by Kieran Scott
“Well, it’s different with us,” Maureen said finally, pulling at a tuft of grass that had broken up between the stones of the patio. “I mean, because you’re the only one.”
“Yeah,” Lindsey said. “You gotta admit, the attention does go right to you. And that can’t be good if they’re judging the whole squad.”
“You guys don’t even realize how insane you sound, do you?” Whitney said, shaking her head. I felt a rush of warmth so strong, I just wanted to tackle her into a hug.
“Whitney, we don’t want to tear anyone down,” Tara said, trying to sound all Mother Teresa.
“Well, what do you think you’re doing to me?” I blurted. “And Whitney’s right! I mean, they’re professional judges! You really think they’re going to be stun-gunned by one brunette head? Okay . . . okay . . . ” (I was in blind-rage-rant mode now.) “If uniformity is the problem, why don’t we all dye our hair red or something? How would you guys feel about that?”
“Shyah. Like that’s gonna happen,” Sage said.
Would it be wrong to strangle her?
“Just . . . think about it,” Tara said finally, reaching up to slap me on the back. “If you want, we can always dye it when we get to nationals.”
I looked into her eyes. She was serious. She really thought I might do this. It seemed like she expected me to come around. I couldn’t believe it. These people were supposed to be my teammates. My friends. And here they were, using this totally passive-aggressive method to tell me they wanted me to change my appearance for them. At least Whitney had stuck up for me, but that didn’t erase the fact that Mindy and Autumn and Chandra and Jaimee hadn’t. Didn’t they realize how wrong this was? Suddenly I felt like more of an outsider than I had on my first day of school.
“Can I just point out that these don’t exactly fall into the definition of ‘props’?” I said.
“But they do fall under the ‘ways to improve our squad’ category,” Tara replied.
Yeah. If your definition is looser than the elastic around your ankles, I thought.
I trudged back to my spot in the circle and dropped down, hugging my knees as close to me as possible so that I wouldn’t touch the girls at my sides. I wanted a bubble of my very own. I had never felt so abandoned in my life.
As I dragged myself through the kitchen door at my house that night, I turned my cell phone back on. The second I did, it rang, singing the theme song from The Phantom of the Opera. Jordan! (Hey, she picked her own ring. Don’t ask me.)
“Jordan! Can you please get in that crappy Jetta of yours and get your butt down here and save me already?” I said into the phone, dropping my bags next to the center island.
“Whoa. What’s going on? More drama?” she said.
“You have no idea,” I told her.
“Like Sand Dunes through the hourglass, so are the blondes of our lives,” she said in a low, low voice.
I cracked up laughing. This was Jordan’s current favorite line, and even though it made less than zero sense, it always made me smile. Actually, just the sound of Jordan’s voice was enough to make me feel better. I still had a real friend out there. Someone who would never expect me to change. I sat down at the kitchen table and pulled the cookie jar toward me.
“What’s wrong, Neece?” she asked. “Talk to Jordan.”
I sighed hugely. “I would love to tell you, but right now I’m just not sure I have the energy.”
“Well then, I have something that’ll perk you right up,” Jordan announced. “You, my friend, are in for a huge surprise!”
“Really? What?” I asked. Excitement sizzled through me, crowding out the sadness.
“Like I’m going to tell you! Then it wouldn’t be a surprise!” Jordan trilled.
I pulled out a peanut butter cookie and chomped into it. “Well, then why are you telling me that you have a surprise for me?”
“Because I live to torture you, obviously,” Jordan replied with glee. I could practically see her rubbing her hands together maniacally. Of course, then she wouldn’t have been able to hold the phone. “But it’s huge. Just huge.”
“Okay, now you hafta tell me,” I said, spraying cookie crumbs everywhere. I rolled my eyes at myself, chewed and swallowed. “Come on! At least give me a clue! Wait! Are you moving here? Please tell me you’re moving here!” I leaned forward, my feet bouncing up and down under the table.
“Not that huge,” she said flatly. “But you’ll find out soon enough!” She sang the word enough, dragging it out over three syllables.
“You suck, you know that?” I said, but I was grinning.
“I’m aware,” she replied. “Catch ya later!”
Just like that, she was gone. And just like that, I was distracted from the squad and their insane grooming demands.
3
“Come on, Annisa! One more! You can do it! Push!”
I looked up at Whitney as sweat poured down my face. “Why do I feel like you’re my Lamaze coach or something?”
“Okay. That was disturbing,” Whitney said, slapping my shoulder. “Just push already!”
I held my breath and strained my leg muscles to push the weight on the leg press up and away from me. Every bit of my body was quivering from the effort, but I worked it. I bent my knees to bring it back in and my legs collapsed, letting the weight crash down with a huge clang. Everyone in the weight room turned to look at me.
“My bad,” I said.
“All right, all right. Nothing’s broken,” Whitney said, waving them off. “Move it along. Nothing to see here.”
I dropped my legs down on either side of the bench and let out a breath. This weight-training stuff was no joke. I dreaded every session in this room for a number of reasons. First of all, I always went home exhausted. Second, it smelled like hundreds of years’ worth of sweaty armpits. And third? For some bizarre reason it had a bunch of windows facing the hallway so that anyone else who had stayed after school could walk by and gawk at us at any time. And they did.
Still, I had definitely seen an improvement in my stunts and I was actually starting to get defined shoulder muscles. Soon I’d be able to give Angelina Jolie a run for her money.
“Here. Good job,” Whitney said, tossing me a towel from my gym bag. I wiped my face down and sat up straight. As I took a gulp of water from my bottle, I watched Whitney readjust the headband in her short blonde hair. We were the only two people on the squad who couldn’t make a ponytail.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said, swinging my feet around to one side of the bench.
“Shoot,” Whitney said.
“What’s up with the dyeing-my-hair thing?” I asked. “I mean, who do you think put those suggestions in there?”
Whitney rolled her eyes and sat down next to me. “I have no idea, but it’s such a joke,” she said. “No one really expects you to do it.”
I felt a little better to hear her say this, but I wasn’t so sure. “What about Tara?”
“Ignore Tara. You know how obsessive she is when it comes to competitions,” Whitney said. “I mean, the girl’s my best friend, but even I know that she’s one strand short of a full pom right now. Just look at her.”
Tara was practicing the routine in front of the full-length mirror . . . with her eyes closed. Honestly. Why practice in front of a mirror with your eyes closed? Every time she did a hand clasp, she looked like she was praying. And maybe she was a little bit. Winning was like Tara’s religion.
Mindy replaced a couple of dumbbells on the shelf and walked over to join us. “I bet she put all those suggestions in the box herself,” she said.
“Ya think?” I asked hopefully.
“Wouldn’t put it past her,” Whitney said. “Just do yourself a favor and don’t take anything she says too seriously. Well, except the workout schedule,” she added with a solid slap to my back. “That, you need.”
“Gee, thanks,” I told her, but smiled. I was glad Whitney was firmly on my side in the great hair debate. Sh
e was a good person to have on your side in anything.
Across the room, Sage and Lindsey chatted while they did crunches on the floor mat. My ears perked up when I heard Sage mention Daniel’s name. I tried to tune in, but there was so much noise in the room, I could barely make out what they were saying. Had she really said his name? And if so, what were they talking about?
I was about to surreptitiously make my way closer so that I could eavesdrop when Steven crouched down next to them and took a couple of pictures. The second the flash went off, Sage squinted and sat up. “Ugh! Get away, perv!” she shouted, tossing her towel at him.
He stood up. “Hey, I’m just doing my—”
“Steven!” Coach Holmes called out, steering him toward the door. “You and I need to have a little talk about boundaries.”
“If I see those pictures on the Internet, you’re gonna get slapped with a lawsuit so fast, it’ll blow your greasy hair back!” Sage shouted after them.
Just then Sage’s pink cell let out a loud beep. She grabbed her phone from the edge of the floor mat and quickly scrolled through the message. Her healthy sweat-induced rosiness deepened and she let out a little giggle. From bitch to bubbly in 2.5 seconds.
“Hey, Sage!” Erin called out. “Who’s the new man?”
“Don’t bother,” Whitney interjected. “She’s keeping it all a big secret,” she said with a hint of sarcasm. Classic sibling teasing.
Sage shot her sister a withering look and jogged out of the room, dialing as she went. My heart thumped with excitement. If Sage had a new honey, then maybe she wasn’t trying to win Daniel back.
“You know anything about this guy?” Whitney asked Mindy.
“Only that he sends her, like, ten text messages every day at lunch,” Mindy said. “She’s keeping it on the DL.”
“Well, she’s clearly smitten,” I said happily. “At least she’s moving on from Daniel.”
“God, it’s so weird,” Mindy said. “I can’t even imagine her with anyone else.”
My stomach dropped and Mindy looked at me, mortified. “I mean . . . you know what I mean . . . they were just together so long and . . . you know—”
“It’s okay,” I said, even though I felt like ralphing. Were Sage and Daniel one of those super-classic pairs that everyone was always going to see as a couple? Was it ever going to stop being SageandDaniel and become AnnisaandDaniel? They had been together since middle school, and since I wasn’t even sure if Daniel wanted to be my boyfriend, it was kind of like he still belonged to her in a way. I’ll admit it. I was straight-up jealous. Of Sage.
Ugh.
“I’m sorry,” Mindy replied, biting her lip.
“It’s fine. Really,” I said as calmly as possible. And I meant it . . . sort of. I wasn’t mad at her, just a little irritated at the situation. Why couldn’t I have fallen for someone who didn’t have a super-popular, totally gorgeous, ever-present ex-girlfriend? I shot Mindy a smile, stood up and grabbed my MP3 player out of my gym bag. “I think I’m gonna go use the punching bag for a little while.”
I popped my earphones in and cranked up the volume. A little expending of nervous energy was exactly what the doctor ordered at that moment. I swear I saw the punching bag flinch as I approached.
Steven Schwinn was waiting for me outside the locker room an hour later, looking eager. He had disappeared for a while after Coach had intervened, but it looked like he was back in action.
“Am I going to have to get a restraining order?” I asked him, hoisting my gym bag onto my shoulder with much effort. Between gym clothes, practice clothes and my book bag full of homework, I was going to become a hunchback.
“Here, let me get that,” Steven offered. I was about to protest, but he had already slipped the bag off my arm and my muscles were so relieved, I would have been an idiot to say no.
“Thanks.”
For a guy who claimed to be all about chivalry, this was the first gentlemanly thing I had seen him do yet. Maybe he was redeemable. Or maybe he was just being nice so I would give him a good interview. I’d have to wait and see.
“No prob,” he replied. “So I was thinking I’d walk you home and we could start the interview on the way.”
I blinked. “How did you know I live within walking distance?”
“I do my research,” he said with a wide smile. He had the straightest teeth I had ever seen. He pulled a tape recorder out of his pocket and hit RECORD. “You game?”
I shrugged. “I guess.”
We headed out the back door together and cut across the football gridiron. I lived a few houses down from the back entrance to the athletic fields and took this shortcut every day. Daniel and I usually walked home together, but after the county championship game, his season was officially over and jazz band—which he had decided to do over wrestling, though he hadn’t talked to his dad about it yet—hadn’t started. He had been home for a couple of hours, probably kicking back with some corn chips while I lifted weights and struggled through push-ups. Oh, to be a football player instead of a cheerleader.
The sun was already setting and clouds were gathering overhead. A stiff wind blew my sweaty hair back from my face and I drew my sweatshirt closer to me.
“So, what are the differences between living here and living in New Jersey?” Steven asked, holding up the tape recorder. My bag bumped against his left hip while his messenger bag full of books bumped against his right. He looked kind of like a Sherpa.
“Are you okay with all that stuff?” I asked. After all, he wasn’t exactly a bodybuilder type—more of a string bean.
“I’m fine,” he replied. “And I get to ask the questions.”
I raised my hands in surrender. “Okay, okay. The difference between here and New Jersey. Well, for one, there’s about eight inches of snow on the ground up there right now, according to my friend Jordan.”
“Jordan? Old boyfriend?” he asked.
“Uh . . . no. Jordan’s a girl,” I said.
“Oh . . . cool. Was she on the cheerleading squad with you?”
“Yep. She’s still on it,” I replied with a nod.
“Are they into competing too?”
I had to laugh at that one. “That would be a no,” I said. “Honestly, they’re pretty much the exact opposite of the Sand Dune squad. I mean, if my new squad met my old squad, the universe might collapse in on itself.”
“I don’t think that’s scientifically possible,” Steven said with a smirk.
“Trust me, you’d see it happen,” I told him, trying to visualize what the meeting might be like. “Omigod, I can just see Tara Timothy and Gia Kistrakis in the same room together. They would kill each other.”
“Gia Kistrakis?” Steven asked.
I glanced at him and suddenly recalled I was being taped. “Oh, God. Could you not print any of that?” I said, blanching. I tried to mentally replay everything I had just said, but came up blank. Still, it didn’t feel like anything I wanted to have printed.
“You consented to an interview,” Steven said.
“Come on!” I replied. “I’m known for my verbal diarrhea. I could say something that would get me blackballed forever!”
Steven grinned. “Sweet!”
All I was doing was exciting him. Mental note: reporters = untrustworthy.
“Look, if you don’t give me the right to strike anything I say, then this interview is over,” I said, pausing as we stepped onto the sidewalk.
“Please! I wouldn’t give that to anyone!” Steven protested.
“Okay, then give me my bag,” I replied, holding out my hand.
Steven stared at me, trying to figure out if I was serious. “All right, fine,” he said finally. “But you owe me.”
I grinned. “Cool.” Score one for me.
We started walking again. “So . . . Gia Kistrakis?”
“Okay, Gia Kistrakis was this girl on my old squad in Jersey. She was like every stereotype you have in your head of Jersey girls, all wrapped int
o one,” I explained. “Imagine Adriana from The Sopranos, but scarier.”
Steven whistled.
“Tell me about it,” I said. “This one time, the other school’s mascot—a tiger—came loping across the basketball court at halftime to try to have some fun with us. It’s like one of those big, orange, furry things, you know? So she’s bending down to tie her laces and he pokes her on the shoulder. Without even, like, a second of hesitation, Gia turns around and just flat-out decks him.”
“You’re kidding!” Steven said.
“I swear! She thought he was some guy trying to look up her skirt or something. Anyway, she hit him so hard, his head spun around. Then he goes stumbling backward, totally blind, and takes out the scorer’s table.” I was cracking up hard now and Steven started to laugh too. “All these papers go flying and that little ancient box thing that controls the scoreboard cracks against the wall—sparks everywhere—and the tiger’s uniform catches fire. Now he’s running around, blind and on fire, and it takes, like, five of the basketball players to tackle him with towels to put him out.”
“You’re making this up,” Steven said, laughing.
I paused at the end of my driveway, doubling over. I don’t know if it was the story, the nostalgia or the sheer exhaustion, but I couldn’t stop laughing. I was laughing so hard, I was wailing.
“Oh my God. Oh my God,” I repeated, tears coming to my eyes. I gripped his arm for support. “It was classic.”
“Annisa?”
I stood up and caught my breath. Daniel was pushing himself up from my front step. My heart went all spastic on me the second I saw him standing there looking all perfect. My heart pretty much always does that when Daniel’s around.
“Hey!” I said, pleasantly surprised. My hand went directly to my hair, which probably looked like a bad toupee at this point.
Daniel glanced at Steven and stood up. He had his backpack and a copy of Hamlet in his hands. “Hey,” he said to me. “What’s up, man?” he said to Steven.
“Hi.” Steven hit the stop button on the tape recorder.
