Dreamland by Sarah Dessen Read Free Book Online

good care of her,” Stewart went on. “And I know that Adam is doing the same for Cassandra. She’s such a smart girl. She wouldn’t be with anyone who’d do anything less.”
    My father, with those nerves of steel, didn’t react to this except by one, solid nod. Outside, I could hear my mother laughing, her and Boo’s voices getting closer.
    â€œWell,” my father said, glancing in again at the game as a quarterback ran down the field, dodging and twisting, ducking and rushing, all the way to the end zone. “I hope you’re right.”
    They were quiet after that, with just the sizzle of the steaks and the bug light buzzing every few minutes. It was getting dark outside, and the food was almost ready. So I went into the kitchen, watched the sun set, and ate ambrosia salad with my fingers at the end of this, another summer.

CHAPTER FOUR
    My making cheerleader changed my mother’s life. She showed up at all our early exhibitions and games, wearing one of many Jackson High School sweatshirts and pins, clapping and cheering so loudly I could always hear her over anyone else. She organized our bake sales and car washes, packed snack bags full of apples and Rice Krispies Treats for away trips, and had my uniform dry-cleaned and pressed promptly after each game. She had finally found something to concentrate on that was familiar and busy in the strange silence of Cass being gone. She was almost happy. And that should have been enough for me to keep at it.
    But the truth was, I hated cheerleading. Whatever zest and pep the other girls had that made them cartwheel, high kick, and smile constantly was missing in me, like a genetic or chemical malfunction. I felt like an impostor, and it showed.
    Because I was the lightest of all the girls, it was decided early on that I would be the one at the top of the pyramid formation we did in our big cheers. This also led to me being hated with a passion by Eliza Drake, who because of the birth control pill had put on about fifteen pounds over the summer—mostly in her hips and butt—and was subsequently bumped to a lower, supporting position. She could have been on top, for all I cared. I was scared of heights, and climbing up all those backs to be lifted to stand, with someone grasping the backs of my knees, made my head spin. All I could think about was toppling down, falling head over feet to crash on the gym floor just as the marching band trampled over me playing “Louie Louie.”
    When I was up there, wobbly and light-headed, I always thought the same thing: After this game, I quit. But then I’d look out in the stands and see my mother beaming up at me, waving and wearing the same proud smile my father had the night Cass kicked the winning goal, bowed her head to accept her Homecoming Queen crown, or stood up for human rights on local TV. In all my life, going for the bronze, I’d never gotten a look like that before, and I knew if I quit, it would break her heart. It was like I’d somehow thrown her a lifeline, without even meaning to, and to let go right now meant she’d fall back into missing Cass and just drown.
    But I was not my mother’s only new hobby.
    â€œWhat is this?” Rina whispered to me one afternoon when we stopped by my house after school en route to a game. I’d forgotten my cheerleading sweater again, just as I was always forgetting something crucial—regulation socks, matching ponytail holders, pom-poms. I was learning this sport had too many accessories for my taste: It was like being Barbie.
    The this Rina was referring to was my mother’s new Victorian decorating scheme, which consisted mostly of wreaths, sprigs of dried flowers hanging from the walls, and various knicknacks—thimbles, tiny tea sets, families of glass swans—cluttered on every flat surface. The worst, however, were the Victorian-era dolls she kept ordering from QVC, all of them with porcelain