The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading (21 page)

“Look, Reynolds,” Todd said. He leaned against the closed locker next to mine and offered up a smile. “I know I can be pretty stupid for a smart kid sometimes. And you probably don’t even care what I have to say anymore, but for the record, I wouldn’t think any less of you if you gave this up.”

“This?” I asked.

He waved a hand at the cheerleading uniform. “Nothing wrong with a strategic retreat.” With that, he gave my arm an awkward pat and left before I could say anything.

I’d thought about resigning. Sure. Even more so during practice that afternoon. It seemed stupid to stick with cheering when everyone else on the squad hated me. Moni and Kaleigh huddled together and never looked my way. Even when the entire squad lined up for a cheer or routine, there was this perceptible distance between all of them and me—like I was contagious.

I avoided both my mom and Shelby once I got home. Up in my room, I pulled the cheerleading handbook from my backpack and flipped through until I found Sheila’s phone number. Ready?
Okay,
I told myself,
just do this.
After today’s practice, I figured Sheila might even understand. But when the call rolled into voice mail, I felt a strange sense of relief. I hung up without leaving a message. I’d tell her tomorrow.

That night, a wrestling meet was the last place I wanted to be. I stood outside Prairie Stone High, in the cold, my feet itching to run toward my mom’s ancient Volvo that was pulling up the hill and away from the school. I dashed up the school steps, more to escape the cold than from some great desire to let my school spirit shine. I’d barely made it through the double doors when I was surrounded.

“There she is!”

It was Andrew and the rest of the freshman wrestlers, all decked out in purple singlets, Prairie Stone High hoodies, and funny wrestling shoes. “You’re here,” one of them said. He added an, “Ow,” when two of his teammates nudged him.

“I said I would be, didn’t I?” I tried for enthusiastic and hoped my voice didn’t give away my true feelings. “Which one of you is up first tonight?”

“Tyler is,” Andrew said. “He’s been spitting into trash cans to make weight.”

Eww. I wrinkled my nose, and Tyler blushed. Then all conversation stopped. After an uncomfortable silence, I asked, “You guys all warmed up?”

They looked at one another and shrugged. No, they hadn’t warmed up. They’d been hanging around the lobby.

Waiting.

For me.

“So,” I said. “Anyone care to walk a girl inside?”

That got them going. They yelled and jumped, all arms and legs. At the entrance to the gym, Andrew let the others bounce ahead while he hung back. His shy smile faded. “He isn’t here,” he said.

I didn’t have to ask who “he” was. Moni’s speech in the cafeteria pretty much guaranteed the whole school knew it was over between Jack and me. But it was only after Andrew mentioned it that I realized I’d been hoping Jack would show up tonight. I squelched a sigh. “Thanks,” I said.

“No, you.” He bounded into the gym, then turned and walked backward. He pointed to me and mouthed,
Thank
you.

I stood in the gymnasium by myself. As much as I dreaded seeing Moni, I really didn’t want to cheer alone. A few minutes later Moni arrived. I was so relieved that—like an idiot—I waved. She didn’t wave back.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” she said when she dropped her coat beside the bleachers. “I’m only here because of Rick.”

“Bethany! Moni! There you are!” Mrs. Dunne called. In response to the enthusiastic greeting, both Moni and I plastered on our best “school spirit” smiles.
Chalk another one up for cheerleading,
I thought. At least now I could be insincere with the best of them.

Mrs. Dunne, wrestling mom extraordinaire, handed me a pillow made of purple and gold satin with matching fringe. She gave the second pillow to Moni.

“They’re yours to keep,” Mrs. Dunne said. “The gym floor must be hard. Of course, we hope you’ll put them to good use next year.” She urged us closer with a crook of her finger. “This is strictly confidential. Coach Donaldson and Sheila want to give you a formal invitation, but mark your calendars for the end-of-season banquet.”

I forced another smile. Moni did the same. I’m not sure it was enough to convince Mrs. Dunne that attending the wrestling team banquet was a lifelong dream.

“These are nice,” I said when Mrs. Dunne left.

Moni responded with: Nothing.

We positioned ourselves in our usual spots, our knees on the new pillows. The fringe on them flirted with the edge of the mat, and our pom-poms rustled each time one of us shifted. Moni didn’t look my way while we waited for the first match to start. And once again I wondered why the hell I even bothered to show up.

When the first of my five freshman boys took the mat, I knew. It wasn’t school spirit. It wasn’t any obligation I felt toward the squad or even toward Sheila. It was those boys in the lobby.
That
was why I was here. They mattered. Not just basketball stars and senior hotties, but the skinny freshman wrestlers, too.

How Moni and I did it, I couldn’t say. One of us would start a cheer and the other would join in. My voice sounded tinny and cracked once or twice, but no one seemed to notice. Then it was Andrew’s turn on the mat. I yelled so hard that my throat ached. When he finished with a pin, I did a double jump, herkie included.

And I nailed it.

The meet ended with a victory for the Panthers and a personal best for Rick. When he swaggered toward us, Moni sprang up, grabbed her set of pom-poms, and met him halfway.

“Hey, spark plug,” he said, before smacking Moni on the rear. She squealed, and they walked toward a group of seniors. Moni never looked back. But Rick did. He glanced at me over the top of my former best friend’s head; his expression was confident.

I scooped up my pom-poms, the pillow, and my winter coat and hugged them all tight to my chest. My head buzzed. I felt dizzy. The crowd in the lobby was too loud and too close. I headed toward the back entrance and quiet.

I parked myself at the top of the flight of stairs that led to the band and choir rooms. My pom-poms slithered down the steps, but I ignored them. Instead I closed my eyes and traced the pillow’s pattern, memorizing the embroidered knots and swirls with my fingertips.

“Go Panthers,” I whispered.

A throat cleared, and I jumped. When I opened my eyes, I found the pack of freshman boys, all five of them.

“You okay?” Tyler asked.

“Sure,” I said.

They pushed one another, like that first day in the weight room, until Andrew ended up front and center. “Well, it’s just…,” he said. “We hear stuff. In the locker room.” His words came out in short bursts. “Stuff about…stuff. And we were thinking. The five of us could probably take him. Maybe.”

I looked at them, a gaggle of sweaty boys, purple singlets, and knobby knees. It was a pretty big maybe.

“Awww,” I started, then stopped. Their wide eyes and the little-boy concern on their faces made my throat close up. “You guys are great,” I managed. “Really great. And I—”

And I lost it, totally. Tears sprang to my eyes. I tried to hide my face, but teardrops darkened the purple and gold satin in my lap. Andrew’s hand came to rest softly on my shoulder.

The sobs that racked my body were stronger than any I had cried at home.

I
t was the following Monday before first bell when the taunts came from the gauntlet. I’d been whispered about and pointed at so much in the past week that at first, I barely noticed this new round of insults. They weren’t aimed at me, and that was enough. The cafeteria was serving oatmeal again. And I was buttoning Todd’s shirt. Again.

Once he got over the disappointment of losing his celebrity endorsement, Todd had been my biggest support. I didn’t know how I would have made it through the weekend without him—or without Geek Night. Who says you can’t go home again?

In return, I was helping him lay the groundwork for his campaign. I liked to pretend it kept my mind off of everything else. It didn’t. Not really. Still, I was grateful for any distractions—be it the scientific evaluation of hair gels or debating the pros and cons of wearing Wookie shirts.

The voices rose again and halted my fingers mid-buttonhole. Todd looked around me and over my shoulder. “Uh-oh,” he said.

“Uh-oh?”

“I thought Mangers and his bunch were bad.” He shook his head. “They’re nothing compared to you girls.”

“Hey!” I slapped his chest and let the mismatched buttoning remain. Then I turned.

Chantal, Traci, and their wannabes had someone cornered near the stairwell. Traci blocked the escape route down the hall, while the others fanned out. Chantal stood at the apex, hands on her hips, blocking my view of the victim. A surge of sympathy shot through me. I didn’t care
who
you were or
what
you’d done, no one deserved an all-out gauntlet-girl assault.

“I’d rather be body-slammed into a row of lockers,” Todd muttered. “At least that’s honest.”

I gave him a look.

“Well, it’s over quick anyway.”

“Whatever.” I sighed and picked up where I’d left off with Todd’s shirt. Really, someday he would have to learn to dress himself.

Todd rose up on his toes, and his eyes narrowed.

“What?” I asked and moved to turn.

He put a hand on my shoulder to stop me. “It’s nothing. No one we know.”

Right. We knew
all
of Chantal’s victims, didn’t we? A lot of them shared a lunch table with us. Come on, it hadn’t been that long since the two of us, plus Moni, had been trapped in the gauntlet.

Oh, no.

I jerked from Todd’s grasp and spun. I held my breath and danced from foot to foot, trying to get a better line of sight. Finally Traci shifted. A flash of blonde.

Not…

That earlier sympathy congealed into a mass of dread. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could feel them, every tiny verbal cut. Each one on its own might be harmless, but strung together, the victim could bleed to death before she ever knew what hit her.

Moni?

I took a step forward, but Todd pulled me back. I stumbled and fell against his chest. I stood there in Todd’s strange embrace, not sure what to do, what to say, what to think.

“You don’t owe her anything, Reynolds,” he said. “Maybe if she’d held up her end of the deal, but—”

“Her end of the…what?” I asked. I stepped back, but Todd still held my shoulders.

“You know—chicks before dicks,” Todd said, “or, in this case, pricks.”

I yanked free and stared at him. “How do you even
know
about that?”

“Strategy.”

“What?” I asked, craning my neck to get a clearer look down the hall.

“Women are often the swing vote,” said Todd. “It’s my job to be in touch with my feminine side.”

I pushed back my hair and tried to come up with an appropriate response. At that moment, Chantal turned. Her eyes met mine. For an instant I thought I saw a question in them. Then she shrugged. Like it didn’t matter that I stood there, only twenty feet away. Like Moni didn’t matter. Not to me. Not to anyone.

But that was just it. It
did
matter. I mattered. So did Moni. It went deeper than friendship.
Everyone
mattered. Geek girls and jocks. Skinny freshmen, and God help me, maybe even the gauntlet girls mattered to someone. We all mattered.

A lot.

I looked at Todd.

He glanced down the hall. “You’re not seriously going to…are you?”

I nodded. Then I was off. From behind me, I heard Todd’s whisper.

“Damn, girl.”

I was two feet away when I finally saw Moni, her face pink and shiny with tears. I reached for Chantal’s shoulder and tugged her away from everyone, so it was just the two of us.

“Stop,” I said. Not loud. Not threatening, but the chattering around us died.

“Cut your losses, Reynolds.”

Good advice, but I wasn’t going to take it. “Stop,” I said again.

“Whatever.” Chantal tossed her hair, the strands of it whipped me in the face. “So, pest,” she said, returning her attention to Moni. “We all know what it means when Rick Mangers dumps a girl.”

We do?

“Sometimes it means he wasn’t getting any, but usually—”

Oh God, poor Moni.
“Stop, or I’ll—”

Chantal glared at me. “What?”

Good question. I could mention Chantal’s one-night stand with R.J. Schmidt, but I wasn’t sure it would wound her much. It probably wouldn’t even scratch. So—how did you defeat an enemy? According to Sun Tzu and his
Art of War
, you attacked the weakest spot. Even a head gauntlet girl had to have one of those.

“So,” I said, softer. “My dad uploaded a family website last night.”

“And?”

“A family website,” I repeated.

“What are you talking about, geek?” Chantal glanced around for support, but I spoke so low, no one else knew what I’d said.

“You know, a website, like a place on the Internet that anyone can see,” I said. “He put a bunch of pictures on it. Even movies.”

“Like I care?”

I shrugged and continued as though Chantal hadn’t spoken. “Family vacations.” I ticked the items off on my fingers. “Graduations. Weddings.” I locked eyes with Chantal, making certain I had her complete attention. “Dance recitals.”

The air went cold while Chantal stared at me.

“It’s www dot—,” I started, loud enough now that Traci swung around and leaned closer.

Chantal held up a hand to halt me.

“Stop,” I said. “Permanently.”

Chantal took a step back and surveyed her group, then scanned me with contempt. I had to hand it to her; she was still the queen of cool.

“Come on,” Chantal said. Hair toss: check. Eye roll: check. “We’ve got better things to do.”

And then she left. Traci frowned at the spot where Chantal had stood, but she followed. They all followed, abandoning the gauntlet—that prime bit of real estate—and leaving me and Moni alone.

A couple of freshman girls exchanged glances, then took a cautious step into the lobby. Todd bowed to me, low and sweeping, with a flourish of his arm. Then he hurried after the freshman girls, probably to start acquiring that swing vote. A few undersized wrestlers punched one another’s shoulders. I saw Andrew, and he threw me an ice-melting grin. The crowd outside the cafeteria resumed its chattering. In a delayed reaction, my palms went clammy, and my legs felt like noodles. I all but collapsed against the lockers.

I looked at Moni, thinking I’d make a joke of it. Everything else had been, why not this? But she ducked her head. Without a word, she ran down the hall, leaving me too breathless and too startled to call after her.

On Tuesday I was still feeling the aftershocks of the gauntlet. In class Moni never looked my way. I hadn’t seen her at lunch. That afternoon, the figure leaning against my locker made my heart skip a beat, but only for a second. Far too tall, too slim, and too sophisticated for Moni. No, instead Chantal Simmons stood there, all alone. Not a groupie or wannabe in sight. Without the others, Chantal seemed smaller, less of a threat, friendly. Well, almost.

“I need to…” I waved a hand at my locker.

Chantal scooted, just enough so I could run through my combination.

“You know, Reynolds, you’re in those pictures too.”

“I have Photoshop, and I’m not afraid to use it.” I pulled my German book from the top shelf and added it to the pile in my arms.

The start of a smile lit Chantal’s face. I thought she might actually laugh. Instead my former friend grew serious. “Then I don’t suppose you’d send me some,” she said.

“Some what?” I asked, sure that I’d heard her wrong. “You want pictures?”

“Just copies. They’re all digital, right?”

I nodded, slowly, still not understanding. “You mean, like pictures of you and me?”

“And Madame Wolsinski. Do you have any of those?”

Oh yeah, I did, including one where Madame Wolsinski had brought her cane down on the barre—right between my foot and Chantal’s.

“I do,” I said at last. “But—”

Chantal shrugged. On her, the motion looked incredibly cool. Chic, even. “My mom,” she said, then blinked a couple of times. “She lost them—at least, that’s what she said. Maybe she just got rid of them. Whatever. I don’t have them anymore.”

My own parents were embarrassingly proud of everything I’d done. Even my graceless years at Madame Wolsinski’s. Maybe the confusion showed on my face. Maybe Chantal knew how strange it sounded to me. For whatever reason, she spoke again.

“It’s no biggie. I mean, let’s face it, Bee, the world doesn’t need pictures of me looking like that. I was ugly.”

I shook my head. First, at the sound of my old nickname coming from Chantal Simmons’s lips and then because, well, Chantal was never ugly. A little chubby maybe. A little ordinary, but not—

“I always thought you were pretty. I mean, before.” I stopped. “Not like you’re, uh, not like—” I was babbling. “That is, well, you’re—”

Chantal laughed. “Yeah. You’d be surprised what money can buy.”

“Then…can I ask?”

“No,” she said. “But you can guess.”

I pointed to my own chin. Surprise flickered in Chantal’s eyes.

“You’re smart, Reynolds. Everyone always says the nose.” She chased strands of hair from her shoulder. “But that didn’t happen until after the accident.”

That made sense. I’d noticed a change once the swelling on Chantal’s face had gone down. “Your old nose was fine.”

“Not according to my mom.”

“And the rest?”

“Right after eighth grade—actually, two days after our last dance recital—they broke my jaw and took out two pieces. Here”—Chantal touched one side of her chin—“and here.” Her fingers lighted on the other. “And then it was wired shut for six weeks. It’s pretty much why I never called you that summer. By August I had to buy a whole new wardrobe because I wasn’t exactly sucking down milkshakes.”

It sounded like torture, even with the new clothes. “That could turn anyone into a bitch.” A second later I realized I’d said that out loud. “I mean—”

But again, she just laughed. I wondered how much of the Chantal I once knew lingered beneath her shiny new surface. It made me wonder too: How far would any one of us go to feel like we mattered?

“So what do you say?” she asked. “Think you could send a couple JPEGs to my PQ account?”

“You have a Party Quest account?” I still hadn’t signed up. The idea that Chantal Simmons could outgeek me was bizarre.

“Emerson turned me on to it. I figured you knew.”

I tried to picture it, but I just couldn’t imagine Chantal Simmons as an avatar, saving the world one level at a time. Then I realized it was probably good practice for turning Todd—and boys like him—into puddles of boy hormones.

Dorks.

She scribbled the address on a scrap of paper. “This gets out, I’m freaking slaying your reputation.”

Now
I
laughed. “Some threat. I don’t have a reputation.”

“You don’t?” But that was all Chantal would say. She pushed from her pose against the lockers and glided down the hall, her velvet clogs, with sequins, clomping against the tile.

I studied the scrap of paper with Chantal’s address. If she had a PQ account, could she be hiding mad Photoshop skills too? I didn’t have to send her any photos. Maybe…maybe I’d just think about it.

“Hey, Cee,” I called, her old nickname sounding as strange as mine did.

Chantal turned.

“Nice shoes.”