Long Story: The Cheerleader with really Nice Legs
It was tough to concentrate in Mr. Fay-guns’ English class because the girl who sat next to me had really nice legs. Her name was Denise, and she was a cheerleader, and almost every day she either wore her cheer outfit (it seemed like every day) or some shorts. Either way, her legs were right there. They were long, tan, and muscular in the right way. When she crossed her legs, there was a muscle that… I know that sounds creepy, but I was in tenth grade, so give me a break.
I really wasn’t thinking anything that weird (for a tenth grader). I admired her legs. They were nice.
My own legs weren’t so nice. My legs were pale, hairy, and very thin. I wore jeans to school every day and never considered wearing shorts, not even on the hottest days.
The cheerleader stereotype is that they’re evil and manipulating (if you watch Nick and Disney shows, which I only do because I have kids. In a few years, they’ll outgrow the shows… hopefully). The cheerleaders at our school were pleasant to everybody and maybe too sensitive. It really bugged them if we didn’t cheer loudly enough, but since most of us actually liked our cheerleaders, we’d fake enthusiasm at the pep rallies just so that they wouldn’t get upset. Maybe they were manipulating us after all.
Denise didn’t fit the cheerleader stereotype either. She was smart. Her boyfriend wasn’t an athlete (but he was a senior). She was nice most of the time. And she didn’t say ditzy stupid stuff. I was more likely to say stupid stuff than she was.
Every guy in school had a crush on Denise at some point in high school. I was lucky because I got mine over with. My delusional stage (where I thought I had a shot at her so I’d freeze whenever I had the chance to talk to her) lasted only a few days. When I realized she was unattainable, I calmed down around her and could speak freely. But I never got tired at looking at her legs.
Denise was the only person at school who called me James instead of Jimmy. She didn’t ask if I wanted be called James, and I never told her to stop or asked her why she did it. It was either really arrogant or incredibly cool of her.
She also stole material from me. Not pencils or papers or homework (or my heart). She stole my lines. Every once in a while, I would whisper something funny to her during class, and then she would repeat it more loudly to her friends who sat on the other side of her. Her friends would laugh which made me feel pretty good, but I don’t think I ever got credit for my work. Copy write infringement wasn’t an issue for me in tenth grade because at least I knew my material was pretty good. And maybe Denise’s delivery was better than mine.
The reason I mention Denise (other than she had great legs) is because one day I wrote something in English class that was so awesome that even she couldn’t steal it from me.
And I promise that I’m getting to it.
To be continued in Long Story: The Sick Teacher .