By: Joey Maree
ˈbrādəd/:a length of hair made up of three or more interlaced strands
My hair was nothing special, just long, brown, and basic. It wasn't until middle school that I looked at it differently and felt grateful for what it gave me. I was alarmed the first time it happened, but soon I welcomed it; I yearned for it. I would hurry to homeroom, plop myself into my seat, and pull the rubber band from my unkempt ponytail. My afterthought of a mane spilled past my shoulders, over the edges of my desk, and into the hands of Monique Norton, the girl who sat behind me in the seventh grade. Sometimes we sat quietly, obeying our homeroom teacher, after assessing her mood and knowing that today was not the day to mess. She was a crabby old goat known as Ms. Anus, under our breath, but short for her given name, Ms. Ainsworth. On her good days, kids doodled while others passed notes or created slam books; The Instagram of the '80s. Some kids slept behind propped-up books or ranked on the teacher when she wasn't looking, but most of us just zoned out, waiting for Mrs. Anus to fumble through the attendance sheet over her shaking hands. Monique would sit silently, weaving my hair between her long brown fingers.
Pick, pull, twist, repeat.
Other times, when Mrs. Anus was distracted in the hall with a paddling or a chat with another teacher, the class would erupt. Monique would laugh open-mouthed, exposing her perfectly crooked smile, and carry on all the while weaving and plaiting my hair.
Pick, pull, twist, repeat.
Monique braided her hair too, but her plaits were tight. Sometimes they were adorned with beads; other days, she wore them wild and free like the girls on Soul Train. Once in a while, she wore a small black cloth like a silky swim cap but knotted at the top. I never thought to ask why. It just was.
I cheered for the Bishop Bobcats, and Monique was a Bobcat basketball player. People take cheer pretty seriously in the South. They live and breathe sports, and as the original hype girls, it was our job to bust our asses predetermining wins with our relentless energy and cries. No one had more team spirit than us, and we had a string of trophies in the halls of our school to prove it. I loved away games. Home games were too easy. The stands were jam-packed with friends and family making it impossible for the other team to hear themselves think over our thunder. But away games; That's where we shined. We heckled, roared, flipped, and turned it out. Part of our drive was fear-based as we were coached by the infamous Mrs. Panton, a stout and solid ballbuster of a woman who would remind us that if we were weak, we were replaceable. Cheer spots were coveted. We knew it. She knew it.
The best part of away games was the bus ride home. Coaches were in upfront, cheer in the middle and the players in the back. We'd stop at the DQ, pile back in, and whoop it up the whole way home. Monique sat with the all-black basketball team, and I sat with the all-white cheer squad, but both of us sat on the edge and in the middle where the two groups met but didn't blend. It was strange how the squad would ferociously cheer for our team, but back on the bus and in school, they didn't treat them quite the same. The basketball players were always very nice to me. They weren't mean to the rest of the squad; they just didn't share space or words. But the cheerleaders were different. They weren't nice to anyone, not even each other.
Unlike the tall, buxom beauties in the squad, I was short and underdeveloped. I was in the band AND the science club. Being a cheerleader was the only thing standing between me and social suicide. I was more like an annoying little sister, but I could do some righteous tumbling, and that's why I was on the team. The girls weren't so mean on the bus, especially when Monique was around. They might have been afraid of her. I didn't understand why. Though tall and strong, she was also soft and pretty. She smelled like sugar cookies, and her smile was like the light at the end of a tunnel. When I was with her, I felt safe, like those little fish clinging to the underbelly of a giant whale. On the bus, I waited for what I knew was coming. Monique would pat her lap and call me, "Come over here, girl." I would jump to her side while the words were still dancing in the air, turn my back to face her, and she would braid my hair.
Pick, pull, twist, repeat.
Her willowy, shiny, brown legs wrapped around me, making my pink skin look pale, dull, and boring. I noticed and loved our beautiful differences and hated the ugly truths floating around us like a heavy fog.
I left Georgia suddenly that summer and never saw Monique again after the seventh grade. I went back years later for a high school reunion, even though I never went there. That's a small town for you. I liked seeing everyone, but I really loved seeing some of those old cheer mates of mine. I might have delighted too much at how poorly they had aged. Being an asshole takes its toll on you, I suppose. I heard that Monique died in a horrible train accident. No one knew the details, and I was glad for it because I didn't want to think of a world without her in it. Monique Norton was my friend, she braided my hair, and I will never forget her.
Pick, pull, twist, repeat.
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