. I remove my ponytail holder and tease my hair to bring it in front of my shoulders. The Goodwill shirt looks wrinkly, like I pulled it straight from the hamper. If only. To make the best of it, I tie it up at the waist.
There’s no waiting list for my table, so I’m immediately seated. I can’t seem to catch my breath. I was expecting a little wait time.
Cards are flying, and I don’t recognize any of the players from the other night. I need Cozy Pops back. I pull the $100 bill from my purse, and the dealer—a man who apparently forgot his morning shave—hollers, “Changing $100.” He stuffs my bill into a slit in the table so I’ll forget it ever existed.
When I reach across the table to scoot my chips closer, I get a whiff of my shirt. Ohmygosh. Beyond stinky. Hopefully the cigarette smoke will overpower me.
It’s arctic freezing in the poker room, and the combination of my nerves and frozenness makes me stiffen my body to refrain from jolting. I quickly look away after Cute Mafia Guy and I make eye contact. Now he knows I’m here. He knows I know he’s here. I run my hand through my hair then look over at him again. He’s talking to a player wearing a baseball cap, but he’s still looking at me. This makes me shake even more.
My chip pile looks tiny because it’s all red five dollar chips. My competitors, however, have mounds of color in front of them. I take a deep breath and start to examine their faces. No smiles. Strictly business. With some empty seats at the table, it’s me and three males.
The dealer looks at me then begins his routine of mix, stack, and deal. The players exchange looks, and a couple of them even look at my stack of chips. I’ve already been assessed and determined fresh meat, and this increases my heart rate. A gent that could pass for a preacher opens the betting with six dollars, a bit arrogant for the first round.
My hand sucks so I toss in the cards and wait patiently for the next hand. Meanwhile, my eyes dart around, searching for Cute Mafia Guy. He’s talking to the regulars, and I can tell he’s gradually making his way over to my table. Two tables over, the extra tan, extra cleavage-y cocktail waitress is reaching over to deliver a Budweiser, and I hope he’s not seeing what I am. They’re probably sleeping together. It’s probably his longtime girlfriend, and she’s waitressing to work her way through med school, and they probably have plans to get married, have four gorgeous kids, and live in a two-story house with a pool so she can lounge around in her string bikini while he does cannonballs to splash her.
Really, he’s too old for me anyway.
I look for gum in my purse while the last hand ends and the next one begins.
“Hey, I see you’re back.” A hand touches my back.
I jump as if a gun has been fired and there he is, and God, is he cute.
“Oh, yeah, just getting a few hands in before I go to the store.” Did that sound grown-up?!
He smiles. Dimples, dark eyes, buzz cut, perfect suit. I’m trying to figure out whose turn it is to talk. I’m too entranced for my brain to function normally. I feel the cards hit my hands and take a peek. King/jack. Come to mama.
He touches my back again.
“Well I’ll let you get down to business. Good luck.”
I throw my cards to the dealer, and turn around to catch him before he walks off.
“Well,” I glance down at his nametag. Nate Bradley. “Looks like I’m going to need some luck tonight.”
“Don’t we all,” the old man sitting next to me butts in. Nate chuckles and walks away to do casino-y stuff. I hate myself for throwing away a good hand in exchange for one chuckle. I can’t let it go . . . King, jack, king, jack, king, jack. I want a do-over.
The hand unfolds as the pot grows and another king comes up.