Revenge of the Cheerleaders

by Janette Rallison

  He sneered at me, reached into the fridge, and grabbed the last two cans of soda. "Sorry to take it all," he said, "but hey, it's probably for the best. If you keep dipping into the treats, it won't take long before you can put a lot more besides the word 'Cheer' on your rear end." He threw one can to Adrian, then eyed me over with a smile. "Looks like you're almost to sentence length as we speak."

  First of all, I am in no danger of being able to spell out sentences on my shorts. And while I'm bringing up the inaccuracy of Rick's insults, I'll also mention that only three of us on the cheerleading squad are blonde. Rachel has brown hair that she highlights. Rick just says anything that he thinks will bother us.

  I walked away from Rick and back to where Adrian sat flipping Cheetos into her mouth. In a low voice I said, "You know you're not supposed to have boys over when Mom isn't home."

  Adrian rolled her eyes. "Yeah, and have I thanked you lately for that rule?"

  I did not make that rule. I've often wished I had the power to make rules at our house because there are a lot of things I'd change, and most of them have to do with Adrian. For example, right after I made our property a Rick-free zone, I would restrict the amount of dreary clothing Adrian wears. I mean, sure, I like a little black dress as well as the next woman, and black pants are versatile—but Adrian wears all black, every day. It's like living in a funeral home. And the friends she brings home usually smell so badly of cigarette smoke that you have to ventilate the place after they leave. Seriously, one day she'll bring over too many and they'll set off the smoke alarm.

  I didn't make the rule about Rick not being allowed over when Mom wasn't home. Mom asked me questions about him and then made the rule all by herself.

  I put down my drink. "Come on guys, let's run through our routine one more time."

  My friends didn't argue the point. Probably because they didn't want to stay with Rick and Adrian any more than I did. We went back to the living room, turned up the song loud enough to drown out any conversation in the kitchen, and did the number perfectly. In sync. In step. And in time. "We're ready," Samantha said as the music ended.

  Rachel held her hair off her shoulders. "Which is a good thing because I'm totally sick of that song."

  From the kitchen doorway, where they had been watching us, Rick called, "Finally something we have in common. Tell Chelsea to get some taste in music."

  "And I was just about to give you the same advice," I called back.

  Adrian flopped down on the couch, put her feet on the wall and leaned back so that her head nearly touched the floor. She looked at me from her upside-down perch. "You know, you should start being nice to Rick. One day he'll be famous."

  "Uh huh." That was all her comment merited in the way of a rebuttal. According to Adrian, Rick is the next Elvis. Well, Elvis in a grungy Goth sort of way. It wouldn't hurt her to live in this fantasy world, or at least it wouldn't hurt me, but lately she and Rick had reached insufferable ego levels, thanks to a new show, High School Idol.

  The makers of High School Idol billed it as American Idol for teens, and were unfortunately doing an audition in our town. This was about the most exciting thing Pullman had seen since, well, since ever, really. It didn't matter that auditions were also taking place in L.A., New York, Chicago, Miami, and Dallas, or that the winner would certainly come from one of the big cities. The producers wanted a contestant from rural America to show that the next superstar could come from anywhere. So as an oddity, a ratings-getter, they were offering a slot to one teenage singer or group from Pullman.

  I figured they were stopping here mostly to make fun of us. I mean, really, how could a town that only had about seven hundred kids in high school ever compete with L.A.? They just figured we were a bunch of hicks who'd dress in gingham and sing off-key to Sound of Music songs.

  Only no one saw it that way besides me. It's all anyone talked about at school. One of us would be on TV performing in front of the nation. What if one of us won the whole contest? People who didn't know clef notes from Cliffs Notes were suddenly breaking out into song in the middle of the school hallways. It was like being trapped in some bad musical.

  I can sing, but I'm a little too realistic to think I'll suddenly be discovered and dropped into a limo on its way to Epic Records headquarters. My friends and I aren't even auditioning. What's the point?

  But Adrian and Rick are convinced that fate designed this show just to launch Rick into stardom. And I've had to hear about it since they announced the auditions a week ago. Fortunately only three weeks are left until they come and we can put this whole unfortunate episode behind us. I probably won't rub it in too badly when Rick is rejected.

  My friends picked up their pom-poms and backpacks and made their way to the door. They probably would have stayed longer—-well, at least Rachel and Aubrie would have—if Rick hadn't been there harassing us.

  As Aubrie left, she cast a glance in Rick's direction and then looked back at me. "You can come over to my house for dinner if you want."

  Aubrie is an angel. I didn't even hesitate. I walked out the door and called over my shoulder, "I'm going to Aubrie's. Tell Mom when she gets home."

  I knew Adrian probably wouldn't, but that didn't worry me. Mom can reach me by cell phone. Besides, she doesn't hassle me much about where I go. This is the one advantage to having a rebellious little sister. In comparison, you're always the good child.

  When I came home, I could hear Adrian and Mom in the kitchen fighting. Mom went on about trust, and how Adrian needed to obey the rules; then Adrian went on about how Mom was never home so the rule wasn't fair. Mom said something, I couldn't hear what, but Adrian stomped off to her room with the declaration that she hated us all.

  If I shut my eyes, I can still see Adrian in pigtails following me around with puppy like adoration, but not long ago she shook off her affection for me, like a person shakes rain off an umbrella.

  After Adrian had slammed her bedroom door shut, Mom came into the living room to grill me for information. How long had Rick been over? I didn't know because I left shortly after he called me Dangerously Blonde. Why had he come over? Probably just to torment me. What had Adrian and he done when he was over? Insult me, my friends, my music, and drink the rest of the soda.

  Then Mom laid into me for leaving the two of them alone together. She went on about how I should have stuck around to be their chaperone because Adrian was almost sixteen—she was old enough to seriously mess up her life by doing something stupid with Rick.

  "You know your sister doesn't have any sense," Mom said. "If she had her way, Rick would be moving in here, and you'd have to introduce him to your friends as 'my brother-in-law'."

  Chilling, yes, but probably true. Still, I didn't see what I could do about it. It's not like Adrian listened to me anymore. After the election fiasco, I'd told her she ought to dump Rick, and then I'd spent the entire summer trying to set her up with all sorts of guys just to pry her away from his clutches.

  Most little sisters would appreciate this, considering that the guys I know are way cooler than the people she hangs out with. But no, it only made her more devoted to Rick because, "He isn't like other guys."

  Exactly. Other guys are better.

  I tried to explain all of this to Mom, but the more I did, the more Mom insisted that I needed to watch Adrian.

  "Bad boys have a certain attraction, but they grow up to be bad men, and we all know where that leads." She meant my father. He was the type of fate we had to keep Adrian from. Because really, the only nice thing you can say about my father is that he stays far away from us. My parents divorced when I was eight and now he lives in Chicago in some low-rent dive he shares with several colonies of cockroaches.

  Still, I didn't think me keeping an eye on Adrian was going to do any good. She didn't need an eye. She needed an ankle bracelet and a prison guard.

  Chapter 4

  I wore my cheerleading uniform to school the next day. We wear them on game days as a r
eminder for the students to come see the game. I always feel on display when I wear it. Somehow it transforms me from Chelsea the normal person into someone who's upbeat and peppy. You're not supposed to be depressed while wearing a cheerleading uniform. You can't have a bad hair day or skimp on your makeup. It's like going to school as Barbie. Anyway, I didn't really feel like smiling and being full of school spirit, because as soon as I got to school I ran into Mike and Naomi strolling down the hallway holding hands.

  He never held hands with me in school. They passed by me in a wave of coolness, and I walked on, feeling alone and acutely aware that the only guy who'd spoken to me today was Samantha's boyfriend, Logan. And all he'd said was, "Hey Chelsea, where's Samantha?"

  Logan is so smitten with her that my hair could catch on fire and he wouldn't notice.

  I could have gone and flirted with some of the football players to show Mike that I didn't care about him anymore. That's what any other girl would have done. But I didn't feel like it. A lot of the guys on the team had known Mike was seeing Naomi behind my back and covered for him so I wouldn't find out.

  How could I trust any of them after that?

  Lately when I cheered and yelled, "Go team!" I mentally added where I wanted them to go.

  So anyway, I didn't feel all that peppy come pep assembly time, but luckily Samantha was in charge of calling people down from the bleachers to participate in the games we'd set up. I just had to stand there, clap, and concentrate on not looking at the spot where Mike and Naomi sat. Then came our dance number to "Be True to Your School." It was the last thing we had planned for the assembly, the thing that was supposed to infuse the crowd with school spirit.

  We stood in formation out on the gym floor. I told myself not to be nervous, even though the whole school sat in front of me watching. I would not trip. I would not accidentally fling one of my pom-poms into the crowd. We'd practiced this so many times that as soon as the music started, the dance moves would come to me automatically.

  One of the J.V. cheerleaders stood by my boom box, waiting for Samantha's signal to start the music. Samantha walked to the microphone and smiled up at the audience. "This is a song that tells how we all feel about our school. If you know the words, sing along, and let's show the team how we feel about Greyhound pride." She walked back to our formation, then nodded to the J.V. cheerleader.

  I clung to my pom-poms, already hearing the first few beats of the song in my mind. But they didn't come. What blared into the gym wasn't a Beach Boys tune at all. It took me a few moments to react, to understand, and by then the crowd was already hooting and clapping. Instead of my Beach Boys CD, one of Rick's CDs was in my boom box.

  In between the howling of the electric guitar, Rick's voice sang out, "School is a waste of time! School work corrodes your mind! Who needs teachers any more? Show 'em what trash bins are for."

  All that came out before the J.V. cheerleader realized that this wasn't the song we had meant to play, and she needed to shut off the music.

  Amid the noise from the crowd, everyone in the squad turned to me. "Where did that come from?" Samantha asked.

  "What happened to our CD?" Rachel said at the same time.

  Aubrie ran over to the boom box, I guess to check and make sure that our Beach Boys song wasn't somewhere hidden in it. I felt my face flush. "I don't know. I never took our CD out of my boom box last night so I didn't bother to check to see if it was still there . . . Rick must have switched them after I left."

  From the bleachers some of Rick's friends sang out the words to his song. Several teachers hurried over to stop them but that didn't keep the audience from joining in. After all, we had told people to sing along. Across the gym at the boom box, Aubrie held up Rick's CD and talked with Mrs. Jones, who kept shaking her head angrily. Then she strode over to us. "Well, it looks like you'll have to do the dance without the music."

  We all glanced at one another. None of us wanted to stand in front of the school and do a dance number without music. It would be like synchronized miming or something.

  "We won't be able to keep track of the beats without the music," I said. "We'll get out of synch and it will look strange. Let's just perform the number next pep assembly."

  Mrs. Jones's voice came out in a clipped rhythm. "Tonight at the game our team will have to improvise when things get tough. Do you want to show them and the entire school that you're not willing to do the same?" She waved us back to our positions. "If you can't do the number without music, I'll go to the microphone and sing it for you."

  "But . . . " I said, then looked at Samantha for help because I was too surprised to think of anything else to say.

  Samantha said, "We don't mind waiting. It'll be better with the real music."

  Mrs. Jones put her hands on her hips. "We are not ending this pep assembly by broadcasting a song about how school corrodes the mind." She waved a hand as though to wipe away any more protests. "It will be fine. I know the song by heart."

  What could we say to that? We walked to our places in stunned silence—well, silence except for the crowd, who hooted and clapped when they saw us retake our positions. Crowds can sense when humiliation is about to happen.

  Mrs. Jones walked to the microphone and took it in her hand. "I want you all to join me in singing, 'Be True to Your School.' It's for our team." Then she started singing.

  No one joined her. I'm not sure whether it was because they didn't know the words (probably) or whether they just had more sense (also probably).

  I'd like to say that Mrs. Jones is a great singer, but that would be lying. She sang the first few lines off-key and from there plunged into what could only be described as a rendition of the Beach Boys being pummeled by waves.

  The only advantage to doing a dance number while your advisor butchers a song, is that everyone is so focused on her, they don't pay much attention to what you're doing. Rachel kept lagging behind the rest of us, I assume because she'd gone into shock or something, but I don't think anyone noticed. Then halfway through the first chorus Mrs. Jones stopped, then repeated the line she'd already sung—this is certain to throw off dancers, and half of us repeated the move that went with that line while the other half went on to the next move.

  Which goes to show you that even when you don't think things can get worse, they really can.

  She stumbled over a few more lines, repeated another one, and then stopped. It was clear she'd forgotten the words. It wasn't clear what we were supposed to do about it. After that "You have to improvise when things get tough" lecture I didn't expect her to quit, but I was a little afraid she'd start on another song altogether, and then we'd have to, I don't know, improvise Rockettes-style leg kicks in the background just for something to do while she sang.

  Without thinking long enough to talk myself out of it, I jogged up to the microphone and stood by Mrs. Jones. She may have forgotten the lyrics, but I hadn't. I sang out and my voice stayed surprisingly steady. Mrs. Jones stopped singing all together and let me do a solo. Thank goodness I'd taken choir for three years. My voice never cracked.

  A verse and a chorus later it was done. Everyone clapped, although this may have been because they were glad the whole thing was over.

  I walked back to the group and it hit me, really hit me, that I'd just sung an a cappella solo in front of the whole school—friends, enemies, and ex-boyfriends alike. I'd probably be called Beach Girl for the rest of my senior year.

  I was so going to kill Rick and Adrian for this.

  After the assembly the principal called the cheerleading squad into her office. We stood in a line—like soldiers in miniskirts—while she lectured us about playing anti-school music in a school-sponsored pep assembly. She asked us if "Show 'em what trash bins are for," was some sort of threat against the teachers and then quoted, word for word, the nonviolence policy the school had. She kept saying that the school took threats against people very seriously. I tried to explain that it had all been a mix-up, but she listened to my e
xplanation with her lips pressed together in an angry frown, like she didn't believe me.

  Talk about no sense of humor. The rest of the school was laughing about the incident, but no, not the principal.

  Then she hauled Rick into the office to ask him about everything. Any other guy would have just fessed up that he and Adrian used my boom box to play his music, and they forgot to put my Beach Boys CD back, but not Rick. He was all, "I don't know why Chelsea played my song at the pep assembly. I never thought she was a fan of my music, but it looks like her taste in bands is improving." Then he gave me the thumbs-up sign. "Rock on, Chels."

  Which made me think it hadn't been accidental at all. While the principal wrapped up her lecture with a stern warning that as cheerleaders we were ambassadors of the school and nothing like this had better happen again, I went over all the facts in my mind. We had a stereo system in the living room that had better speakers than my boom box. If the maroon-haired duo had wanted to listen to one of Rick's CDs, why had they chosen my boom box? Also, Adrian had a boom box in her room, why not use that one? And why lie about it to the principal?

  The only reason I could see was that Rick wanted to make a fool of me at the pep assembly and now he wanted to get me in trouble.

  As we all left the principal's office he turned back to me and said, "Hey, sorry this happened. I know how annoying it is when you're in front of a crowd, trying to perform and the music just disappears. Like say, when someone unplugs your band equipment in the middle of a concert."

  "I didn't do that," I said. Which was technically true. I hadn't done it; the stranger I was chasing down had.

  "Right. We're both innocent. And by the way, I'm innocent of anything else that happens too." He walked off before I could respond. Which was probably for the best. I mean, there is a big difference between accidentally unplugging someone's equipment as you run by, and purposely setting out to sabotage, humiliate, and then get a whole squad of cheerleaders in trouble. Rachel and Aubrie hadn't even been at his dance. So why take revenge on them?