Chelsea's POV
"Overreaction much?" Ms. Hernandes laughed after Brooke took off to find ice somewhere at a football game.
I shook my head. "I don't know where she thinks she's gonna find ice," I said.
"She'll probably buy a drink and pour it out," she said. "She's completely head over heels, you know."
I had to smile, but I was kind of in shock. I didn't even know she knew about us. "Really?" I said excitedly, sounding like a little kid.
She laughed again. "Oh yeah. Why else would she get so freaked out over that ankle? I mean, it's hardly even red."
I agreed. Though it did hurt, I would be okay. "She was acting like an EMT," I commented.
"No kidding," she said. Then after a while, she added, "Look, Chelsea, don't think I'm a bitch, but I have to say this."
I just nodded, somewhat shocked that a teacher would use the word "bitch" with me.
"Brooke has a kind of a problem. She gets really into someone, and she lets them take over her life. Then they hurt her, and she gets completely beside herself, not knowing what to do, how to react. She just gets broken, and she lets people do it. I've seen it happen too many times already."
I continued to nod my understanding silently, feeling completely for Brooke and understanding that what Ms. Hernandes said was true.
"Just...I guess I'm trying to say, please be careful with her, okay? Because she cares about you a lot, and that gives you the power to break her down. I just don't want to see it happen again. She's my best friend."
"I know," I told her. "And I promise. I care way too much about Brooke to ever think about hurting her. I know she's fragile, and I hate seeing her get hurt. I was ready to fight her last girlfriend..."
"Ugh," she groaned loudly. "Kate."
She said "Kate" the same way Brooke had when she'd come into her apartment, as if it were a curse.
I had to laugh. "That's the one."
"The crazy, anal, neurotic bitch," she illustrated. "That's the one."
"I take it you didn't like her," I said.
"You know what's even worse? I had to pretend to. For two damn years, I had to sit there pretending to like her. And Brooke was always like, 'Try to get along, for my sake." When she impersonated Brooke, she put on an exaggerated high pitched voice. "I mean, how do you get along, with that?"
I smiled, understanding. "I don't blame you."
That's when Brooke came back, holding a plastic bag full of ice. Halftime was almost over by now, but I figured it could only do more good than harm.
"How did you manage that one?" Ms. Hernandes asked, skeptically.
"I had to bully the guy at the concession stand into it," she explained. She took my ankle in her hands and applied the pressure for me. On the outside, it just looked like a coach helping one of her cheerleaders, but to me, it felt like fireworks.
Throughout the second half, my ankle had gone from not-so-bad to worse. Standing on it had made it swell, and doing jumps on it certainly did not help. By the time the game ended, our football team losing by an embarrassing margin, I could barely walk. I came off the field limping, reading Brooke's look of concern the entire time. My entire team was increasingly apprehensive, wondering if I'd been seriously injured, which I doubted I had.
After getting off, I just needed to sit, so I took a spot on the bleachers near Brooke and Ms. Hernandes, mainly because it was closest to the field, but also because it was close to her. A few of the girls crowded around me, asking if I'd be able to cheer the following week, if I was going to the ER, and being generally dramatic. Stupidly, one of them asked, "Are you going to the after-party?"
I laughed contrarily, and politely declined. I could barely walk. How could I party?
Brooke gave her final "congratulations" and "great job" and soon they all left, off to get drunk and have a fabulous time, I was sure.
"Chelsea, you can't drive home," Brooke noted. "You can't even walk."
I hadn't even thought of that. "I'll be fine," I lied. "I just have to get to my car."
"And drive it."
My face fell. "And drive it."
"You take her home," Ms. Hernandes said to Brooke. "When you drop her off, pick me up and take me back here, and I'll drive her car back."
"No," I protested. "That's too much."
"It's no trouble," Brooke said brightly, always the optimist. "We'd be happy to."
"I'll just walk back in the morning and drive it home myself," I offered.
"Oh no," Brooke said. "You're not walking anywhere. I'm not losing my best cheerleader."
I lit up inside to hear her call me her best cheerleader. After a while, I gave up. "Are you sure?" I asked to both of them, but looking at Ms. Hernandes.
"Of course," she said. Brooke added a, "Positive."
I smiled in gratitude. "Thanks," I said, getting up to walk to Brooke's car, not caring how it looked to everyone else that I was leaving with her.
I made it away from the bleachers a few yards, but after a while the pain became too much and I had to stop.
"Are you okay?" Brooke asked, maternally.
"Yeah," I lied. "I just need a second."
"No," she said. "Come here." Before I could tell what she was doing, she'd laced an arm around my back and picked me up under the knees, expertly. She was holding me the way she had the first day at cheering, when I'd fallen into her arms, the first time I realized it was my favorite place to be. I was impressed by how effortlessly she held me. She was definitely a former cheerleader. But I had to snap out of my daydreams and be responsible. My secret lover was holding me in public.
"Brooke," I whispered, giving her eyes of concern. "You can't...what if people..."
"I don't care," she said, shaking her head. "You're not walking. You can't."
As if I weighed nothing at all, she carried me through the field area, down the street, to the parking lot, before opening the passenger door of her car and putting me in the seat. When she'd come around to the driver's side and shut the door, I commented, "I'm impressed."
She smiled, putting the key in the ignition. "With?" she asked.
"You're strong," I explained.
She shook her head, blushing slightly. "You're light," she said coyly, not wanting to take a compliment.
I smiled, looking over at her. "You're adorable," I said.
She put the car in reverse, putting her hand behind my seat and turning around to check her blind spots. She wore an amused expression, though she kept her eyes on the road behind her. "So are you," she said.
The drive to my house was spent in comfortable quiet. Outside the gentle hum of soft rock on the radio, there wasn't much to be heard. For a lot of the ride, I dared to look at her, risking her catching me and wondering why I was staring. The truth was, there was no need to wonder, but she would. Her beauty was undeniable. If you were to survey a hundred people asking whether or not Brooke Chandler was absolutely etherially gorgeous, you would get back a hundred saying yes. The only one who didn't see it was her.
Finally, in the silence, I decided to vocalize my thoughts. "Brooke," I dared.
"Mhm?" she asked brightly, her eyes still on the road.
"Do you know you're beautiful?"
Her face looked quizzical, but still she smiled. "Do you know you're not the first person to ask me that this month?"
"It doesn't surprise me," I answered, though she hadn't done the same for me.
"How come?"
"Because it feels like you just don't get it sometimes," I said.
"Get what?" she asked, illustrating that she indeed didn't get it.
"It's just...Sometimes I think that when you look in a mirror, you can't see what everyone else does. You're the most beautiful person I've ever met, inside and outside, and I swear you have no idea. I don't think you know that you're perfect."
"You're sweet, Chelsea," she said. "But there are way prettier women out there, and there are people with better hearts. I do the best I can, but I'm far from perfect."
"You're my idea of it," I settled on as she pulled into my vacant driveway. After she'd parked the car, she took my hand into hers.
"You're amazing, Chelsea," she said. The only reason I believed it, was because anyone had to be special if they got to be with her.