Free The Whole Story of Half a Girl by Veera Hiranandani Page B

Friday afternoon, I see a crowd of twenty or so girls looking for their names on the list in the girls’ locker room. I watch Kate run up to the list, bounce on her toes, and clap her hands. I watch Jess look at it, squeal, and hug Kate. I watch some other girls look at it, hang their heads, and walk away. I watch Christina, the girl I met at Kate’s house, look at it and start crying. I push my way to the front. Kate comes up out of nowhere and puts an arm around my shoulders. My eyes scan the list. I don’t see my name, and I swallow hard to make sure not one tear sneaks out. Then way at the bottom I see two names. One is mine. It says in bold capital letters SONIA NADHAMUNI—ALTERNATE . “Alternate.” It’s a word I’ve never really heard of before, in the sense that someone could be one. Yet I am.
    I’m not sad, I’m not happy. I’m an alternate.
    “What does it mean?” I ask Kate.
    “It means you’re totally on the team!” she says, hugging me.
    I see Jess and some other girls who’ve made it huddle around one another, talking fast with flushed faces. I was better than Jess, way better. I was better than most of those girls, maybe not Kate, but better than most. Maybe it doesn’t just have to do with how good you are. Those girls aren’t new. They have names everyone can pronounce. They know exactly which lunch table they belong at.
    “But how is it different?” I ask Kate.
    “Don’t worry. I’m captain, and as far as I’m concerned, you’re on the team just like anyone else,” she says. Then she grabs my arm and thrusts me into the circle of the other giggling cheerleaders. Their voices blur into one shriek of excitement, one high-pitched sound that rings in my ears.
    I find out later from the other alternate, Ann, what it really means. It means I can practice with everyone, but I only cheer in the games when one of the real cheerleaders can’t make it, which is probably not very often. Ann doesn’t seem upset by this, so I pretend I’m not either and stand with my hands in my pockets with a stiff smile on my face. I’m half Indian, I’m half Jewish, and now I’m half a cheerleader.
    I’ve avoided eye contact with Alisha all day, but here I am waiting for my bus with no escape. She comes up to me, but before she even says anything, I tell her why I didn’t call her.“I kind of got into a fight with my parents last night and I never asked them about coming over. I’m sorry,” I say.
    “Was the fight about coming over to my house?” she asks.
    “What? No. Why would you think that?”
    “I don’t know,” Alisha says, and walks off to where her bus pulls up.
    I trudge off to my own bus and wonder if Alisha will ever want me over again.
    At home nobody rushes to ask me if I’ve made the team or not. Natasha is locked in her room again, banging on her drums louder than I’ve ever heard her. Mom is busy making dinner, and for once I’m happy to see her cooking even if she’s preparing something with lots of tofu and spinach to make up for lost time. Dad’s outside in his navy blue bathrobe sweeping leaves off the patio.
    It’s strange how robes and pajamas can seem so cozy at the right times and so sad at the wrong times. I open the sliding glass door and feel a surprising chill in the air. It smells like cold dirt, like snow about to fall, like winter.
    “Can I help?” I ask him.
    He turns around and then I see it, the cigarette in his mouth, the smoke in the air, curling around his head. He might as well be naked. I’ve never seen him smoke. I didn’teven know he did. I wonder what other things I don’t know about my dad. A quick sweat breaks out on my forehead. I grip the doorframe to steady myself.
    He holds out his broom to me, sits down on the picnic bench, and presses the cigarette into the stone patio until it’s out. I begin sweeping fast. I want to finish and leave this stranger smoking on our patio.
    “Did you make the team?” he asks.
    I stop sweeping and