Handsome Devil

Ninth grade, high school, A blank slate, a new era...Pep Squad.

I gave up sports for dance. Well, for pep squad. Instead of gym, I had dance. I think deep down, a part of me still preferred to be in gym class. Or better, athletics. I've never been very athletic, but I love sports.

I enjoyed cheering on the football team every Friday or Saturday night. I lived in Texas after all. I already new the rules of football, but I'm still a die hard fan to this day. Football was fall. In the spring came competitions and preparation for next year's audition. Dance team, Varsity Dance team, Cheer, or Pep Squad...again.

I wasn't the best dancer, but I could do most moves and I was flexible.

"Wow! You can do the splits! You should tryout for cheerleader!" a classmate said.

"Hahaha." I laughed it off.

Me? A cheerleader? Never! Besides, cheerleaders need to know how to tumble. Sure I could do a forward flip. It's basically a cartwheel with a little extra twist. But a backhand spring? I couldn't.

Well, why not give it a try? I can climb trees, jump off roofs, and jump over trash cans on roller blades. Surely I can do this backhand spring.

I went upstairs to my bedroom when I got home. Took off my socks and shoes, then changed into some workout gear. Let's try this.

I bent down into a squat, just like I saw the freshman cheerleaders do on the sidelines. Then, my mind knew I had to throw myself up/back and adjust my gravity in the air all while remembering to put my hands down just right, to catch myself.

I put on some music so my mother wouldn't hear all the commotion from downstairs. It happened so quick. My biggest fear was blacking out if my head hit the floor. But my head didn't hit the floor. In fact, my body never made it halfway in the air, nor did I need to adjust my body's gravity.

In the first half-second of the act, the top of my left foot hit the bar at the bottom of the bed, the sharp piece of the bed frame, slicing the top of my foot a good 2-3 inches wide and at least a few centimeters deep. Deep enough for me to show my friends the next day how I could make my battle wound talk by splitting the flaps and moving them back and forth. I made it look like a mouth and was talking for it. Yes, I had issues.

Of course, I needed stitches. But never got any. Was too afraid to tell my mom I needed to go to the doctor and too embarrassed to admit what I was doing. Ouch!

The scar is still there today. Bright, pinkish-brown, and rough. Handsome devil. And just so you know, I never ended up auditioning for cheer or either dance team.