The Winning Element (The Specialists)

by Shannon Greenland

  “Oh my God,” Bruiser made her voice airheady, pulling an imaginary piece of gum from her mouth. “This Bubba Jubba is so chewed.”

  This time I smiled. I couldn’t help myself.

  “And you”—Bruiser pointed to me—“a cheerleader, too?” She grabbed her stomach. “This is too good.”

  "Hi,” Bruiser did the airhead thing again. “My name’s GiGi. That stands for Girl Genius.” She flipped a red braid over her shoulder. “I can factor, square, and quadruple any of your cheers.”

  I rolled my eyes. Bruiser could be such a dork.

  She fell back onto her bed laughing and rolling around. “Ohhh . . . ohh . . . oh . . .” She wiped her eyes. “Okay.” Sniff. “I’m done now.”

  Good thing Beaker was still down in the conference room with TL. Or rather, TL requested she stay when she started getting irate about the cheerleading thing. She’d probably have busted Bruiser’s lip by now.

  Cat chuckled. “Now that Bruiser’s done being Bruiser, are you and Beaker joining a squad or what? And what’s TL’s role in this?”

  “Beaker and I are going as a pair. Cheerleaders from all over the nation are meeting in Barracuda Key to try out for America’s Cheer. It’s a national team. TL’s going to act the role of our coach, our choregographer.”

  Bruiser flopped over onto her back. “Beaker actually agreed to this?”

  “Not exactly.” I wasn’t too thrilled with it either. “That’s why she’s still down there with TL.”

  Our bedroom door slammed open, and Beaker stomped in. She railroaded right past me, down the length of our bedroom, and stopped at the bathroom door.

  She spun and jabbed her finger in my direction. “I’ll never forgive you for this.” She wrenched open the bathroom door and banged it closed behind her.

  Cat and I exchanged a glance.

  “Does this mean you’re going?” Bruiser sweetly called after her.

  The toilet flushed.

  [5]

  A couple of days later, Beaker and I shuffled into the ranch’s barn, which would double as our cheer training facility.

  “Okay, girls,” a short blond woman shouted and clapped her hands. “Front and center.”

  We crossed the cement floor to where she and TL stood on a large square of mats.

  Dressed in a tight warm-up suit, she spread her legs wide and planted her hands on her boyish hips. “My name is Coach Melanie Capri. My purpose here is to get you ready for cheer tryouts in Barracuda Key. You don’t have to be experts, but you do have to look like you know what you’re doing.”

  I knew all about this woman. TL had arranged for her to come and train us, and David had briefed me on her background. Melanie Capri. Five feet tall. Exactly 105 pounds. Thirty-five years old, although she looked a lot younger. Cheerleader all throughout middle school, high school, and college. After graduating, she coached high school cheerleading for two years and then joined the CIA. One year later, she transferred to the IPNC, where she’d been ever since.

  But the best part? She’d actually traveled with America’s Cheer, the same team Beaker and I would be trying out for. As far as the cheerleading part of this mission, it didn’t get any better than Coach Melanie Capri.

  She reminded me of Audrey, the modeling coach for my first mission. Not the way Coach Capri looked, but her no-nonsense demeanor. My mind flashed back to that training and all the awkwardness that came with it. If I hadn’t had it, though, the thought of this cheerleading preparation would be more uncomfortable for me than it already was.

  “America’s Cheer,” she began, “is a weeklong competition. Every year there are approximately one hundred competitors, fifty teams of two. Generally there are ninety percent girls and ten percent boys. The weeklong competition will be grueling. You’ll get up at the crack of dawn and fall into bed late. You’ll have team rehearsals, attitude-building activities, group instruction, and physical-fitness training. You’ll be judged all week long not only on technique, but attendance, talent, personality, and beauty. No one gets eliminated until the final day, and at that time, they will pick the twenty-one new members of America’s Cheer national team.”

  Crossing her arms over her stomach, Coach Capri surveyed first me and then Beaker. “When’s this one getting a makeover?” she said to TL.

  Beaker snarled. “This one’s name is Beaker, and I’m not getting a makeover.”

  Coach Capri arched a blond brow. “Oh yes, you are, darling, attitude and all.”

  Beaker rolled an irritable glare toward TL.

  He maintained a stony face. “Coach Capri is in charge. Whatever she says goes. I’m behind her all the way.”

  “Let’s start with you taking out that nose thing.”

  “Excuse me?” Beaker ground out.

  Coach Capri smiled humorlessly. “You heard me.”

  With her jaw clenched so tight I thought her teeth might crack, Beaker reached up, disconnected the chain from her ear, and then slid the hoop from her nose.

  I grimaced as I watched the piercing slide through its hole.

  Slowly, twirling the chain in the air, she smirked at Coach Capri. “Better?”

  Coach Capri grinned. “Yes, thank you. You can give that to TL. You won’t be getting it back until after the mission.”

  Beaker narrowed her eyes.

  TL held out his hand, and, after a defiant few seconds, Beaker tossed it to him, and it clanked to the floor in front of him.

  Coach Capri cleared her throat. “Pick it up and hand it to him nicely.”

  Beaker glared at her but didn’t move.

  “Pick it up and hand it to him nicely.”

  Beaker stood her ground.

  Coach Capri’s lips curled up, and something about their sinister tilt said she was about to take Beaker down.

  Beaker must have seen it to because she walked over—albeit slowly—retrieved the fallen chain, and placed it in TL’s outstretched hand.

  “Perfect!” Coach Capri complimented a little too brightly.

  Pocketing the chain, TL walked to the corner of the room to observe our training.

  Coach clapped her hands. “Now let’s pop and lock.”

  Pop and lock?

  Coach strode over to where TL stood next to a portable stereo sitting on the floor. “Luckily, we can skip the fitness conditioning, since you two get plenty of that in PT. We’re going to go straight into skills. Popping and locking is the most important technique a cheerleader needs.” She pressed the play button on the stereo, and techno music started.

  “Listen for the thump in the background of the music,” she shouted over the noise. She snapped her arms up to her chest and popped them straight out to her sides. “Notice my joints are locked. No spaghetti arms allowed.”

  She snapped her arms back in and popped them straight out, this time at a different angle. In and out she went, popping and locking, each time at a different angle. Right arm up, left arm down. Right arm sideways, left arm up. Right arm diagonal, left arm down. Some with her fists clinched, others with her fingers straight.

  As I watched, I noticed she executed each snappy movement to the bass thumping of the music.

  “Now you two,” she instructed, still popping and locking.

  Stepping away from Beaker, I tried my first pop and lock and winced.

  Coach nodded. “Don’t throw your arm so hard, GiGi. You don’t want to bruise a joint.”

  I tried again, and in my peripheral noticed Beaker’s halfhearted attempt as she slung her arms into place. Her purposeful difficultness annoyed me, although I fully expected her not to cooperate.

  Coach Capri moved closer, and Beaker defiantly continued her slinging-arm routine.

  “Beaker,” Coach warned.

  With a smile, Beaker popped and locked her arms, but once coach turned around, Beaker went back to scowling and being lazy. I was starting to get irritated. Why couldn’t she take anything seriously? I glanced over at her again, and her defiant look put me over the edge
.

  I dropped my arms. “Would you stop being the way you’re being and take things seriously? This mission is really important to me. I don’t need you ruining it.”

  “Ugh. Everything’s always about you,” Beaker snapped back.

  Pure angry frustration made me take an intimidating step toward her.

  She echoed my step, puffing out her chest. “Problem?”

  “Yeah, actually I do have a problem. With you.”

  “I don’t know why you have a problem. I’m the one who has to make all the changes around here.” She took another step toward me. “I’m the one who has to get a makeover for this mission. ”

  “Oh, would you grow up? Training and getting made over isn’t that difficult. Just deal with it.”

  “Oh, that’s right. I forgot. This is your third mission.”

  “Girls,” TL interjected, walking toward us. “Enough. You are going to have to work with each other on this mission to make it successful. So I suggest you suck it up, get over yourselves, and focus on the task at hand.”

  Beaker and I eyed each other for couple of long, threatening seconds. Then gradually, without turning our backs on each other, moved back to our spaces.

  “Again,” Coach Capri commanded, as TL returned to his viewing spot.

  I brought my arms up, trying pop and lock, and noticed Beaker’s arms took on a snappier technique.

  Coach Capri backed away. “Now to the music.”

  Doing my best to ignore Beaker, I listened intently. I heard the thump, but I couldn’t seem to pop my arms to the rhythm. I either snapped a second too early or a second too late.

  Coach tapped her ear. “Listen to the beat.” She went to the stereo and started the music over.

  Tuning everything out, I listened and tried again. I popped too early. I tried again. I locked too late.

  Pushing out a sigh, I shook my arms out and cut a sideways glance to Beaker. She didn’t seem to be having a problem staying in rhythm, and her smirk said she knew she was better than me.

  Coach Capri came toward me. "GiGi, concentrate.”

  “I am.” I thought about telling her I had no coordination. Instead, I looked over to TL, and he gave me an encouraging nod.

  I tried again. I popped too early. Again. I locked too late.

  Dropping my arms, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

  My brain zoned in, as focused as when I keyed code. I tuned into the music, absorbing it, feeling it pulse through my body. Letters, numbers, and symbols took form, merging together to the beat. GSLK computer code linked in my mind in the same steady rhythm of the techno’s bass.

  <6E 74 3E 20 78 66 72 6D> Pop.

  <3B 0D 0A 69 6E 74 20 6A> Lock.

  <3B 0D 0A 66 6F 72 28 6A> Pop.

  <3D 30 3B 20 6A 3C 31 30> Lock.

  “Good, GiGi,” TL complimented.

  Opening my eyes, I smiled and snapped my arms into their next position. I would get through this training . . . and deal with Beaker.

  Every day for The next week, Beaker and I woke up early to do homework, went to school, came home, and immediately began cheer training. We were now masters at pop and lock as well as handstands, clapping, and shouting cheers at the top of our lungs. It never would have occurred to me that people needed to practice clapping and shouting.

  At night, David and I would meet in the lab to review things for the mission, run budget numbers, and complete any of the dozens of minute details involved. He’d update me on the tasks he was doing to help the mission run smoothly, like completing the enormous America’s Cheer registration pack.

  And while Beaker still held no excitement about the upcoming mission, today she was downright pissed. Leaning back against the bathroom vanity, I eyed a very snarly-looking Beaker staring at a very eager Coach Capri. Today was makeover day and, clearly, Beaker was not happy about it. Then again, she was never really happy about anything.

  Coach Capri dabbed a cotton ball with makeup remover and came toward her. “I don’t know how you can see through all that black gunk on your eyes.”

  Beaker slapped her hand away. “I like my black gunk.”

  “I take it you’re not going to do this by yourself?”

  Beaker smirked. “You take it right. If you want it done so badly, you do it.”

  Coach shrugged. “Very well.” She grabbed Beaker’s wrist, twisted it behind her back, and smooshed the cotton ball across her right eye.

  Beaker jerked away, leaving a black mark smeared across her cheek. “Hey!”

  “Well, if you’d hold still.”

  Beaker jerked away again. “Let me go.”

  “You going to do it yourself?”

  “No,” Beaker snapped.

  Coach Capri backed her up against the bathroom wall. For such a little woman, she was very strong. And her drill sergeant personality made her seem six feet tall.

  Holding firm to Beaker, Coach cleaned her eye while Beaker rolled her head, trying without success to dodge Coach’s efforts.

  “Get me another one,” Coach said to me.

  Quickly, I sopped another cotton ball with the remover and handed it to her. Beaker shot me a deadly look. I wanted so bad to laugh, but I held it in. She was purposefully being difficult, as usual. And a big, huge, giant baby.

  Still holding Beaker, Coach cleaned off her other eye and then let her go. “See. Was that so bad?”

  Beaker growled.

  Coach Capri didn’t even seemed fazed. “Now hair.”

  “What?!”

  “You heard me.” Coach picked up a bottle of color. “You can’t look like a skunk if you want to fit in at America’s Cheer.”

  Beaker dodged for the door.

  Coach intercepted her. "GiGi, lock us in from the outside.”

  I rolled my eyes at the ridiculousness of the situation. “All right. You two have fun.”

  Beaker cursed.

  I left, locking the door from the outside at the same time someone tapped softly on our bedroom door. Bruiser tiptoed over and peeked out.

  “Shhh.” She put her finger over lips, shushing whoever stood on the other side.

  Cat and I exchanged a “what’s up?” look.

  Bruiser widened the door a little, and in crept Wirenut, Mystic, and Parrot. The guys spread out in the room: Mystic cross-legged on the floor, Wirenut next to Cat, and Parrot stretched out on Beaker’s empty bed.

  A muted crash came from the bathroom, followed by a stream of curses.

  Bruiser suppressed a giggle.

  Coach Capri was one little woman I did not want to mess with. I was scared of her, and I wasn’t ashamed to admit it. If she snapped an order, I hopped to it. Beaker, on the other hand . . . They went head to head over everything. Literally. From Beaker’s clothes, to her oh-so-pleasant demeanor, to her gum chomping, to the way she walked. Coach Capri got in her face about everything.