Free The Meltdown by L. Divine Page A

five times a day. When Mama gave the bracelets to me to wear permanently, the prayers from Netta came with the birthday gift. Mama says that losing our sight is a warning from the Mothers to remember that what they give they can also take. I admit I’ve been slacking in the prayer department lately, but I will make it a point to remember from now on.
    Tuesday’s visit to the optometrist was purely to silence my father’s nagging about not using his medical insurance, yet I ended up with a pair of glasses. I don’t care what that eyedoctor thinks. I don’t really need them, which is why I left the specs on my mom’s coffee table. I refuse to wear those things every day. What’s the point of having the gift of sight if I need help seeing? None of the women in my family has needed outside assistance before.
    My mom’s become overly concerned about my recent hot flashes: She thinks they are a sign of me holding on to residual energy from my vision quests both in and out of my dreams. My mom also strongly suggested that I give Dr. Whit-more—Mama’s trusted family doctor and loyal friend—a visit since I refuse to tell Mama my problem until she returns from her vacation. I agreed to check out the good doctor after school’s out next Friday. Too bad we have cheer practice all summer. I could use a break from those tricks, too.
    “I want you all to welcome our newest addition to the varsity cheer squad—Ellen,” Ms. Carter says, clapping as the boisterous blonde comes jogging out of the girls’ locker room like she’s a celebrity. Where’d this chick come from? She’s obviously not from around here, wearing a fluorescent green scrunchy in her hair.
    “Hi, y’all,” Ellen says, waving excitedly at the rest of the squad. “I’m from a little high school in Houston, Texas, home of the second-best cheer squad in the entire country. Now I’m a member of the number-one cheer squad. Isn’t that right, Lady Hawks?”
    Texas: that explains it. She’s got
privileged Southern girl
written all over her flushed face.
    The rest of the squad cheers loudly, jumping on the Southern bandwagon. Ellen puts her arms straight up in the air and flips backward, not once or twice, but across the entire length of the basketball court without stopping. Even my mouth drops at the sight.
    “Damn,” KJ says from the sidelines, much to the disapprovalof Misty, who’s seated next to her man with the rest of their crew. She refuses to take those tacky-looking blue contacts out of her eyes, but they can’t hide her jealousy. Basketball players love to date cheerleaders, and girlfriend or not, KJ’s no exception.
    “That white girl’s got skills,” Del says, with Money nodding his head in approval.
    I guess they all like what they see. I’m not hatin’ on Ellen’s talent, either, but something about her instant presence makes me uncomfortable.
    “Okay, ladies. Let’s get started. We have only a few days to get our routine for the final assembly tight. Ellen’s going to show us a few moves like that to really impress the crowd and show them our talent for next year,” Ms. Carter says. Ellen’s even got Ms. Carter on one, and she’s never moved to a state of jubilance by a student’s performance. “This is going to be the best cheer season ever. Get to it,” Ms. Carter says as she; the captain, Shauna; and the cocaptain, Alicia, head toward the bleachers. You’d think Ellen invented cheerleading the way everyone’s acting.
    “That’s right,” Ellen says, picking up the red and white pom-poms and shaking them in the air. “Let’s see what you can do. We’ll start with a basic cartwheel and blackflip combination, then move on to the hard stuff.”
    The hard stuff? Is she insane? I’ve never flipped straight a day in my life—side to side or backward—and today’s not the day to try any new tricks. The two routines we’ve been practicing are challenging enough for me, and I can’t afford to be sore for my final