LITMIR.BIZ

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or brighter bulbs. There’s a Target up the street.

      I wasn’t complaining, Mom, and please get out of my head. I’m in a meeting with my counselor, I say, staring at Mr. Adelizi, who’s concentrating on my transcripts. Thank God, because I still haven’t mastered hiding the distant look on my face when my mom’s in my head; yet another thing I need to work on.

      “Well, how about cheer?” he asks, handing me one of the fluorescent pink fliers posted all over the campus and ending the psychic conversation in my head. I look at the bright pink and green paper, grateful I don’t have to hand these out. I’m getting a headache just reading the damn thing.

      “Come again?” He must not know me at all, no matter how much he pretends to be in tune with his students. Obviously he’s been gravely misinformed about Jayd Jackson.

      “Weren’t you on the spirit squad last year?” Mr. Adelizi asks, reminding me of my brief attempt at joining the lesser of the school spirit teams. That was at the beginning of my sophomore year, before I had my breast reduction surgery, which changed more than my appearance: It also gave me more confidence and a new outlook on my social life.

      “I was, but only for a few weeks. It wasn’t my thing.” I can still smell the sweat of a thousand other students who wore the school mascot costume before me, which the members rotated wearing every week. It’s one thing to do it every now and then for fun, but to have to wear the large, two-piece sea-hawk costume for three hours straight is pure torture.

      “But you were in dance class for the last two semesters and that seemed to work well for you, or does Ms. Carter simply hand out A’s to all of the students?” Mr. Adelizi can be a real smart-ass when he wants to.

      “No, I earned that grade.” And I did. Ms. Carter’s a tough teacher and I miss the creative and physical workouts her classes gave me. I’ve noticed my pants getting a little tighter around the waist since her class was discontinued last semester, and Jeremy constantly feeding me isn’t helping the situation much, either. Now she’s the full-time cheer squad coordinator. But I’m still not going to be a pom-pom girl.

      “Okay then. Sign-ups start today after school,” Mr. Adelizi continues, still not feeling me.

      “Mr. Adelizi, I’m already in the drama club, speech and debate, and the African Student Union, not to mention I work two jobs. I don’t have time for anything else, but thanks for your concern,” I say, rising from my seat. But apparently he’s not through with me yet.

      “Miss Jackson, I remember the first time we spoke about your attending college and I was less than supportive, and for that, I’m sorry,” Mr. Adelizi says, signaling me to reclaim my seat. I’m in no rush to get back to government class, so I’ll gladly stay until the bell rings. After that, I’m out whether he’s in midsentence or not.

      “It’s cool,” I say. I was over that shit the day it happened. When I first came to South Bay High, with its rich, white population, I knew where I was and didn’t expect anything more or less from the administration up here. And unfortunately, Mr. Adelizi was partially correct to jump to the conclusion that I might not want to attend college. Out of my hood crew, I’m the only one who wants to attend college. Nigel’s automatically going, but sports are his motivation, not academics or upward social mobility, because his parents are already doing well financially. Rah will probably go, but if he doesn’t get in it won’t be a big deal to him. And as for my girls, they never even considered going to school any longer than they have to.

      “No, it’s not. I made an assumption about you based on your economic background and that wasn’t fair.” Mr. Adelizi looks truly repentant for his racist ways, but why now? There has to be a catch.

      “To be honest, I’m used to it. It shocks me more when people don’t size me up when they find out I’m from Compton.” We stare at each other for a moment, unsure of who should speak next. I’m sure he wasn’t expecting such a blunt response, but again, he doesn’t know me at all.

      “Excuse me, Mr. Adelizi. There’s a call for you on line two,” one of the school secretaries says, stepping into the open door and breaking the awkward silence.

      “Can you please tell them I’ll be just a moment?” Mr. Adelizi looks at my transcripts on the computer screen in front of him and back at me. “Jayd, I’m impressed with your tenacity. You’ve kept up with your Advanced Placement courses and you continue to stay active in drama, but that’s not going to be enough to make you stand out as a well-rounded candidate for the top colleges, which I hope you’re still considering applying to come fall.” Mr. Adelizi looks down at the blinking phone on his crowded desk and back up at me, hoping his words have sunk in.

      “Trust me, it’s all I think about.” The sooner I get out of high school, the better. And from what I heard KJ’s older friends say about college life when KJ and I were together, and from what Mr. Adewale’s shared about his experiences, University of West Los Angeles is the place to be, and that’s where I plan on going. I’ve never been to the campus, but I’m sure it’s all that and then some.

      “That’s good to hear. There are many colleges that are looking to broaden the diversity of their student population. That said, they are looking for top candidates from the local distinguished high schools first. Now, I have placed your name on that list for South Bay and hope you’re open to the program.”

      “It sounds like a good opportunity, Mr. Adelizi. Thank you,” I say, surprised that I was called into his office for good news rather than the usual bull.

      “But there’s a catch,” Mr. Adelizi says, cocking his pale chin forward with a stern look of caution. I knew there was more to it. He almost got me off my game, but not completely. “Your records have a few minor negatives that need to be balanced out. I suggest you either join a sport or cheer. Either will show you can be a team player and that’s an important character trait. That little temper of yours can be played down if your activities are more varied.”

      “I’ll think about joining another club or something, but truthfully, cheerleading isn’t my cup of tea.” The bell signaling the end of third period rings and that’s my cue to roll out. I don’t want to be late for Mr. Adewale’s class, even though we have a quiz in speech and debate this afternoon. It’s always a pleasure to see him.

      “But how will you know until you try?” Was this dude listening to the conversation I had with myself yesterday about trying out for Susy, the lead role in the spring play? Could Mr. Adelizi actually be on to something with cheer? “Think outside the box, Jayd. That’s what colleges look for in serious candidates.” Mr. Adelizi takes the call and leaves me to mull over my options.

      Is my future here already? College always felt so far away from high school, but my senior year is around the corner. I’ll be out on my own soon and I want to have the best options available to me. Wait until my crew finds out that I, Jayd Jackson, Miss “I hate all things ASB, athletes and cheerleaders” is thinking of joining the enemy. I’ll really be coined a traitor then.

      The quiz in fourth period took up the majority of class time, leaving my crew and me no time to chat. It’s a hot, sunny day and everyone’s outside eating. So far, Nellie has dominated the lunch conversation, sharing all the vivid details of her first Lamaze class with Mickey and Nigel. They’re required to have a backup labor partner for Mickey just in case the father’s not there, and Nellie jumped at the chance to take control of another aspect of Mickey’s pregnancy. If I can get a word in edgewise, I can lay out the news about pom-poms in my future for everyone to laugh at. Maybe they’ll even talk me out of it. It’s a silly idea, me a cheerleader in the short skirts and tight sweaters, screaming Go, team, go! in front of a crowd. No, not me. It may be fun sometimes, but I can’t imagine becoming one of them.

      Nellie takes a break from her chattering about the latest breathing techniques to ease labor pains to take a sip of her Diet Coke, finally allowing me the chance to share my news.

      “I’m thinking about trying out for cheer,” I say in between Doritos. Chance, Jeremy, and Nigel all look as shell-shocked as I feel for

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