“Oh!” Moni said. “You’re not round and orange, you don’t bounce—much—but he still noticed you!”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, while trying to cement the sweatiest strands of my hair behind my ears.
“Jack’s checking you out.”
I turned toward the team and Jack grinned at me, then huddled with Coach Miller and the other boys.
I tried hard not to smile. Jack was famous for his complete concentration during a game. He hated it when girls tried to distract him. Earlier, when he stood on the free-throw line, Kaleigh had shouted, “You’re so hot, you can’t miss a shot! Goooo, Jack!”
He missed.
For an instant Jack had turned a scowl on the entire cheerleading squad. Whoa. Serious game face.
“Way to go, Kaleigh,” said Moni, loud enough that everyone heard, including fans three rows deep in the bleachers, who laughed. After that, the squad’s mood shifted. When Kaleigh glared at us, the same unbearably hot gym turned suddenly chilly.
At the end of the first half, Chantal picked her way down the bleachers and whispered something to Cassidy. Elaine and Brianna scooted so far down the bench to make room for Chantal that I was bumped off and had to resort to kneeling. Everyone on the squad, except Moni, pretended not to notice. The two of us snuck off for a drink of water as the dance team took the court.
We returned in time to witness the end of their routine. For once, I was glad it was cheerleading Moni had talked me into. I might have to flash my purple butt to the crowds, but at least I didn’t have to spank it to a song called “Whip It.”
In a blur of purple and gold for the Panthers, and red and white for the Wilson Warriors, the boys jogged back into the gym. But it was Jack who had my attention. He’d taken a fall earlier, the result of a foul. I searched for signs of a limp, but he looked good, focused. He stretched and glanced my way again. I gave my pom-poms an extra shake.
The Warriors called the first time-out of the second half. It was our cue to rush the court and try something marginally innovative and generally dangerous. Usually that involved a perilous twelve-girl pyramid or tossing Moni, the smallest of us, into the air.
Cassidy put her hands together in a triangle, the signal for a pyramid, and Moni rolled her eyes. I swallowed a groan. Nothing like having half the squad on my back—literally. But when Moni dashed forward, I followed. It was all part of the deal. No burden was too heavy if it made my best friend happy.
Midcourt, before even turning to face the crowd, I knew. Oh God, I knew. It was me and Moni standing there.
And no one else.
We were stranded, midcourt, in front of the filled-to-capacity stands. Sometime between Cassidy’s hand signal and now, the rest of the squad had disappeared. Oh, there they were—on the sidelines, snickering at us. I searched for a friendly face and caught Chantal’s smirk, then Todd’s told-you-so expression. That said it all.
I scanned the bleachers for Sheila, though I knew she wasn’t there. She’d called Cassidy earlier—a flat tire had kept her away from the game. Thanks to that flat tire, Moni and I stood here, at the intersection of geek girl and humiliation.
Moni looked stricken. Her dad was up there in the bleachers. He’d driven all the way down from Minneapolis just to watch her cheer, then take her back for the weekend.
“Tryouts?” The word left my mouth before I really considered it. But what was the other option? We could slink back to the sidelines. Or we could make it look like we planned it all along.
“Shit,” Moni swore under her breath, then, “Tryouts. Ready? Okay.”
We did the cheer and jump sequence, the one with the ginormous finish. This time I added a herkie before the splits. I stuck the landing for an instant, then slid to the floor sideways. Moni flew over the top of me, a blur of gold and purple and way-too-close-to-my-head white Skechers.
The band didn’t play. No one clapped. No one cheered. On the sidelines, Kaleigh frowned. Cassidy looked confused.
Then a whoop came, not from the stands, but from behind us. One of the boys on the basketball team let out a yell so loud, it echoed through the gym. Its owner sounded a lot like Jack Paulson, but I didn’t dare turn to look.
The rest of the boys cheered then—from both teams. Their roar felt solid. Like if I leaned into the sound, it might support me. Finally, the crowd caught on. Even Todd joined in, his applause slow and steady. If anyone could clap sarcastically, it was him.
We sprang up and ran off the court.
“They hate us,” Moni said, pulling me close.
I looked down the bleacher row at Kaleigh and Cassidy. Their expressions made me think, If looks really could kill, Moni and I are about to suffer a lethal dose.
“What do we do?” Moni asked.
What could we do? I crouched and scooped up both sets of pom-poms. I passed Moni a handful of purple and gold.
“I guess we cheer.”
Not even Jack’s best game could save the Panthers. We lost, seventy-five to seventy-two. Moni’s dad waited for us in the lobby.
“Well, that,” he said, nodding toward the gym and the scoreboard, “wasn’t you girls’ fault.” He grinned down at Moni. “I’m impressed, pumpkin. I didn’t know you could fly. And very cool for the rest of the squad to let you two strut your stuff.”
Oh yeah, yay for the rest of the squad—they were the best.
Moni rolled her eyes, but that Moni Lisa smile gave her away. With her dad’s new girlfriend out of town for the weekend, Moni had her father all to herself. Something, I knew, that didn’t happen often enough these days.
“And that Paulson kid.” Moni’s dad let out a whistle. “If the college recruiters haven’t spotted him yet, they will. He tore up the floor.”
“He’s crushing on Bethany,” Moni said.
“He is not,” I protested, but Mr. Fredrickson preferred to believe Moni’s version.
“In that case,” he said, “I’ll have to keep my eye on him. No one messes with my girls.”
On her way out the door, Moni glanced over her shoulder and mouthed, Call me.
Like I would forget. Getting away with a phone call after midnight was easy now that I had my own line. But that was as far as my parents would go—no cell phone for me. I waited in line for the pay phone with the rest of the losers. A bunch of kids from Wilson High gave me funny looks. I looked down to make sure my skirt wasn’t stuck in my briefs, but no, thank you, God, that wasn’t the cause. I supposed they thought all cheerleaders came equipped with cell phones. Then I followed the group’s eyes from me to the gym doors. Of course. They were wondering what was going on. Over there, a group of cheerleaders stood alongside the football players, and the rest of the high school royalty, waiting for the dance to begin. And on the other side of the hall—the only cheerleader. Me.
Even the lamest kids knew how it worked. Sure, cheerleaders put in an appearance at the monthly dances sponsored by the Student Council, but that was only pre-gaming. The crowd would end up someplace like the old gravel pit, when the weather was warm, or Rick Mangers’s house when it was cold.
And clearly, I wasn’t invited.
Someone behind me brushed my leg. The touch of denim against my bare skin freaked me out. I shrugged on my coat and the wool heated up immediately, trapping my sweat. I felt totally out of place. Worse, everyone in the world must have forgotten to charge their cell phone batteries. The line for the pay phone was endless. Whatever the cause, while I waited, the Student Council cleared the gym, pushed back the bleachers, and got the DJ’s sound system set up.
The doors to the gym whooshed open and closed once the dance started. Snatches of music burst into the lobby, loud, then muted, then loud again. Halfway into sophomore year, Moni and I had given up on dances. Even if the debate dorks went, they never wanted to dance. Or worse, they thought it was cool to do the robot.
I’d just hung up the phone when the door to the gym swung open again. Inside it was dark, and I swore the scent of s
weat still hung in the air. One song faded, and the DJ cued up something that sounded slow and syrupy. “This one goes out to all the members of the varsity cheerleading squad.” Oh, yeah. Sure it did.
Mercifully, the door closed and cut off the squeal, but the sound of it continued to ring in my head. I glanced at the parking lot, willing Dad to arrive, when pounding footsteps from the locker room hallway startled me. I pulled the coat tighter around my legs.
Jack Paulson rounded the corner, and his sneakers squeaked when he skidded to a halt. He swallowed a breath and stared at me. “Nice cheer,” he said.
“Yeah, well, it wasn’t exactly…” Planned, I’d started to say. But that would be like shining one of Todd’s nerd-a-licious light sabers on my moment of humiliation. “Good game tonight,” I said instead.
“We lost.”
Well, duh. I knew that. And I knew that boys—especially boys like Jack—hated losing. “But you were great,” I added.
He shrugged, then stepped closer. I clutched the pom-poms tight enough that the fringe rustled in the quiet lobby. Jack’s hair was damp from a shower, and I caught the warm, clean smell of him. Jeans, plain white T-shirt, a Prairie Stone letter jacket in gold with purple trim. All a boy like that needed to look good was a bar of soap. It wasn’t fair.
“So.” He nodded toward the gym. “You going inside?”
I gave the gym doors a glance before checking the parking lot. Any minute Dad would pull up in our prehistoric Volvo.
“I—my—I mean—” I was babbling. Again. But what was I supposed to say? My daddy was picking me up? So not cool.
“Uh.” He swiped at a few strands of hair that had fallen into his eyes. “I guess that would be a no.”
The gym doors opened. The music surged. Jack slipped away into the dark and sweat smell. And—I had no doubt—straight into the arms of a gauntlet girl.
“Okay,” Moni said. “One more time, tell me exactly what he said, word for word.”
“I told you. He said, ‘You. Going. Inside.’ That’s all. It’s not like he actually asked me to the dance or anything.”
Something that sounded like a raging blizzard assaulted my ear. I pulled the phone away and waited for Moni to calm down. “I can’t believe you’re so stupid about this stuff,” she said. “That’s how boys do it. Especially boys like Jack. That way, when you’re dumb enough to turn them down, they can rationalize that they never really asked you to begin with.”
How could I argue with that kind of logic? Especially when the very same notion had taunted me all the way home. Tears had blurred my view of the Volvo’s headlights, but the frozen dash down the school steps cleared my head and squelched the sob in my throat.
“Lots of cars still here,” Dad said.
“There’s a dance going on.”
He tapped the brakes, slowing the car. “Did you want to go, Bee?”
“No,” I said. “I’m tired.” At least it wasn’t a lie. I was tired. Tired of the gym, of cheerleading, tired of the gauntlet, even tired of Jack. It was all just too hard.
“We can recover from this,” Moni said on the phone. “We’ve got a week before winter break, and—”
“Oh, sure. Because nerdy girls always get second chances with the star basketball player.” I didn’t mean to sound so defeated, but that was how I felt.
“I really think he likes you,” said Moni.
“Maybe.” Why did everything have to be a maybe? Maybe Jack liked me. Maybe he just had a thing for insanely short skirts. Maybe I hadn’t blown my only chance.
“Here’s what I think you should do….”
An hour later a list sat in front of me: “Witty Things to Say When Jack Paulson Is Nearby.” Somehow, Is that a jockstrap in your pocket or are you just happy to see me? did not inspire a ton of confidence. I didn’t want to think about it anymore, not tonight, so I asked Moni, “How’s Minneapolis?”
“Sucks.”
Uh-oh. That meant her dad’s girlfriend, Monica, was there. So much for father-daughter alone time. And this wasn’t the first time her dad had promised his exclusive attention, then gone back on the deal.
“You won’t believe what she did tonight,” Moni said. She was going for sarcastic, but I heard the hurt in her voice.
I started to ask what was going on, but Moni was already launching into a rant.
“She told me how great it was that we ‘share’ a name.”
“What?”
“Moni-ca. Moni.”
I pointed out that, technically, Moni was Ramona. Though it was spelled similarly, it didn’t sound the same at all. She didn’t share anything with Monica.
“Yeah, except my dad.”
Moni continued to complain, but I didn’t mind. It was part of the vow I’d made when her parents announced their divorce. Phone calls until three in the morning. Sure. IMs when Moni was gaming on the computer. Fine. Any time, any place. That was no maybe.
I’d always be there for Moni.
Monday morning I clutched the list and stepped through the door to Independent Reading. I tried to get Jack’s attention before class started, but he and Ryan Nelson were revisiting a play from Friday night’s game—while Traci Olson batted her eyelashes at both of them.
Mr. Wilker tapped his desk. “As you read today, I want you to pay close attention to the inequities between the haves and have-nots in Jane Austen’s era. How do they correlate with today’s social world?”
Let me count the ways, I thought.
On Tuesday and Wednesday, despite constant prompting from Moni, I still couldn’t work up the nerve to use the list. By Thursday I was either determined—or frightened. If I didn’t say something to Jack by the end of the day, Moni threatened to intervene on my behalf.
Thankfully, I spotted Jack early that morning. A gaggle of sophomore girls was knotted at the edge of the gauntlet in front of him, blocking his way to the cafeteria. He looked desperate to find a way through the fray. What Would Lara Croft Do? I thought. Every boy on the geek squad worshipped The Divine Ms. L.—the anatomically impossible heroine of the Tomb Raider video games. WWLCD had become a common refrain among them.
I whispered it to Jack as I slipped past. He looked down at me, wrinkles forming across his forehead. He obviously had no idea what I was talking about. The crowd parted before him. Jack took a few steps away, then shrugged. Maybe he hadn’t heard me. I decided to give it one more try, for the list’s sake.
“WHAT WOULD LARA CROFT DO?”
Before cheerleading this would’ve come out as a whisper too. Not now. Sheila taught us to project to the very top of the bleachers. With Jack moving through the gauntlet, I meant to raise my voice a little. Instead I raised it a lot. The sophomore girls around Jack froze. A few inched backward, putting a safe distance between them and me. Chantal Simmons had to hold on to her sides, she laughed so much. But Jack’s expression was (once again) unreadable as he disappeared into the cafeteria.
I stood there, mortified by my own stupidity. I gave up the idea of following Jack into the cafeteria. The list, I thought, should come with a warning: Say it, don’t scream it.
Friday was the last day before winter break. A snow delay meant a modified schedule—no cafeteria breakfast, no Independent Reading, no Jack. Not to mention no list and no chance of making a fool of myself.
After last bell, Todd trailed me down the hall. He was giving me some terse instructions for my newspaper column when I saw Jack, a full head taller than the rest of the crowd.
Jack waved. I turned to see the lucky recipient and found Chantal. Her manicured hand lifted, but she stopped halfway.
“Hey! Hey, Bethany?” Jack said. I’d never heard him say my name before, and the deliciousness of it made my knees threaten to wobble.
“Sorry about yesterday,” he called, and then he was beside me. “I don’t play video games much, so it took me a while to get it.” He tapped his head. “I’ve seen the movie. Angelina Jolie, right?”
I nodded.
“What would Lara Croft do,” he added. “Good one.”
Only if good had the alternate meaning of “lame.” But with the way Jack smiled down at me, lame might actually be good. Or even great.
“Have a nice break,” he said, and raced down the hall.
“What would Lara do?” Todd asked. “You said that? To him?” He steered me to a stop against the lockers. “You think you’re one of them now? Because, let’s face it, he’s not one of us.”
“Yeah.” Chantal sidled up to us. “Next time you should ask yourself, WWTD?”
Neither Todd nor I spoke, but I guess she could read the question on our faces. T?
“What would Todd do? He seems to know what he’s talking about. This little—whatever you’re trying to do with Jack. It’s not going to change anything.” She turned on the toe of her silver and red rubber-soled Mary Janes and marched away.
When she was out of earshot, I asked Todd, “Can you believe she said that?”
“Actually, no.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. With a goofy grin on his face, he craned his neck to follow Chantal’s progress down the hall. “I didn’t think she knew my name.”
Mannheim Steamroller played quietly in the background while my mom tinkered with our new set of LED Christmas lights. She was attempting to sync the flash to the music. At the computer desk, I ran the mouse over the color palette and clicked green. On the monitor, a pudgy eighth-grade Chantal Simmons glowed—chartreuse hair, orange skin, blue lips. And, since all was fair in love and war (and cheerleading), I gave myself a bleach job. Ack. I was so not a blonde. I clicked undo and wove a white streak through my black hair. Not too bad. The Cruella De Vil—no, Rogue from the X-Men comics—look could really work for me. If I could just get the parents on board with it.
The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading Page 8
