by Zoe Evans
“Oh, Madison, have you ever tried foie gras?” she asked, tilting her glasses toward the bottom of her nose.
I shook my head no.
“Fabulous, you’ll love it,” she said to me. Before I could protest, I heard her order, “Three foie gras s’il vous plait.” I wasn’t so sure about this meal, but I decided to do as Mom had told me and be a team player, at least for Dad’s sake.
As Beth gave the rest of the order, Dad looked at her adoringly. Blech!
“So, Madison,” she said to me, frowning, “enough about me. Tell me about you and this cheerleading business,” she tittered.
“Well, cheerleading is, like, my life,” I kind of snapped at her. “I’m totally obsessed with it. It’s an amazing sport,” I said, picking off an end of a small baguette.
“A sport?” she asked.
Dad folded his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. He knew what was coming. The Cheerleading-is-a-Sport speech. And I gave it to her. Soup to nuts. It just makes me so mad when people act like cheerleading is so easy—like there’s no skill involved. Let me tell you something: There’s skill all right. It takes strength, grace, and technique to do stunts. Beth wouldn’t last one second at the top of a pyramid.
“But, Madison, don’t you think there are so many extracurriculars that are better for you than cheerleading?” She took a sip of the wine that had been placed in front of her.
Was Dad, like, feeding her cue cards?
I took a deep gulp of my iced tea. “There are a lot of great extracurricular activities at school. And as cheerleaders, we support all those other activities through cheer. We get to be a part of all of them, in a way,” I said. (OK, so the truth is, I’ve never actually thought of it that way before, but that was seriously the most genius, in-your-face answer of all time. Go, me.)
Beth pursed her lips, silently disagreeing.
The foie gras was delivered to the table, and I couldn’t help but think it looked like disks of mushy cat food.
Beth took a dainty bite. “Mmm, exquisite,” she said, gazing at my dad.
I decided to take one for the team and show Beth that I was no slouch in the adventurous—eating department. I can be refined, even if she thinks I’m just a stupid cheerleader. I took off a nice—size piece with my fork and put it in my mouth before I could second—guess it.
As I started chewing, however, the second thoughts started happening whether I wanted them to or not.
“Hey, um . . . what exactly is foie gras?” I said, trying to keep the food in one side of my cheek.
“Duck liver, of course,” said Beth, smiling serenely at me. “A specially fattened duck.”
And then I did what only came naturally after hearing that I was eating some foreign animal body part. I SPIT the whole huge bite back onto my plate. But because I hadn’t done any advanced spit—up planning, the regurgitated food dribbled EVERYWHERE—on my chin, on my DRESS, on the table.
“Excuse me, please,” I said to a horrified—looking Beth and a very angry—looking Dad.
I gunned it to the bathroom and dabbed my mouth with toilet paper. I looked down at my dress and saw ugly brown stains where I’d spit up my food. My fab new dress was an absolute mess!! (Hey, that’s almost a cheer )
I heard someone using the sink outside my stall. I figured whoever was out there had already witnessed my demise in the restaurant. No use waiting for them to leave the bathroom.
I walked out to the sinks with confidence. That is, until I registered Clementine Prescott smugly preening in front of the mirror. She was running a comb through her long, wavy brown hair. (The kind that stays perfect even in 100% humidity.) My jaw must have dropped to the floor in shock, because it actually kind of hurts a little. Of all the restaurants in town, Clementine Prescott just had to be at the exact one I was in that night? Why??? Do I have a little cloud o’ doom following me around wherever I go? Can I not just have one awkward night alone with my dad and his awful GF without some disaster having to be witnessed by one of my cheerleading idols, please, O Ye Gods of Cheer?
“Enjoy your appetizer?” Clementine asked, looking pointedly at my brown, smudged dress.
“Uh . . . I . . .”
I couldn’t even manage a complete sentence, I was in such shock and so completely embarrassed.
I burst through the bathroom door and back into the restaurant. I couldn’t help but wonder what was worse: facing the judgmental stare of Clementine or the disappointed look on my dad’s face. I know what he was thinking: “Just this once, Madison, couldn’t you hold it together?”
T.G. my entrée seemed to be based on a familiar part of a chicken—a simple chicken breast. No guts or liver there, phew! I let Dad and Beth do most of the talking for the rest of dinner, and I think they were ok with that. I think Beth was worried I might have another spit—up episode if I talked and chewed at the same time, so she just let me chew and didn’t ask me any more questions. Dad must have made up some reason for my spitting up the foie gras besides my thinking that Beth ordered me food that looked and tasted like cat throw-up.
When I got home, it was pretty late, and I was glad to see Mom’s door was closed and the pulsing blue TV—glow was coming from under it. That usually means she’s sleeping and that I shouldn’t bother her. I so don’t feel like talking about the night, anyway. I’m always better off just writing it down, which is about all the reliving of the night’s horror I can endure.
Today I woke up practically strangled in my pom—pom from an absolute nightmare. Dad’s girlfriend, Beth, was dressed as a Titan (like I said, nightmare), and she was doing all these backflips and cartwheels as Clementine led the team in a cheer all about what happened to me at the restaurant last night. Can you believe it??
On Saturdays I usually lounge in bed for a while, and then Mom and I have a late breakfast together. But this morning I was totally freaked out by that dream, so I decided to just come out to the backyard and start working on some cheer moves.
It’s really nice out. Perfect shorts and a long sleeve tee weather—which is, like, my ideal fall day, because it still feels a little bit like summer but with a hint of what’s to come. I tried to inhale all the smells of the outdoors—my neighbor’s azalea bushes, the freshly mown grass, someone cooking bacon for breakfast.
But the scene from last night in the bathroom keeps replaying over and over in my head. I see Clementine’s face and hear myself stammer, “Uh . . . I . . . ,” and I just can’t stand it. UGH.
I texted Lanie and Evan to see if maybe they’d hit the mall with me later.
Lanie: Can’t. Pottery class.
Evan: Going 2 Secrets of the Moth Eaters IV. Sorry!
Ugh. As much as I love them, once in a while it would be nice if we could do normal friend things together, like go to the mall or see regular movies (not ones with subtitles-Lanie’s fave) about regular people (not people with superpowers). Maybe even go to a regular bookstore.
But no. Lanie insists that the mall is “soulless” and that anything that isn’t an independent film is just for jocks and that all chain bookstores do is “support the man.” And Evan, well, he’s on a perpetual quest for the most mind—blowing comic, so that pretty much eliminates most normal social venues for us.
So, on a beautiful Saturday, when people like Katie Parker and Hilary Cho are sunbathing their long, toned limbs by the pool, I’m having a boring day of practicing my around-the-world jump. But if we’re being honest (and hey, this is my journal . . .), it really does need some work.
After breakfast with Mom, I started sketching some more ideas for the Grizzlies uniforms. But as I was sketching, I started to wonder—what is the point of designing a new uniform, anyway? We’ve been given the same hand-me-down, scratchy, flea—infested uniforms as every other Grizzly before us-so, who is going to pay for these fancy new duds?
Maybe today’ll be the day I’ll find out my real dad isn’t this weirdo who likes bad-French-food-eating, child�
��hating women like Beth. Instead, he’s actually this Daddy Warbucks character, and he’ll be, like, crazy obsessed with cheerleading. Maybe he was even a cheerleader when he was a kid. And we’ll meet and do a big cheer-slash-dance number in his huge mansion. Then I’ll show him our ratty, tattered uniforms. He’ll frown and snap his fingers, and a parade of maids will tap—dance down the hall holding our team’s brand-spanking-new uniforms, and they’ll all be MY DESIGNS!
All of a sudden I felt something wet land on my head. I touched it with my forefinger.
“Eww!”
Bird poop. A bird literally POOPED on my dreams! Well, daydreams, but that’s basically the same thing, for me anyway. I’ll take that as a sign that I have to get real. No Daddy Warbucks is going to buy us these uniforms. We’ll have to buy them ourselves. Or raise the money to buy them. That’s when it hit me: a fund-raiser! I had no idea what we’ll do to raise funds, but I have to have enough faith in my team to know that even if we aren’t the best cheerleaders, we can at least come together to raise some money. I can’t wait to tell everyone on Monday at practice.
Monday. Monday means school, which means facing whatever rumor Clementine decides to spread about my chewing challenged-ness. I can just picture the rest of my life from here on out. Clementine will tell the rest of the squad how Madison Hays Likes Her Meal So Much She Eats It Twice. They’ll all have a good laugh and remember that I’m the kind of girl they might want to think twice about taking out in public. Great way to convince a squad to take you onto their team, huh? And I can’t even begin to imagine what Bevan Ramsey will think of me once he hears THAT story.
Maybe Bevan is a vegetarian! And when he hears my story, he’ll think it was really sweet of me to spit up my food. “She didn’t know what she was eating,” he’ll say after hearing Clementine’s tale. “She felt bad for the poor, fat ducks, and I fully support her dedication to our animals!”
Yeah, a girl can dream. Eww, I have to get this bird poop off me, like, NOW.
Mom was all about my fund—raising idea. But like all things with Mom and cheer, she’s almost TOO much about it. This morning, I was trying to enjoy some perfectly good Pop—Tarts (untoasted, just how I like them) and flip through the funnies section of Wake Up, Port Angeles, and she threw down this forty—page printout, practically right on my plate.
“Voilà!” she said, all triumphant-like.
I looked up at her, midchew. (BTW, I’ve been practicing the art of chewing with my mouth clamped shut really hard, so that nothing can surprise me enough to make me spit things out.)
I swallowed my Pop-Tart. (Score!) “What’s this?” I asked, curious.
“Fund-raising ideas!” she said, walking over to the coffee machine. “I scoured the Web late last night, searching for new and exciting ways that cheerleaders these days are fund-raising.”
I just gave her an “I’m annoyed” look.
“You know, for your uniforms,” she pointed out, stirring sugar into her mug. Uh-huh, I got that, Captain Obvious.
The header on the first page of the printout read, “Top Ten Things You Can Do to Cheer on the Ca$h!” Part of me was thinking it was nice of Mom to think of me and go to the effort of helping me research fund—raising ideas. But another part of me wanted to say, “Mom, I think I can handle this part. I may not be able to do a perfect Scorpion pose on the top of a pyramid, but I know how to type search words into Google. Probably better than you.” But I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. But, I mean, does she think that I’m such a cheerleading failure that I don’t even know how to organize my own team’s fund—raiser without her help?
“What’s wrong, Madington?” she asked, biting her lip. She does that when she’s worried about me, which is actually a really annoying ploy, if you think about it. I know that means she’s worried, which means I get guilted into not getting mad at her, because I feel bad and I know she’s just trying to help. Mothers.
“Nothing,” I said, packing up to head to school. I figured I’d just say thanks for her help and do this my own way anyway. Besides, I have enough to worry about today already with the whole Clementine thing. “Ready to go?”
Mom motioned to the printout on the table. “Aren’t you going to take that to show it to your team?”
“Oh. Right.” I was hoping she’d miss that detail. It’s not like our kitchen table isn’t covered in tons of other scraps of paper, magazines, and newspapers.
At school I mentioned my fund—raising idea to Jared, who is in my second—period math class with Mr. Hobart. But he got a little too excited.
“I say we do a production of Spring Awakening!” he said, flipping his long bangs back dramatically and widening his eyes. “You’d be a perfect Wendla! You’re just the right size. Wendla should always be played by a petite, just like Lea Michele.”
I haven’t seen Spring Awakening, but Lanie has-twice. She went with her older sister when they visited an aunt in New York City. She told me it was the best musical she has ever seen in her life, and I’ll take her word for it. I’ve only seen The Lion King and Legally Blonde.
“Um . . . let’s ask everyone at practice today,” I said, to be fair. Thankfully, I don’t think a musical fund—raiser like this will fly with the Testosterone Twins either.
Mr. Hobart has this insane ability to hear everything you’re saying when you shouldn’t be talking. And then, when he calls on you, he makes you repeat whatever you’ve just said. Today, I was his target. He cleared his throat in that really phlegmy way of his and said, “Excuse me, Miss Hays? Does your chatter mean that you would like to answer the problem on the blackboard?”
I looked up at the board, and basically, this is what I saw:
I must have started drooling or making that stupid noise that cartoon characters make when they don’t know the answer to a question, because he finally just gave me a stern look and called on another person.
Lucky break. Except for a couple of people chuckling at my expense, but still. Could have been worse. Could have gotten detention.
At lunch I couldn’t help but notice Katie Parker and her crew looking my way. I just know Clementine was telling them about what happened at Le French Frog. I can just see it, I’ll walk down the halls and forever endure taunts like, “Need a bib, Madison?”
A similar thing happened to a girl named Helen Bassett last year. She had one of those little mirrors with Lisa Frank artwork on it in her locker—you know, with the unicorns and hearts and stuff (so she was kind of asking for it). Anyway, she was scratching her nose (or so she says) when Clementine saw her and said “Gross! Helen just picked her nose!” For the rest of the year people whispered things like “Find anything good?” or rapped the words to “Gold Digger” whenever she walked by.
Anyway, this is so not the way I plan on getting the triumvirate to notice my Mad Cheer Skillz.
“Earth to Madison,” said Evan in a mock alien voice.
“Oh, sorry guys. Was just busy picturing my future at school as a Certified Loser.”
“And that would be different from your current existence how?” Lanie said, scarfing down a french fry.
“Ooh, good one, Lanes, you got me where it stings,” I said, clutching my heart.
“Ladies, ladies. I need your attention,” said Evan, pushing his cafeteria tray away. He unzipped his backpack.
“After much anticipation, I would like to present to you a long—awaited work by the one and only Evan Andrews. Hot off the presses.” He handed us each our own, signed copies of SuperBoy to the, Um, Rescue!
Lanie and I let out squeals of joy.
“Try not to fall in love with me, girls. I’m not good at time management.”
“E! You did it! Wow!” I said, leafing through my copy.
“I told you I was going to. I just needed to make sure the fan base was ready for it.”
The first comic already had me cracking up.
Seeing Evan’s comics gave me a totally amazing idea.
“E
van, how about for the Grizzly Bear fund—raiser we sell your first issue of SuperBoy?”
Lanie gave me a look like, “Girl, please.” I mean, I knew that this might take some major prodding. It took practically ten years to convince Evan to take his blog from Web to print. I could only imagine what it would take to make him sell it to the kids in our school.
“Yeah, Mads. I love you and all, but that is definitely not happening,” Evan said, snatching my copy back.
“Oh, come on,” I said, taking a bunch of SuperBoy mags and fanning them out as if they were on display. “We’ll set up a table at a couple of games, we’ll sell them, and you will be the author signing them for fans. I’ll help you run the booth, and whatever profit the team makes, you’ll get a percentage.”
“Mads. I only have Internet fans. They don’t go to games. They play them at home, on their computers and Xboxes. Remember?”
Looking at all the work Evan had put into producing a printed comic, I was so proud of him at that moment. And for a split second, I wasn’t sure if I was, like, proud of him like a big sister would be or proud like maybe I wanted to plant a big kiss on him. Like, on his lips. But thankfully the moment passed pretty quickly or I would have excused myself to go to the nurse’s office to get my temperature taken.
“You don’t know how great these are—you just have to get them out there and let people see what you’ve been hiding. You’re really talented.”
Evan pushed his long hair away from his eyes, embarrassed. “Sorry, Mads. You’ll have to raise money the old—fashioned way. What about a car wash or something? Don’t cheerleaders, like, live for that stuff? I know I do, heh heh.”
(BTW, it’s really annoying when even Evan tries to be all boy-gross.)
“Lanes. Help me here, please?” I pleaded.
“It’s true, Evan. I think SuperBoy speaks to a generation. You’ve tapped into the zeitgeist, Evan, and you don’t even realize it. Keeping these comics from the public is doing a major disservice to our youth.”
