How to Be Brave Read Online Free PDF Page B

I’m pretty much on my own. My dad means well, but he doesn’t understand.
    He’ll never understand.
    *   *   *
    I sit on the faded wooden bench in the locker room, counting the minutes on my phone until Doom Time. Excuse me. I mean Happy, Fun, Smiley Time. A group of half-dressed freshman girls swarm around me. They’re petite and bubbly and fidgety and oh-so-overjoyed. They don’t seem to notice the thick grime of dirt caked on our neglected lockers or the pungent scent of chlorine and toilet water hanging in the air. They’re too busy squeezing their tiny arms into even tinier sports bras, smearing their eyelids with yellow and blue (Webster HS colors), and dousing themselves in hair spray and body lotion.
    Nine minutes. Nine excruciating minutes until I give Avery et al. my very best self.
    I throw my phone in my bag and pull out the copies of cheers they gave us last week that we’re all supposed to have memorized. I practice under my breath.
    Hey, hey, hey,
    We’re Number One
    We’re the Lions from Webster
    Doing it Together
    Y’all know that it’s true
    So everybody fight
    for the Yellow and Blue!
    The smarty pants in me wants to stand up during tryouts today and point out the abysmal lack of attention to rhyme and meter. But then I take myself back to the image of being up there, a real, honest-to-goodness cheerleader, smiling and moving and getting a crowd riled up. I actually do respect what they do. I crave their positivity, their energy.
    And I think about her letter.
    I want this.
    â€œThey’re all so tiny.” Liss sneaks up from behind, pulls on my braid, and gives me a hug. “When did everybody get so small? Don’t these girls know how to eat?”
    â€œA friendly face.” I hug her back. “Hallelujah.”
    â€œHow are you feeling?” She whispers this in my ear. Then she speaks more loudly so as to announce her presence to the room, to intimidate the girls. It’s what she’s good at. “It’s like the Land of the Lilliputians in here.”
    â€œYou’re wasting your breath with that reference, my friend.”
    A passing mini, who is trying to reach her locker, frowns at Liss. “Um, excuse me. I need to get my brush.”
    â€œOh, yeah. I’m in your way. Excusez-moi, mademoiselle. ” Liss lets her pass and then mouths in a tiny voice to me, “So little!”
    They are quite small, both in age and in body type, but thankfully, I’m not the biggest one here. There’s one other girl who’s not a miniature; she’s a normal like me. She might actually be a little bigger than me, a size 20, I’d guess, maybe even a 22. But it’s clear she’s a freshman. She has that typical blank stare of shock combined with fear mixed with absolute ignorance. She’s cute, though. She’s wearing white Keds, black socks, white leggings, and a shredded black sweatshirt, white bow under her high bun.
    Liss catches me eyeing her. “She looks like an Oreo cookie cupcake,” she whispers. “Or a zebra on parade.”
    I can’t help laughing, even though I disagree with Liss’s snap assessment of her. Liss is being mean, but she’s just trying to make me feel better. To lessen the competition. To build me up. “I like her,” I say. “I’m rooting for her.”
    â€œYou would.” Liss smiles. She gives me a kiss on the cheek. “’Cause you’re a good person. Gregg’s waiting for me.” Gregg’s her new soccer beau. Turns out she likes the game. She used to think it was boring, but now she claims that she gets it. She says she likes the tease of the goal, the long drawn-out wait. She says it’s like making out. She would know better than me. She’s already had a couple of boyfriends—Aaron Sykes for two months freshman year and Paul Licata for all of three months last year. Neither was