Cheerleaders Don't Cry

24

Albert Cooper

"I need your help."

My room was completely dark, aside from the faint glow coming from my phone. I felt as if I were underwater for a moment - submerged in black, scarce rays of sunlight dripping from the surface. My eyelids were still heavy with drowsiness, and it took me a second to process the four words she'd just said.

I need your help.

My help? We'd barely spoken for the past four months, apart from awkward and unfortunate encounters. It was 1:35 a.m., and Marcy Hannon had called me? On purpose?

"It's the middle of the night," I said, the first immediate thought to cross my mind.

She paused. Her breathing was audible over the speaker. "Please."

I felt a tugging feeling in my chest. I knew that if I hung up, I wouldn't be able to fall back asleep.

I was there in fifteen minutes, parked at the end of the street like she'd asked me to. It was a well-lit area, with street lights planted every four houses, illuminating the road with yellow light. I texted Marcy, and moments later, a shadow emerged from the house near the end of the street. As she approached my car, I noticed the black backpack hanging off of her right shoulder.

She opened the door to the passenger's side and slid into the seat, dropping the backpack at her feet. Her hair was tied back in a ponytail, and she was wearing shorts and a loose grey t-shirt. The street lights cast eerie shadows on her face, shifting with every slight movement. Her eyes looked darker, tired. I suddenly realized that I was wearing plaid pajama pants, a stained shirt, and no socks. My hair was probably sticking up in every direction.

It was dark out, she probably wouldn't notice.

"What's in the bag?" I asked.

Marcy hesitated, keeping her gaze down as she angled the backpack away from me. Her left foot was tapping against the floor of the car. Nervous. "Nothing."

An obvious lie, which meant that she had no intention of telling me what I was helping with - she just expected me to do it. But I still had a faint reminder on my shoulder from the last time this had happened, and I wasn't about to do it again.

I turned the car off and took the keys out of the ignition. "Well this has been fun. Let me know if you want to do it again sometime."

She was motionless in her seat, posture rigid. One hand was tight and white-gripped around the backpack handle. "I only need you to drive," she reasoned.

I shrugged. "Tough luck. I'm not going anywhere unless I know what you're getting me into." I leaned forward, resting my hands against the steering wheel. "What's in the bag, Marcy?"

She didn't move for several seconds. Her left foot had stopped tapping. Finally, the stiffness fell from her frame and she unzipped the backpack, pulling the sides back to show me the contents.

A feeling of dread bloomed in the pit of my stomach. "No," I said immediately upon seeing the three cans of yellow spray paint.

Marcy zipped the bag back up. "You're the only one I could call - " The excuse fell easily from her mouth, unapologetically - as if it'd been sitting in storage for months, waiting to be used. It wasn't true, and she knew that. She had the numbers of half the grade sitting in her contacts.

I said as much, my voice pouring with venom. "Yeah?" I asked slowly. "How about Sam?"

She flinched, but her expression remained guarded. "I'm not asking you to commit a crime," Marcy stated, completely ignoring my last comment. She was deliberately avoiding eye contact. Her left foot had begun tapping again.