The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading (8 page)

How could I argue with that kind of logic? Especially when the very same notion had taunted me all the way home. Tears had blurred my view of the Volvo’s headlights, but the frozen dash down the school steps cleared my head and squelched the sob in my throat.

“Lots of cars still here,” Dad said.

“There’s a dance going on.”

He tapped the brakes, slowing the car. “Did you want to go, Bee?”

“No,” I said. “I’m tired.” At least it wasn’t a lie. I
was
tired. Tired of the gym, of cheerleading, tired of the gauntlet, even tired of Jack. It was all just too hard.

“We can recover from this,” Moni said on the phone. “We’ve got a week before winter break, and—”

“Oh, sure. Because nerdy girls always get second chances with the star basketball player.” I didn’t mean to sound so defeated, but that was how I felt.

“I really think he likes you,” said Moni.

“Maybe.” Why did everything have to be a maybe? Maybe Jack liked me. Maybe he just had a thing for insanely short skirts. Maybe I hadn’t blown my only chance.

“Here’s what I think you should do….”

An hour later a list sat in front of me: “Witty Things to Say When Jack Paulson Is Nearby.” Somehow,
Is that a jockstrap in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?
did not inspire a ton of confidence. I didn’t want to think about it anymore, not tonight, so I asked Moni, “How’s Minneapolis?”

“Sucks.”

Uh-oh. That meant her dad’s girlfriend, Monica, was there. So much for father-daughter alone time. And this wasn’t the first time her dad had promised his exclusive attention, then gone back on the deal.

“You won’t believe what she did tonight,” Moni said. She was going for sarcastic, but I heard the hurt in her voice.

I started to ask what was going on, but Moni was already launching into a rant.

“She told me how great it was that we ‘share’ a name.”

“What?”

“Moni-ca. Moni.”

I pointed out that, technically, Moni was Ramona. Though it was spelled similarly, it didn’t sound the same at all. She didn’t share anything with Monica.

“Yeah, except my dad.”

Moni continued to complain, but I didn’t mind. It was part of the vow I’d made when her parents announced their divorce. Phone calls until three in the morning. Sure. IMs when Moni was gaming on the computer. Fine. Any time, any place. That was no maybe.

I’d always be there for Moni.

Monday morning I clutched the list and stepped through the door to Independent Reading. I tried to get Jack’s attention before class started, but he and Ryan Nelson were revisiting a play from Friday night’s game—while Traci Olson batted her eyelashes at both of them.

Mr. Wilker tapped his desk. “As you read today, I want you to pay close attention to the inequities between the haves and have-nots in Jane Austen’s era. How do they correlate with today’s social world?”

Let me count the ways
, I thought.

On Tuesday and Wednesday, despite constant prompting from Moni, I still couldn’t work up the nerve to use the list. By Thursday I was either determined—or frightened. If I didn’t say something to Jack by the end of the day, Moni threatened to intervene on my behalf.

Thankfully, I spotted Jack early that morning. A gaggle of sophomore girls was knotted at the edge of the gauntlet in front of him, blocking his way to the cafeteria. He looked desperate to find a way through the fray.
What Would Lara Croft Do?
I thought. Every boy on the geek squad worshipped The Divine Ms. L.—the anatomically impossible heroine of the Tomb Raider video games. WWLCD had become a common refrain among them.

I whispered it to Jack as I slipped past. He looked down at me, wrinkles forming across his forehead. He obviously had no idea what I was talking about. The crowd parted before him. Jack took a few steps away, then shrugged. Maybe he hadn’t heard me. I decided to give it one more try, for the list’s sake.

“WHAT WOULD LARA CROFT DO?”

Before cheerleading this would’ve come out as a whisper too. Not now. Sheila taught us to project to the very top of the bleachers. With Jack moving through the gauntlet, I meant to raise my voice a little. Instead I raised it a lot. The sophomore girls around Jack froze. A few inched backward, putting a safe distance between them and me. Chantal Simmons had to hold on to her sides, she laughed so much. But Jack’s expression was (once again) unreadable as he disappeared into the cafeteria.

I stood there, mortified by my own stupidity. I gave up the idea of following Jack into the cafeteria.
The list,
I thought,
should come with a warning: Say it, don’t scream it.

Friday was the last day before winter break. A snow delay meant a modified schedule—no cafeteria breakfast, no Independent Reading, no Jack. Not to mention no list and no chance of making a fool of myself.

After last bell, Todd trailed me down the hall. He was giving me some terse instructions for my newspaper column when I saw Jack, a full head taller than the rest of the crowd.

Jack waved. I turned to see the lucky recipient and found Chantal. Her manicured hand lifted, but she stopped halfway.

“Hey! Hey, Bethany?” Jack said. I’d never heard him say my name before, and the deliciousness of it made my knees threaten to wobble.

“Sorry about yesterday,” he called, and then he was beside me. “I don’t play video games much, so it took me a while to get it.” He tapped his head. “I’ve seen the movie. Angelina Jolie, right?”

I nodded.

“What would Lara Croft do,” he added. “Good one.”

Only if
good
had the alternate meaning of “lame.” But with the way Jack smiled down at me, lame might actually be good. Or even great.

“Have a nice break,” he said, and raced down the hall.

“What would Lara do?” Todd asked. “You said that? To him?” He steered me to a stop against the lockers. “You think you’re one of them now? Because, let’s face it, he’s not one of us.”

“Yeah.” Chantal sidled up to us. “Next time you should ask yourself, WWTD?”

Neither Todd nor I spoke, but I guess she could read the question on our faces.
T?

“What would
Todd
do? He seems to know what he’s talking about. This little—whatever you’re trying to do with Jack. It’s not going to change
anything.
” She turned on the toe of her silver and red rubber-soled Mary Janes and marched away.

When she was out of earshot, I asked Todd, “Can you believe she said that?”

“Actually, no.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. With a goofy grin on his face, he craned his neck to follow Chantal’s progress down the hall. “I didn’t think she knew my name.”

Mannheim Steamroller played quietly in the background while my mom tinkered with our new set of LED Christmas lights. She was attempting to sync the flash to the music. At the computer desk, I ran the mouse over the color palette and clicked green. On the monitor, a pudgy eighth-grade Chantal Simmons glowed—chartreuse hair, orange skin, blue lips. And, since all was fair in love and war (and cheerleading), I gave myself a bleach job. Ack. I was
so
not a blonde. I clicked undo and wove a white streak through my black hair. Not too bad. The Cruella De Vil—no, Rogue from the X-Men comics—look could really work for me. If I could just get the parents on board with it.

I dangled my index finger over the delete key. Some of these photos simply had to go, preferably somewhere far away, locked in a vault, maybe buried, burned even. Dad could not be serious about posting them all on his family heritage website.

Still, the older photos were pretty neat. We had ones from as far back as the 1800s. Dad had taught me how to scan them in, then adjust the clarity and brightness in Photoshop. That was pretty cool—until we reached the not-so-ancient history of the Reynolds family. Okay, so an Oompa-Loompa Chantal, well,
that
was funny. Maybe I’d send a JPEG to Moni.

When I heard footsteps behind me, I closed the image without saving. The screen was left scattered with thumbnails of tutus, Madame Wolsinski overseeing rows of leotard-clad girls, and one of two young friends side by side, each with a foot on the barre. The caption on that one read: Bee & Cee.

I felt a hand on my shoulder. Mom bent down to view the screen, her soft laugh brushing my cheek. “I’d forgotten all about that. You know, even the parents were a little scared of Madame Wolsinski. You girls were such good sports; you never complained. I think that’s why she liked both of you.”

She liked us?
I always thought Madame Wolsinski preferred the others in the class, the ones with the moms who clucked and tutted on the other side of the waiting-area window.

“And the mothers!” Mom said, as if she could read my mind. “You do know what it means to live vicariously, don’t you, Bee?”

Sure I knew. Vicarious was the SAT Term of the Day a couple of months ago, but I’d heard it long before then. I guess Mom thought I wasn’t listening when she filled Dad in every week after dance class. It was funny, really. My parents would rather die than be caught watching a soap opera on TV. But give them a real-life drama starring a dozen simpering stage mothers and their offspring, and they were riveted.

“Chantal…oh, what was her last name? Simmons, right?” I knew my mom placed Mrs. Simmons in the stage mom category too. She’d pushed Chantal into everything. Dance class, modeling lessons, sessions with a nutritionist…Chantal didn’t complain about any of
that
, either.

Not even when her mom showed up before our last recital with a small, beautifully wrapped package. Chantal’s lip barely quivered when she opened it to find…a pair of tummy-control panties.

“A
girdle,
Oscar! Can you
believe
that?” Mom had said. “For a thirteen-year-old girl.”

“Poor thing,” Dad had agreed.

Mom leaned closer to the monitor. “Have you heard from her lately?”

I shrugged and prayed she wouldn’t ask for more details. Surely she knew we went to the same school. Mom squinted at the screen. “I imagine she’s lost that baby fat by now.”

And then some. Talk about an extreme makeover. “You wouldn’t even recognize her.” I no more than whispered it, but Mom picked up my tone of voice immediately.

She squeezed my shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”

I shook my head. What could I say?

Sometimes I wondered what had changed. Was it her or me? Well, Chantal had changed, that was for sure. But it was more than just the weight loss or the wardrobe or the brand-new mean-girl attitude. I’d heard the rumors: nose job, fat camp. To me, it was like someone had forced Chantal into a mold and sliced away all the good parts.

I held my finger over the mouse button, poised to bring the old Chantal back again, even if it was only in pixels. Just then, the Christmas lights flashed bright and the deep bass opening to the high-octane version of “Get the Party Started” sounded down the hall, replacing the delicate carols.

Talk about living vicariously. Ever since I’d made the squad, Shelby had gone nuts—stealing my pom-poms and begging me to teach her all the cheers and dance routines. We’d been “practicing” together nearly every night, but—ugh—my legs were noodles and my feet felt like they were about to fall off.

“I think your sister wants to shake her groove thing,” Mom said.

“Her what?”

“Shake it like a Polaroid picture?”

I rolled my eyes, and Mom laughed.

“Bethany,” Shelby called.

The very last thing I wanted to do was shake, shimmy, pivot, or kick. I was spending more hours at school during winter break than I did in a normal school week. Both Sheila and Coach Miller were determined to get everyone ready for the rematch with the Wilson Warriors, a game set for the Friday after Valentine’s Day.

If the boys won the game, they’d probably go to the regional tournament and have a shot at state. But what exactly were we cheerleaders getting out of the deal? It sure wasn’t extra time with the jocks. When we took a break, Coach Miller had the basketball team run laps. When the boys lounged in the lobby, Sheila chased us down to the weight room. There really was a cheerleading conspiracy after all. Its dark and mysterious goal was to keep me from talking to Jack. I carried my “Witty Things to Say When Jack Paulson Is Nearby” list every day and hadn’t had the chance to use it once.

“Bethany!”

I was exhausted, but it was so easy to make Shelby happy. Besides, that morning Coach Sheila had pulled me to the side and said I knew the routines better than anyone else on the squad. The truth was,
Shelby
knew them even better. I just followed her lead. To shake it or not to shake it? That was the question.

“Beth-a-nee!”

I pushed away from the computer screen and walked down the hall. Maybe not like a Polaroid picture, but sure, I’d shake it.

All the next week, Sheila made us shake it again and again. She even scheduled a practice on Saturday. We stayed late, too, although Coach Miller had already let all the boys go home. New Year’s Eve was the next day, New Year’s Day on Monday. The school would be closed for the holidays. Sheila seemed worried we’d forget every last dance step, hitch-kick, and cheer between now and when school started again.

Moni crossed her eyes. “I can’t believe I have to spend New Year’s Eve with Monica,” she said during the short break Sheila granted us.

I’d already heard this litany twelve times that day, but I nodded. Moni’s New Year’s would suck even worse than mine. Her mom was going out of town with Starbucks Boy—a development that Moni was still trying to get used to. Her dad’s girlfriend was hosting a “soiree” at Moni’s father’s place. The best Moni could hope for was to escape to the guest bedroom. My New Year’s plans might be lame (home, a little Internet surfing), but at least they didn’t include Monica—the grown-up version of a gauntlet girl—or pondering my mom’s first trip with her boyfriend.