Radiate (4 page)

Thing is, cheerleading is serious business. Chloe is the boss, and we are her minions. And she’s still not a hundred percent convinced that the band geek can cut it on the varsity cheerleader squad. Even though I made the team, I still feel as if I have to prove myself over and over and over to the girls who’ve been around the last couple of years. But I’ve got the stamina, the fortitude, and the drive to be the best cheerleader I can be. So, I wipe away the perspiration, tighten my ponytail, and get back to the physical grindstone.

Cheerleading is work. But it’s well worth the effort. It’s what I’ve always wanted, and I can’t wait for the first football game so I can be down on the field, close to the action, and in front of the crowd, showing my school spirit.

I saw this article online from ABC News that said cheerleading is the world’s most dangerous sport with the most injuries. Seriously... people have been paralyzed doing stunts; some have even died. I totally believe it. Hell, just last week, Samantha Fowler got these nasty-ass grass burns on both elbows from Lauren Compton and Ashlee Grimes not scooping her properly on a cradle out. Good thing Melanie Otto’s lawn is so finely manicured and packed with lush, cushy grass. Samantha could have really hurt herself.

Pain is part of the game.

And it’s something I have to confess to my partner.

Lora’s stringing new laces in her Nikes when I plop down next to her with a half-drunk bottle of Gatorade. “I hate to admit it, but my left leg is really sore.”

She peers at me through her blond bangs. “Did you pull a muscle or something?”

I shrug. “Not sure. I started feeling it last night. I’ll just slap a little Bengay on it when I get home from practice.”

With a small laugh, Lora says, “With the way we practice, everything throbs.”

I take a sip and return the cool bottle to my sore left calf muscle. “My eyelashes and hair even hurt.”

“Should we tell Chloe?”

I drain the remaining blue liquid and chuck the bottle over toward my gym bag. “Nah. It’s nothing. I’m sure it’ll go away. I’m certainly not giving Chloe a reason to bag on me.”

“Gotcha. Just keep me posted,” Lora says sweetly.

See, there’s more to cheerleading than the cute uniform and the instant popularity. I love the physical challenge. I’ve already lost six pounds (mostly water weight from sweating since I’m not fat at all), and my muscles, while cursing at me inwardly, are toned and strengthened and ready for more work.

Two measures in to the Daft Punk mix, Chloe stops the action.

“Hayley,” Chloe calls out. “You’ve got to watch Hannah next to you and not get out in front of her during the routine.”

She says it nicely enough, but there’s an underlying “you idiot” implied in the undertone.

I catch my breath and nod. “You got it, Chloe.”

“Madison, you’re a half beat off,” she continues.

I push my damp hair out of my face, wishing I’d brought a couple of bobby pins for the loose wispies. Seriously, it’s a huge distraction when my hair is sticking to my skin. All us cheerleaders have long hair. It’s a good thing, because Chloe literally has a schedule for the fall of how we’ll wear our hair for each game: high ponytail, bun, messy bun, French braid, back with barrettes—you name it, she’s got it planned out.

I think if anyone got a bob or short do, our captain would kick her off the team.

Chloe claps her hands together. “From the top.”

The music cranks back up and I jump to action.

Kick, step, kick, pop.

Swing, lunge, clap, clap.

Stretch, crouch, spread, jump.

Oww .
.
. left leg hurts .
.
.

Pump, pump, pump, pump.

Bend, turn, pop, lock.

Crunk, crunk, spin, juke.

Ouch .
.
. Ouch .
.
.

“Good! Better!” Chloe hollers over the music. “Y’all got it. Go, go, go!”

To see Chloe Bradenton this happy with the new squad this early on means we’re doing something right. It means
I’m
doing something right. When the music stops, we all clap and cheer for ourselves. Chloe walks up and down the line, smiling and nodding with great pleasure.

“Perfect, as always, Brittney,” she says. “And Tara, good form. Watch your elbows and keep them closer to your body. You’ve got the routine down.” Madison gets a high-five, Ashleigh and Ashlee get fist bumps, and then the captain stops in front of me.

My chest heaves up and down from the exertion as the adrenaline continues to flow like a raging river through my veins.
Please don’t tell me I suck.

Chloe flattens her lips into an indiscernible expression. Dare I call it a smile? “Yo. Band geek,” she snaps.

Great. Will I be stuck with that moniker all year? “Yeah?” I ask with a bit of disgust tinting my tone.

A half grin crooks the corner of her mouth and she nods approvingly. “Strong dancing, good timing, and on top of that, it looks like you’re having fun.” She pauses dramatically and then says, “Maybe you’re not a band geek anymore. Go high on me.”

Seriously?

Chloe raises her hand and I do the same. High-five.

Just like that, I feel like I might actually belong.

Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene
Supports the mind supports the body too.

—John Armstrong

Are you limping?” Mom asks with concern painted across her forehead when I walk into the house later that afternoon. The smell of her famous forty-cloves-of-garlic roasted chicken fills the very air around me, and I involuntarily drool.

Spent and exhausted, but button-popping proud of myself, I drop my duffle to the kitchen tile and collapse into the nearby wing chair. “Not really. I think I have blisters on my blisters, however.”

I carefully kick off my Nikes and white footies and squiggle my feet around to loosen them up. A small fiery pain shoots up my left leg, and I massage my ankle to work loose the apparent charley horse. I hope that’s all it is.

Mom chortles at me, but the motherly worry is still there. “You’re not overdoing it, are you Hayley?”

“It is what it is, Mom,” I say with a smile. As she hands me a cold bottle of water from the fridge, I regale her with deets of the day, including how Melanie’s mother had Tastee Town cater our lunch with fried chicken, potato salad, and corn on the cob. “We each host a week of practice,” I tell her. “Mine is next week.”

She cracks the oven door to peer in at the roasting chicken and then closes it. “Sweetie, I hope you don’t expect me to order catering for your friends.”

“Of course not,” I agree. Then I waggle my tongue at her. “But maybe you can make a batch of your yummy egg salad?”

With a wink, Mom says, “We can work something out.”

Dad walks in, seeming tired and exhausted in his own way. He plops a stack of mail on the kitchen table and lets out a long burst of air.

“What’s wrong, Jared?” Mom asks.

He rubs his head. “Nothing. Everything. Nothing to worry about, Nan.”

“Right, Dad,” I say. “And she’ll quit breathing, too.”

Mom gives him “the look,” the one that says he had better tell her what’s wrong... or else.

Dad nods. “The numbers are low so far this month for the store. Slow economy, you know. People don’t need hammers and nails as much. At least, not ours.”

“I would think in a slow economy, people would be doing a lot of DIY projects,” I chime in.

Mom doesn’t give up. “What about bridal registries for the summer wedding season?”

Dad reaches for his reading glasses and begins shuffling through the mail. “They’ve got Crate and Barrel, Macy’s, and everyone else online for that.”

“I should come back to the store and work.”

“Now, Nan, don’t start that again. I’m doing perfectly fine with—”

Pacing the kitchen, Mom says, “I knew it. I knew it. I told you, Jared. Last fall when Homestead Hardware built their super center out on the highway, I knew this would affect our business.”

He holds his hands up. “Now don’t go jumping to conclusions. A lot of the businesses in downtown are hurting. We’re not out on the highway where you get the college foot traffic and the people on their way to the beach in Florida.”

I down the water in about three gulps and then toss the plastic bottle into the blue recycle bin by the back door. This seems like the ideal time to leave the parentals and make myself scarce. Family finances shouldn’t be my business. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” I announce. “Lora and I are going to the movies tonight after dinner.”

“I think it’s sweet that you’re spending so much time with your new partner. But what about Shelly? Are you not hanging out anymore?”

“She’s in Mobile this summer with her dad, and then she’s going to summer music camp. It’s not a bad thing, Mom. We just have different interests now.”

“Leave her be, Nan,” Dad says from over the top of his American Express bill that seems as thick as the last young adult novel I read.

“Don’t be out late,” Mom says quickly, taking her eyes from Dad’s for only a second. Then she adds, “And take your cell phone. That thing’s been buzzing all afternoon.”

Damn! I forgot I’d left it in the charger overnight and didn’t take it with me to Melanie’s today. I wonder who’s been calling.

I hobble over to the phone, and thoughts of Matthews Hardware Store battling a corporate giant fade away. I nearly swoon when I see the name on the caller ID:

Delafield, Daniel S.

“Omigod, omigod, omigod!” I repeat over and over as I stare at the number.

“Is everything okay?”

I can’t exactly talk to my mom about boys. I mean, sure, we had the whole “how babies are born” talk over a plate of heart-shaped pancakes when I turned thirteen and everything—which took a bigger toll on her than it did on me—but she’s like forty-eight years old and totally ancient. She and Dad have been married forever and have three kids. She’s my
mom.
She’s not a girlfriend to share secrets with. She’s the woman who birthed me, changed my diapers, and now houses and feeds me. I’m not saying that’s bad or she’s bad or untrustworthy—we’re just from different worlds.

“Everything’s awesome. Just cheerleading stuff,” I say, brushing aside the fact that Daniel Delafield has been calling me. How did he even get my number? “I’ll be back down for dinner.”

I bolt up the stairs, two at a time, scaring the crap out of my cat Leeny, who was napping in the sunshine at the very top. Once behind the door to my personal sanctuary, I fling myself onto the quilted bed on my stomach and immediately dial my voice mail.

“
You have three new messages,
” the lady with the calming voice says. Does she not understand she needs to be a little more psyched when delivering this news to me?

“Received at 3:43 p.m.—Hey, Hayley .
.
. This is Danny. Daniel Delafield, you know. Got your number from Lora. There’s a pool party tonight over at Justin Agace’s house. Thought you might want to come and hang out, you know, whatever. It’d be cool. Call me back or text me.”

Danny? And he’s inviting me to a party?

“Next message, received at 4:21 p.m.—Hey, Hayley .
.
. Danny again. I guess you’re at cheerleading practice. Phillip and I rode by Melanie’s house and saw all the cars. Listen, the party at Justin’s starts at seven, so hope to see you there.”

Wow. He, like, seriously wants me there. Awesome casserole!

“Next message, received at 4:57 p.m.—Hayley .
.
. Me again. Don’t think I’m stalking you or anything. Will Hopkins has the hots for your girl, Lora. Bring her along with you tonight. We’ll help hook them up, too.”

Too? Hook them up...
too?
Does that mean Daniel wants to hook up with me?

My heart stops. Well, not really. But hyperventilation is surely on the horizon for me.
Breathe .
.
. breathe .
.
. breathe .
.
.
Who can be calm at a time like this? My high school dreams are about to come true. The hot hottie of all hotties at Polk High School wants to get with me. Me!

I text Lora . . .

FORGET THE MOVIE. WE R PARTYING W/DANIEL & WILL @AGACE’S!

WHAT?

3 VMS FROM DANIEL. WILL WANTS U BAD!

SHUT UP! BEEN IN <3 W/HIM SINCE FRESHMAN YR

2NITE’S THE NITE

I toss my phone down. This calls for some serious preparation.

Thorough shower. Shampoo and deep conditioning. Shaving of the legs and armpits. Break out the new bottle of Clinique Happy. Get the new Aldo shoes out of the box. And maybe even have the guts to wear that new Op bikini that I bought for the family’s beach trip we’re doing in Destin this August.

My phone rings. It’s Lora.

She squeals through the phone. “I’ll be by to get you in an hour.”

I’d better get a move on. There’s a cute boy waiting for me!

Physical strength is measured by what we can carry; spiritual strength by what we can bear.

—Author Unknown

I don’t know why you bothered curling your hair,” Lora says with a snicker as we park on Royal Crest Lane outside Justin’s house. “It’s just gonna get wet.”

I glance around at the now-familiar array of vehicles: Ashleigh’s Volvo; Madison’s Eclipse; Hannah’s RAV4; and Daniel’s Dodge Ram 4x4 pickup. Just seeing his truck makes my skin tingle. “At least I can start the night out semicute, right?”

Lora laughs and pulls the keys out of the ignition. “So, he really said Will’s got the hots for me?”