The Winning Element (The Specialists)

by Shannon Greenland

  “Hey, you becoming one with that mat?” came Beaker’s voice.

  I glanced up to see her standing in the doorway.

  “What do you want?” I pushed to my knees. “I’m not in the mood for sarcasm or jokes.”

  Beaker shrugged. “I suspect I want the same thing as you, to get some more practice in.”

  “It’s midnight. You’re breaking curfew.” I stood.

  “You’re breaking curfew, too.”

  “True. I’m just surprised you’re here. I thought you hated all this cheer training.”

  “I do.” She came the rest of the way in. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want to be ready, though.”

  “You don’t need to practice. You know how to do back handsprings. ”

  “And you don’t.” She stepped onto the mats. “So . . . do you, um, want some help?”

  I eyed her for a few suspicious seconds. “Why are you being nice to me?”

  “I’m not being nice,” she said unconvincingly. She took off her sweatshirt, revealing double-layered tank tops, and tossed it on top of mine. “I don’t want you making me look bad at the competition, that’s all.”

  “Mmm-hmm.” Well, well, well, could it be that Beaker’s actually being nice to me?

  She rolled her eyes. “Whatever,” she said, and turned to walk away.

  “All right.” I stopped her. “I’ll take any help I can get.”

  Beaker nodded. “Let’s do it,” she yelled.

  Wirenut stepped through the door, followed by Parrot, Bruiser, Mystic, and Cat.

  I sent Beaker a confused look. “What’s going on?”

  “I rounded up everyone.” She shrugged, as if that wasn’t the sweetest thing ever. “We’re here to help.” Playfully, she smirked. “Don’t go thinking I like you or anything, though.”

  I smiled a little. “Of course not.”

  Wirneut unzipped his windbreaker and threw it aside. “Watch us do handsprings first. Notice we all have different styles. You need to find and do what feels right to you.”

  Stepping off the mats, I watched first Wirenut, then Bruiser, followed by Cat, and finally Beaker.

  Sheesh, was there anyone who couldn’t do one?

  I looked at Parrot and Mystic. They both shrugged.

  “We’re here for moral support,” Mystic offered with a smile.

  His smile made me smile. What great friends I had.

  Wirenut dusted his hands. “Okay, tell me,” he instructed, “what did you notice different about all of us?”

  “Speed,” I answered. “Height. Hand placement.”

  “It took me five days to learn how to do one,” Beaker reminded me.

  “You don’t have to brag about it,” I grumbled.

  “My point is,” she continued, ignoring my snarkiness, “I would’ve learned in three if I could’ve figured out my hand placement. Coach Capri kept telling us to keep our thumbs touching. But when I separated mine by a few inches, I nailed it.”

  Cat pulled three, long black strips of material from her sweat-pants pocket. “Mind giving something a try?”

  Eyeballing the black cloths, I shook my head. I’d try anything at this point.

  Cat stepped onto the mats and motioned me to follow. She wrapped one of the cloths around my eyes, blinding me. “This is so you won’t get distracted by anything.” She tightened it. “Don’t worry. We’re all here to spot you if anything goes wrong.”

  “Now lift your arms,” Cat instructed. She tied my arms tight against my head. “This will keep your arms in place. You’ll still be able to flex your shoulders and elbows for the push.”

  She wrapped the last cloth around my thighs. “There. Now all your body parts will stay where they’re supposed to be.”

  “Remember,” Bruiser added. “Reach for the floor with your hands, not your nose.”

  Someone grabbed my hips and turned me around.

  “We’re all here,” Wirenut spoke from my left. “You can do this.”

  “Visualize exactly what you want your body to do,” Mystic suggested, “and it’ll work. I promise you.”

  Behind the black cloth, I closed my eyes and visualized my body going through the motions of a successful back handspring.

  I took a deep breath, bent my knees, and sprang back, diving onto my hands. My palms connected with the floor, and I pushed off, flipping back onto my feet.

  I stood for a moment in disbelief. I’d actually done it!

  Everyone cheered, and I grinned, literally, from ear to ear.

  [7]

  Two days later, dressed in matching red-and-white warm-ups, TL, Beaker, and I boarded the plane. David had already boarded and sat midway in the cabin. As of this moment, none of us knew him. He was traveling to Barracuda Key to do some diving. That was the cover we’d decided on for him. He’d rented a cottage on the other side of the island from our hotel. Once we arrived and went our separate ways, I probably wouldn’t see him until the end of the mission.

  At least we’d be able to communicate via phone, texting, and e-mail.

  As I passed his aisle seat, I slowed, hoping for a slight contact. He surreptitiously reached over and tucked a piece of paper into my palm. My whole body buzzed at the contact.

  TL, Beaker, and I found our seats in the back of coach, and after storing our red-and-white backpacks in the overhead bins, we sat down and buckled in. I took a few deep breaths to calm myself—flying was not my favorite thing to do. But I had gotten used to it a little, having had to fly on my first two missions.

  Beside me, Beaker raised the window shade. She calmly flipped open a cheer magazine that she’d brought with her and began perusing. I knew she’d rather be reading one of her chemistry books, but we had officially taken on our cheerleading covers when we stepped into the airport.

  “Hey,” I whispered.

  She glanced over.

  “Thanks for doing this. It means a lot.” I hadn’t had a chance to say those simple words to her. “This mission is important to me. And I know you didn’t want to go. And well . . . I appreciate all your hard work getting ready for it.”

  Beaker kept her blue eyes leveled on mine. I got the distinct impression she wanted to say you’re welcome.

  Instead, she shrugged and went back to her magazine. “Yeah, well, I had no choice. TL made me.”

  I’d like to think it was her way of saying you’re welcome.

  She glanced around me to TL. “Thanks for my send-off party, ” she whispered.

  He smiled a little. “You’re welcome.”

  Beaker went back to her magazine and TL closed his eyes. After a few seconds, I peeked at the note David had slipped me. “I’m right here” was penciled on the inside.

  I smiled to myself. He wanted me to know it would be okay. I’d make it through this flight and this mission okay. The loving gesture warmed me.

  IT took eight hours TO fly nonstop from California to the island of Barracuda Key in Florida.

  We made our way from the plane through the airport to baggage claim and retrieved our matching red-and-white suitcases.

  In the shuttle bus zone, a burgundy Hotel Marquess van waited. Beyond it, I saw David climb into a taxi. Although the windows were tinted, I felt his eyes on me as the cab pulled away.

  The elderly bus driver climbed out as we approached. “I take it from your outfits you’re here for America’s Cheer.”

  “Yes, sir,” Beaker and I answered in unison.

  “You guys are the last flight of the day.” He took my suitcase first, groaning as he slowly hefted it up into the back of the van. I grimaced at the sound. This little old man was too old to be doing this. He reached for Beaker’s suitcase next.

  “I got it.” She quickly hoisted it into the back before the old man could argue.

  TL followed her lead.

  I felt horrible. I should’ve done that, too.

  The old man straightened his white uniform jacket. “There was a time when I could’ve lifted all three without crea
king and moaning.”

  TL slapped him on the back. “No worries. How far is it to the hotel?”

  The old driver opened the side door for us. “Straight across the island. Five miles.”

  With our backpacks, we stepped up into the shuttle van. The driver shut the door, climbed into his side, and pulled out.

  Mild, early evening air flowed through the windows as we zigzagged across the neat and tidy island. I knew from my research that Barracuda Key was five miles wide and only two miles long.

  A variety of colorful shrubs and trees filled the landscape, planted at exactly the same distance apart. I didn’t know any of the names except for the palms.

  We passed shopping centers and grocery stores, all of which stood one-story tall and were painted either beige or white. Brown block lettering on each building indicated the names of the stores or shops. It surprised me not to see any fast-food restaurants.

  A black wrought-iron fence surrounded each individual neighborhood subdivision. Inside, the houses had the same one-story, two-car-garage design, and were painted pastel green or pink.

  People strolled the sidewalks in perfect, preppy, island outfits.

  I supposed Barracuda Key was pretty if you liked the organized, clean, nonunique look.

  “Makes me want to pull up a shrub or something,” Beaker mumbled under her breath.

  “Does the whole island look like this?” I asked.

  “Pretty much,” the driver answered. “Some of the beach areas are a little deserted, and there’s a state park for camping.” The driver pointed out the front window. “There it is.”

  Off in the distance, on what had to be the only hill on the island, stood the Hotel Marquess. Its towering presence came off like an island king looking down over his tropical village.

  With huge columns out front, the white-washed hotel stood only three stories tall. The hotel’s front and sides covered the entire grassy hillside, and the back extended out on stilts over the ocean.

  I knew from my planning sessions with David that the 32,000-square-foot structure housed 449 rooms, nineteen conference rooms, three ballrooms, an underground shopping mall, four restaurants, a spa, indoor and outdoor tennis courts, two pools, an eighteen-hole golf course, and one presidential suite. Where Eduardo Villanueva would be staying.

  A person could move into this hotel and never leave. The place had everything.

  We pulled up under the portico. Bellmen in matching white-and-burgundy suits emerged, opening the doors, helping us out, getting our luggage.

  I couldn’t help but feel like a movie star with all the first-class treatment.

  A bellman stood on each side of the hotel’s entranceway. As we approached, they opened the glass-and-gold doors. “Welcome,” they greeted in unison, bowing.

  I couldn’t recall ever having been bowed to before.

  “Thanks,” I mumbled, a bit uncomfortable with this royal treatment.

  Odd, but this whole place seemed like a foreign country, not a little island off the coast of south Florida right here in good old America.

  A slight nudge from TL made me move forward. We crossed through a marbled-floor waiting area. Two more bellmen opened two more glass-and-gold doors. Beaker and I stepped through them and came to an abrupt stop.

  In stunned amazement, we stared at hundreds of girls.

  Everywhere.

  Boinging and bouncing.

  Squealing and giggling.

  Cheering and chanting.

  Tall, short. Skinny, muscular. Blondes, redheads, brunettes. Ponytails, braids.

  Wearing a variety of shorts and T-shirts with matching ribbons in their hair.

  I’d never seen so many happy, excited, color-coordinated girls in my life.

  “Hey!” A dark-haired girl jumped right into our faces.

  Beaker and I flinched.

  “Isn’t this just great?!” she squeaked.

  I blinked. Was that voice for real?

  “Well, isn’t it?!” Her long, brown ponytail swung with her bubbly jostling.

  TL put a hand on Beaker’s and my shoulders and came up between us. “Yes, it is.” He grinned. “You’re having way too much fun without us.”

  The girl giggled.

  TL hugged us to him. “Where do we check in?”

  The girl snapped her arm straight, pointing across the lobby to the front desk. “Give me an R! Right! Give me T! There!” She spun around and skipped off.

  “She could’ve just said ‘right there,’ ” Beaker grumbled.

  “Stay in character,” TL whispered and headed toward the front desk through the mass of exuberant girls.

  I looked at Beaker, she looked at me, and we both plastered the biggest, fakest smiles on our faces.

  With a light spring to our steps, we followed TL across the lobby.

  “Hi!” A girl as tall as me bopped up in my face. I stepped back a bit.

  “Hi!” Beaker and I greeted her simultaneously. I almost laughed.

  The girl’s brown eyes widened as she took in Beaker. “Oh my God! I love your ribbon!”

  Beaker’s smile became even smilier, if possible. “Thanks!”

  The tall girl slammed her hand over her heart. “I love how you tied it around your neck. And I love how it has little tiny red and white stripes.”

  Beaker kept cheesing it up, but I knew that underneath lurked her trademark smirk. I could only imagine what was going through her mind right now.

  Someone kill this girl and put her out of her misery. No, someone kill me and put me out of my misery.

  “Hi!” Another girl danced up.

  “Hi!” Beaker and I greeted her.

  I wondered how many times I’d have to say ‘Hi!’ over the next few days.

  I purposefully dropped my jaw. “I love your T-shirts.”

  “Thanks!” They answered in unison.

  They pointed to their boobs and the green-on-pink lettering stretched across them. “Cheerleaders are better athletes!” they agreed with their shirts.

  Beaker and I nodded, and I racked my brain for what else I could say.

  I love your matching green-and-pink shorts.

  I love your matching green shoes with pink socks.

  I love your sparkly pink eye shadow.

  “Girls,” TL called, rescuing me from the dilemma.

  “That’s our coach. Gotta go. ’Bye!” I gave a quick wave.

  “’Bye!” They waved back.