by Kieran Scott
“Funny,” he said. He whipped out a digital planner and powered it up. “So I want to schedule a time to meet with you one day this week. What’s good for you? I’m free Tuesday.”
“Why do you want to meet with me?” I asked.
“To interview you for my piece,” he said, like it was obvious.
“Again, the question ‘why me?’ comes to mind.”
“Yeah, why her?” Sage added, jumping into the conversation as we passed her by. I saw Bethany’s fingers curl into fists. Sage’s very voice sent Bethany’s undies into a twist. Mine too, actually.
What was really irritating about her was that I had thought we were starting to become friends—or at least calling a truce. I mean, she had apologized to me for all the crappy stuff she had done to me in my first weeks on the squad. I had thought that meant something. But ever since regionals when Daniel had kissed me for luck instead of her, she had been back to her super-bitchy ways.
“Well, you’re the new girl on the squad,” Steven said, addressing me and ignoring Sage. Nice. Maybe I did like this guy. “You’re from New Jersey and I heard you never competed before. You’re the perfect human-interest piece.”
“Please! Her?” Sage said, pulling a disgusted face. “She’s so unphotogenic!”
How this girl is in honors English with me, I have no idea.
“Sage!” Jaimee scolded.
“I’m not sure that’s a word,” Felice said.
“Whatever, I’m just trying to be honest!” Sage replied. “Really, Annisa, your hair is, like, ripped from I Love the 90s.”
“You sure you don’t want me to barf on her?” Bethany asked.
“Ew! What are you even doing here?” Sage said to Bethany. “Shouldn’t you be under a rock somewhere?”
“And shouldn’t you be off getting your lip waxed?” Bethany shot back.
Sage gasped, brought her hand to her lip and scurried off. Good riddance.
“Does she really need a lip wax?” I asked.
“Please! Haven’t you ever seen her in natural light?” Bethany asked. “It’s like Chewbacca molted up there.”
“So, about the article,” Steven said.
“Look, I got dibs on Annisa’s story for my website,” Bethany told him, looping her arm around my shoulders. “So you can just take your little camera and go interview the water boy or something.”
“You can’t have an exclusive on her!” Steven replied, his jaw dropping. “I work for the official SDH newspaper. We take priority over your underground web crap.”
“Web crap? Oh, you are so dead!”
Omigod. The press was arguing over me.
“You guys!” I said, stopping in my tracks. “This isn’t about me! It’s about the squad!”
I was no different from anyone else on my team. Well, unless you counted the short brown hair and the occasional—occasional—pyramid-obliterating clumsiness. Besides, my relationship with most of my team was sketchy enough as it was. After all, I had made the squad only when two other members had been tossed over getting caught drinking—an event most of the team blamed me for, thinking that I had tattled on their fallen teammates. (Not true, but people believe what they want to believe.) The last thing I needed was for any of them to think I was trying to steal the spotlight or hog the glory.
“If anyone’s doing a story on nationals, it should be about the team,” I said firmly.
“That’s just it. I’m doing a bunch of pieces, so I need a lot of different angles,” Steven told me.
“That’s why they call it a retrospective,” Felice put in.
“Exactly,” Steven said. “You’ll just be one angle of many.”
“Come on, Annisa, you should totally do it,” Jaimee said. “I mean, if you want to,” she added with a shrug. “You don’t want to turn down your fifteen minutes, do you? I mean, unless you do.”
“If you don’t do an interview, I’m going to do the piece anyway,” Steven said. “I’ll just have to talk to your teammates instead. Sage Barnard seemed like she might have a lot to say . . .”
“You wouldn’t,” I said.
“Try me,” he replied.
Bethany stuck her finger in her mouth and tilted her head toward him suggestively.
“Come on, Annisa! You should do it! Free press!” Felice said.
I sighed in resignation. “All right, fine. I’ll do the interview,” I said, my shoulders slumping as I started walking again.
“Freakin’ mainstream press,” Bethany grumbled under her breath.
I smirked and kicked at a soda cup in my path. Maybe Jaimee was right. Maybe it was time for my fifteen minutes. Well, at least my fifteen minutes with my skirt on properly.
Kieran Scott was a non-blonde cheerleader in high school (though she experimented with Sun-In often and with psychedelic results). A graduate of Rutgers University, Kieran grew up in Montvale, New Jersey, and now lives with her husband, Matt, in Westwood, just a few towns away. She is currently working hard on her next novel. Visit her online at www.myspace.com/kieranscott.
