The Cheer Leader

by Jill McCorkle

Genres: Literary Fiction; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Jo Spencer is a girl who knows what to be and how to be it-straight-A student, cheerleader, May Queen, popular and cute and virginal, and in perfect control. But halfway through her first year in college in the early seventies, her carefully normal life explodes and she comes completely undone. In The Cheerleader, Jo Spencer looks back, as if she were watching reruns of old syndicated TV shows, to figure out what happened.

Ordinary chance has dumped Sam Swett, age twenty-one, in the Marshboro, North Carolina, Quik Pik in the middle of a murder. Sam has shaved his head, given away all his belongings except his typewriter; he's drunker than he's ever been and running as fast as he can from his upper-middle-class upbringing. For the next twenty-four hours, Sam is propelled straight into the very core of this small Southern town as it sorts through the facts.

Release date: May 7, 2012

Publisher: Algonquin Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

There is a picture of my mother that she keeps tucked away in her old scrapbook, yellowed pages pressing crumbled corsages, letters, gum wrappers. I used to sneak the book down often just to find that picture, to study every detail. Even now, I can see it: She is seventeen years old and it is her senior prom—she is wearing a strapless gown with a tulle ballerina length skirt. Behind her you can see stars, glittered cardboard—the theme is “Stardust.” For years it bothered me that the man beside her was not my father. It seemed wrong that my brothers and I were not there, wrong that there was no knowledge of me behind those familiar eyes, wrong that there was no bump of a wedding ring under those white gloves, no thought that those gloved hands would one day change my diapers. It made me feel strange, very lonely, and I would cram that picture back between the gardenia crumbs, sneak it back to its place on the shelf in her closet, knowing all the time that I would have to look again.

And I did look again—again and again. I would spend hours sitting on the floor of that closet, my father’s clothes all bunched together on the right, faint traces of tobacco—my mother’s on the left, neatly spaced, hangers going in one direction like a parade of flat limbless people. Sometimes I would try on the clothes so that they wouldn’t look so empty but usually I just sat with the picture box and spread its contents all over the floor. Then I would go through one by one and try to put them in chronological order so that I could see myself, my history, the parts that I could not remember. One day, I labeled all of those parts. I wrote B. J. (before Jo) in black magic marker; I drew a goatee and horns on the man at the senior prom; I put a neat circle around myself every time that I appeared. It seemed very important that all of that be done, even after my mother discovered my documentation and switched the hell out of me. Even now, those parts seem important. I call them pastshots.

There was my parents’ wedding day—specks of rice frozen in midair; Great Aunt Lucille with a lace hankie up to her nose; my mother’s mother with her hand lifted in a slight wave while my parents are caught in a blurred run towards the old black and white Ford on the street. I don’t remember that car because it was B. J. My grandmother died B. J. Much of my father’s hair thinned B. J. and yet, I know that it happened—I know that there was a moment when it was all real, even though what I remember is an old blue Rambler, going to the cemetery on Sunday afternoons to see my grandmother, Lucille looking much older and blowing her reddish snout into a jumbo Kleenex.

My favorite picture of my brother Bobby is one that was taken when he was two. He is sitting on Santa’s lap in front of the old Wood’s dime store and he is crying because he is scared. That picture was taken B. J. but it doesn’t seem as foreign as the others. Maybe it’s because it’s Bobby and because I can remember him making that same face, crying that same way one other time.

This is Mama standing beside the old blue Rambler. When I was three and a half, I spray painted Jo Jo on the side of that car. Mama is fat and she looks upset just as she did when I painted the car. Bobby, who was three, is standing beside Mama and he is filthy dirty, mud all over his little overalls and face. They had called him away from his puddle in the sideyard where he had been making mud pies just to make the picture which Mama later labeled “just before Jo” which is what inspired my own system of documentation and the neat black circle around Mama’s belly. I am told that Bobby could not wait for me to come out because he had always wanted a pet. All he had at that time was a fake snake named Buzzy that he kept in a jar of water by his bed. He wanted to name me Huzzy so that Buzzy and I would be related and for years it was tradition that this story be told on my birthday so that everyone could get a good laugh. Several years ago, that changed, and now they just make a toast to me, a year older, many happy returns.

This is my birth day. It is my debut but I don’t have a long white gown, long stemmed roses, or an escort. All I have is myself and my Mama and the little plastic bracelet that assigned my name and sex, Spencer/Female—a picture of the beginning of my beginning, though there is not the slightest resemblance. This picture disturbed me, not just because I look so different, but because of what Great Aunt Lucille (who was not so great) told me on the day of her husband’s funeral, that my mother threw up the entire nine months that she carried me, that she was so miserable, the most pitiful sight, that I almost killed my Mama coming out backwards the way that I did. “You ripped her wide open,” Lucille said and blew her nose in a jumbo Kleenex. My mother said that Lucille shouldn’t have told me that, that I was worth it all; but it was true. Now, when I think of that picture, I am reminded that I made my Mama vomit nonstop for three-fourths of a year, that my whole life started in reverse, that Lucille was a bitch and is now a dead bitch. However, the picture did have one very useful function. It was the bit of proof that I clung to all of those times that Bobby told me that he was the real child and that I had been left in the trash pile by some black people who did not want me.

Here, I am eating something that is green and comes in a little jar. Mama zeroes in on my mouth while making train noises, choo choo chugga chugga. Bobby is right there beside my high chair and he is holding long and rubbery Buzzy. “Buzzy loves you, Jo Jo. Buzzy wants to kiss you, Jo Jo. Buzzy wants a bite of your lunch, Jo Jo,” and after rubbing Buzzy all over me, he dove Buzzy’s nasty rubber head into the nasty green cuisine and it all froze: Buzzy’s head always covered in green slop, Mama’s spoon suspended on the invisible railroad track, her lips pushed forward in a “choo” while I sit helplessly, unable to control what is about to happen, unable to control the story that goes with this picture. I have felt that way many times.

It is my first birthday, documented by the one candle and the little “1” above the circle around my face. I am allowed to put my hands inside of the cake and mush up the good chocolate insides, squish them between my fingers, rub it on my face—so good for little Jo Jo for at this time, guilt was not associated with pleasure. Bobby is wrapping his gift to me (a girl snake named Huzzy) around my tiny wrist like an Egyptian bracelet. I am told that I never minded Bobby’s attention; he was the dark haired creature who stood at the end of my crib when my diapers were being changed and made me laugh. I have always liked Bobby’s attention and sometimes, still, he can make me laugh.

Bobby and I are sitting on the front steps with our Easter baskets on our laps. He is holding me so that I don’t tumble down the steps in the few seconds that it takes Daddy to take our picture. Bobby had taken all of my red and purple eggs and replaced them with his white and black ones. He told me that he did that because he wanted me to have the “good” eggs. I loved him for that and yet, I hated to take all of the good ones because all I did was roll them around in my mouth and then leave them places where they would not be found for a long long time. I was feeling quite pleased when Mama yelled at Bobby for giving me all of the “bad” colors. I cried during the picture but then I forgave Bobby when he gave me all of the pretty colored tinfoil off of all of his chocolate eggs after he had eaten them. He also gave me all of the pretty colored tinfoil off of all my chocolate eggs after he had eaten them. My faith was restored and it made me smile such a sweet smile that Daddy had to take another picture. “A happy hoppy picture,” he said, so I sat very still like a good Jo Jo when all the time I was confused by the fact that I did not know “good” from “bad,” yet was content to roll both “good” and “bad” eggs in my mouth and deposit them in places where they would not be found for a long long time—infantile artifacts to remind me of myself on that particular day.

We are all in the front yard of the house on the corner of Walnut and 16th streets, Blue Springs, North Carolina. The house is red brick and the shutters were white then. There is a flat football on the roof of the house, thrown there by Bobby just two weeks before. He did not get a whipping because he had chicken pox. He is standing beside Mama and she looks upset. I am in Daddy’s lap, a perfect circle around my face, and we are off to one side on the steps. The top of Daddy’s head is cut off by Mr. Monroe, the fat man from next door, who took the picture. I am crying because I have just been switched for spray painting Jo Jo on the side of the old blue Rambler. At three and a half, I am told that I looked just like Lucille because of my dark auburn hair and wide green eyes. (I see no resemblance.) Already, I was starlet material because I had learned that if you will cry the first time that the switch hits (unlike Bobby) that it will not last as long and if you go further to pout and moan, then you can, indeed, hurt them worse than they hurt you. I also learned something else; you can get away with bad things if you are sick. This is a thought that has crossed my mind several times over the years.

It is my fourth birthday and I am sitting on my new red trike. Daddy tells me to hold up four fingers so I put them in front of my face (an age when obnoxious behavior is acceptable). Bobby is sticking his foot into my picture because a bee just stung it. He was trying very hard not to cry but he did anyway and it made me laugh to see him do that. I laughed and he pulled my hair until it almost came out but I did not fight back; I just sat there so that he would get in trouble (which he did). I had hurt him worse than he hurt me but I didn’t enjoy it anymore when Mama switched him (in spite of the bee sting) and sent him inside. I made it up to him by letting him pull all of the roses off of my cake and then letting him blame me when Mama saw it with nothing but candles and a little ballerina. Looking back, I realize that this is the only time that I actually remember seeing Bobby cry. The time that he busted his head on the pier at Moon Lake, he just turned very white, and when Nancy Carson dumped him, he locked himself in his room, but I didn’t see him cry. He didn’t even cry in part three of Lassie Come Home when Timmy is burying Lassie’s toys at the foot of that hill. No, but there was one other time that I can really remember seeing Bobby cry only it is hard to remember why. He was all grown up and we were down at the lake and he cried just a little, a quiet cry, and I didn’t laugh that time because somehow it was my fault—somehow, I had made Bobby cry.

This is a B. J. that is out of line but I can’t help thinking about it. It is a picture of my mother’s mother, the same picture from the wedding except this time, she has been cut away from the group shot and blown up. Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight bun, and there is a slight smile on her face, her hand still raised in a wave. This is the only way that I know her and I have always felt slighted that she died before she saw me, that this is the only picture I can get of her. Every time that I have ever been to her grave, I see this face, beneath the dirt, inside that box, and it is a frightening thought because I know deep down that there is no trace of resemblance, that that slight smile that I have always wished had been smiled at me has long ago slipped into decay.

It is a very famous holiday but no one had taken the time to tell me about the historical figure that I came to admire so much. I am in Tiny Tots and I am afraid. This was my debut into social circles and although I did not know what I was feeling, I was feeling the need to be accepted and liked by the other children. I sat on a big red fire truck so as to call attention to myself in the picture but then a boy knocked me off and handed me the tambourine that he had been playing with. I did not know how to use it because I have never been musically inclined, so it was just as well when a girl that I did not know from Adam’s housecat took it away from me. It was in this very scene that I was introduced into Survival of the Fittest but I did not feel very fit so I wandered onto the floor and started spinning with some other people to this song called “I’m spinning, spinning like a top,” but I got dizzy and had to sit down at one of those little tables. I was sitting across from a girl who wore glasses and she was doing something that Bobby had just taught me to do. She was crossing her eyes and I realized that for the first time I had found someone who shared an interest with me. “Hey, I can do that, too,” I told her and crossed mine. The teacher saw me and slapped my hand, pulled me away from the girl and told me that what I had done was not nice at all. I cried the rest of the day, because I felt guilty, because I was worried that my eyes were going to cross and get stuck as punishment for what I had done.

This is my Kindergarten class. The only difference between Kindergarten and Tiny Tots was that we had a different teacher and it was called Kindergarten instead of Tiny Tots. We did the same things such as dance to “I’m spinning, spinning like a top” and shake tambourines (which I had mastered). I had learned that Killing with Kindness is a good way to combat Survival of the Fittest (a method that I clung to for years); I could get anything that I wanted and maintain a sense of moral superiority. I was becoming fitter all the time. I also learned that the girl who had caused me to get into trouble way back in Tiny Tots had a name, Beatrice, and often, I would try to make up with her by telling her that I liked her dress even when I didn’t (a tactful lie which should be distinguished from damn lies and bald-faced ones). Beatrice would have nothing to do with me when I gave these compliments. This made me feel worse and I would try even harder to make her forgive me. In the very second of this picture (we are all lined up in front of the jungle gym) I whispered to Beatrice that I liked her shoes (a tactful lie, they are hideous brown patent leather orthopedic looking shoes) and she would not even say thank you. I decided that if Beatrice did not want to be popular, that was her red wagon.

This picture documents a holiday, the day that would determine the weather for the next six weeks of 1963. Everyone kept talking about the groundhog and I thought that I would like to meet this pig because we shared similar interests. Like the groundhog, I wanted very much to live in a nice dark hole where no one could see me and forecast the weather. I felt like everyone was watching me and spying on me and that is why, here, I am dressed as an old lady with a scarf on my head, Mama’s high heels and a red bathrobe. Daddy thought that I was playing dress-up which is why he took the picture. I could not explain to him the very serious reasons that led me to adopt this costume. It was my disguise and it made me think wonderful poetic thoughts that I could not think at Kindergarten for fear that someone would hear me. Beatrice was a prime suspect because she was always so intent on whatever she was doing. When she shook the tambourine, she watched every single silver jingle (rhyme, alliteration, onomatopoeia) and when she finger-painted, she studied her hands very carefully. Beatrice had new glasses that made her eyes unstick and I was convinced that if she chose to see what I was thinking, that she could do it. I wanted to make friends with Beatrice so that she would not do this to me, but she still was not interested in being popular. I was popular at Kindergarten but when I dressed in my old lady suit, I had a lot in common with Beatrice because I had very intense thoughts. I can’t remember when I outgrew the red bathrobe and replaced it with a blue one. I can’t remember when Beatrice decided that she wanted to be popular, can’t remember when her eyes lost all semblance of intensity, can’t remember if the groundhog saw his shadow in 1963, can’t remember if he saw it this past year or not, but I can understand why he hides when he does see it.

I am at Lisa Helms’ birthday party and we are all in the first grade. She is the one in the center with the thin bird face, sticking out her tongue. This is a symbol of the future, for at her next party, when we are all in the sixth grade, she will bring out an egg timer to see who can French kiss the longest. The boy on the far right, back row, with the black crew cut and simian features is Ralph Craig. He will win the future contest first with Lisa and then with Tricia McNair who will not move to Blue Springs until the third grade. (She will be a knockout with lots of sex appeal.) The girl standing beside me with long dark hair (she’s the one doing horns over Lisa Helms) is my best friend, Cindy Adams. When we all leave the party, Lisa will give out the favors (which was usually the best part of a party). The boys will get plastic army tanks and the girls will get toilet water. I will pour mine into the commode that night only to discover that Lisa gave us rip-off favors; after one flush, it is gone.

Looking back on that event, I cringe at my ignorance. Beatrice never would have made such an error but then again, Beatrice didn’t have the chance; she was not invited to that party. All of the other girls were coming to school with Lisa’s toilet water behind their ears and for weeks, I was afraid that someone was going to ask me why I wasn’t wearing some of mine. My Daddy thought the whole situation was very funny; my mother offered to buy me a whole Tussy kit so that I could get some more toilet water and still, it bothered me. It seemed that Beatrice and I were the only girls in first grade who smelled only of soap, clothes detergent and whatever we had for breakfast.

Here we all are back in the front yard. It is Bobby’s tenth birthday and we all have on hats with yellow streamers coming off the top. Bobby is standing beside his new red bike and he is holding up both hands for ten. I hold up seven fingers; Daddy doesn’t have enough fingers to hold up so he just smiles, and Mama (with a look of discomfort on her face) holds up little Andrew who cannot even hold up his head and therefore, cannot keep his hat on. It keeps sliding forward and he looks like a little slobbering aardvark. Mr. Monroe (who still lives next door and is even fatter than before) takes the picture and catches little Andrew’s spittle right before it hits Mama’s blouse.

Looking back, I can remember seeing that slobber hit Mama’s blouse and run down her left bosom. She squealed and again got a look of discomfort. I realize now that this look did not come solely from the slobbered upon blouse but just from little Andrew in general. You see, (unlike me) Andrew was not planned or on the up and up. It was like playing Bingo and not really concentrating; covering all four corners and not even realizing; meekly yelling “bingo” as an echo to another bingoer and even though you have bingo, you lose. Mama was not prepared; when I am a Girl Scout some years in the future, I learn that that is something you must always be. Like me, Mama has changed her mind on a few occasions. In the future she claims that little Andrew (Andy) is a “blessing,” “the sunshine of her life.” And like Mama, I can honestly say that I, too (though it may be hard to believe), have screwed up once or twice.

This is the second grade class. I am circled on the front row where the short people stand. I look a little disturbed because Ralph Craig had just asked, “Why do cherry trees stink?” He did not even give anyone time to think of an answer before he said, “George Washington cut o. . .