Page 2 of The Cheerleader

May 1975, UConn, Storrs, CT

It’s ironic and possibly fateful that the first person I see after my appointment with admissions at UConn is Liz McNeil.

“Oh my god! Is it really Susie Bennett? What the heck are you doing here? I heard you were at Smith.” Liz doesn’t stop walking, heading straight for me, deviating from whatever path she was on to wrap me in a big hug.

I laugh and let out a breath as my heart settles from the initial jolt of seeing her, accepting her embrace and feeling the warmth. Whatever else Liz was guilty of, she’s always been genuine about how she feels and, strangling a flinch of my own guilt, I admit to myself that she’s always been painfully loyal as a friend.

“It’s good to see you too,” I say, surprising myself. It’s true.

She lets me go, aiming her brilliant smile at me. I find myself smiling right back because I can’t help it. All those junior high hijinks flood my memory—bringing a different set of clothes to school and changing in the girls’ room, tossing out our lunch and eating ice cream that Liz talked the cafeteria ladies into giving us instead.

It’s like nothing ever happened between us. It’s as if she hadn’t been cut out of my life like she was poison. Technically, it was my parents who decided she was a bad influence and sent me to Loomis Chaffee, the prestigious private girls’ high school. Away from my best friend growing up, my best friend to that point.

But her family problems spilled over and worried my parents. They didn’t want me encountering Liz’s father. Didn’t want me poisoned by the terribleness of Liz’s family problems. But what about Liz? Who was going to save her from the terrible problems?

Liz thought it was cool that I was going to Chafe and assumed we’d still be best friends, that we’d share our different experiences like we always did, and hang out in the summers and on vacations. But that never happened.

“It’s been, what? Six years?” she says. Her smile doesn’t falter, and there’s no accusation in her voice, but that doesn’t stop guilt from attacking me as if it has good reason. It doesn’t. It shouldn’t.

I never told her that my parents forbade me from keeping in touch with her. We wrote to each other for a while until I got caught. My mom was horrified and cried, making me feel so guilty. Mom was there that night I’ve been trying to forget. The night she dragged me to the bar where her dad hung out. Not now. I mentally squeeze the dark memory from my head and try to bury it deep again, where it’s been all this time. Not deep enough.

I was a good girl, always wanting to please my parents because they always wanted what was best for me; they genuinely cared. I had every right to choose my parents over her. I was a child.

So I stopped writing and never spoke to Liz again. Until now.

Now, hopefully, we’ve both done some growing up.

Taking a deep breath, I nod and say, “I just transferred to UConn. I start in the fall.” I wave an arm in the direction of the admissions building.

She shrieks. “Are you kidding? That’s fantastic. Come with me.” She doesn’t wait for an answer, sweeps an arm around my shoulder, and walks, pulling me into her powerful wake.

Her energy compels me to go along. She’s more forceful now than she was in junior high, seemingly more confident. But I know back then there was a lot of bravado fueling her big personality, and I wonder if her new level of confidence is real or just a more perfected version of her youthful bravado.

“How are your parents?” I’m curious to know if Liz’s circumstances have improved. Guilt winds its way up my neck to heat my cheeks, and I look away. I’m hoping she’s not still the poor girl with an angry drunk dad who can’t hold a job. It was a hard thing for her.

Since my own dad has been unemployed for six months, I might have the tiniest bit of understanding about money worries. But not the rest of what she’s been through.

I’m not too absorbed in my personal riches-to-rags story to notice the interruption of Liz’s smile and the telltale scrunch of her nose.

But she doesn’t turn away in embarrassment, shame, or apology, and aims those same brave blue eyes at me like she always did. “Mom’s hanging on with the help of food stamps and Dad’s disability checks. He mostly stays in bed now.”

The absence of her smile is strange, making her look like a different person. She acknowledges her stark reality so fully and deeply that I feel the solidness of her bravery, almost like a punch. My chest tightens.

I don’t say anything because I can’t, and because there’s nothing to say. Whatever distance time and my parents threw between us has been obliterated.

Her smile returns, wry and a little sad. “In my opinion, it’s better that he’s bedridden.”

I nod because I know what she means. He used to wreak havoc in their household when he was on a drinking bender, which happened far too frequently. Not weekly, maybe not even every month, but waiting for the inevitable to happen made it worse. At my insistence, Liz spent a lot of nights sleeping over at my house whenever her dad broke his promise to quit drinking again.

When my parents sent me to Chaffee, insisting I make new friends, I resisted for a while out of loyalty, wondering if there wasn’t something I could do for Liz. Now I realize that’s what my parents were worried about—me getting dragged into something dark that I knew nothing about.

We exchanged a few letters before I was caught, and it all stopped. Then I heard nothing about Liz. We lived in the same town but in two different worlds. The only thing I heard about Liz was that she was class valedictorian when it was in the local paper.

Stopping on the dirt path to an unfamiliar building, I reach out and take Liz in my arms. She stiffens at first, which is strange, except I understand her pride and not wanting sympathy. Then she softens immediately, expelling a long breath.

“I’m so glad you’re not at home anymore, Liz. So glad you’re here.”

She backs up, separating from the embrace. “Thank God for scholarships for poor kids.” She makes a face.