The Giving Quilt (19 page)

When the day at last arrived, Michaela attended to her hair and makeup with care, put several crisp sheets of paper into a thin binder with the St. Andrew's College emblem prominently displayed on the front, and carried her favorite lucky silver pen. When she brought out the supplies to take notes, she would make exactly the right impression: school spirited, motivated, prepared but not too bookish.

As she entered the library auditorium, she made a swift check of the competition. Most looked nervous, some looked frightened, but a few near the front looked relaxed and confident. Michaela recognized the last group as the younger members of the current squad. The senior cheerleaders sat at a long table on the stage with the coach. Michaela decided to take a seat in the center—behind the current cheerleaders to show respect, in the coach's line of vision but not in her face.

The coach began the meeting by welcoming the prospective cheerleaders and thanking them for their interest. Then she described the tryout process. Eight men and eight women would be selected from the approximately forty women and twelve men who were present that night, and that included the juniors on this year's team, who had to try out again like any other candidate. There was a murmur of satisfaction at this news, but Michaela knew better than to think all sixteen openings were truly open. Even if the coach managed to avoid favoring the current cheerleaders, their experience would all but guarantee that they would reclaim their spots.

Beginning in the middle of February, the coach continued, she and the graduating seniors would hold workouts every weekday in the auxiliary gym, where candidates would learn stunts, practice the Crusader Cheer, and receive individual help on any other elements they desired. The workouts would also give the coach a chance to get to know them, to learn about their work ethics and personalities.

A redhead in the back row raised her hand. “Are the workouts mandatory, I mean, if you don't need any help?”

Michaela sucked in a breath as the seniors and the coach exchanged glances and raised their eyebrows at one another. “No,” said one of the male cheerleaders, with the barest trace of condescension in his voice. “We won't be taking attendance like in Freshman English.”

Someone muffled a laugh. In her notebook Michaela wrote, “Attend absolutely all workouts.” She underlined “all” so firmly that she almost tore the paper.

In the ninety minutes that followed, she filled several sheets with valuable information. The tryouts would be held on the last weekend in March. First cuts would be held on Saturday. That evening, female candidates would perform the Crusader Cheer, the Hell Dance, a tumbling run, and two stunts; the men would do everything but the Hell Dance. The judges would pick the twelve best men and twelve best women to go on to final cuts the following afternoon.

The twelve male candidates grinned when the number was revealed. A few exchanged high fives. Several of the women sank down into their seats in despair, but not Michaela. She was too busy writing “Find out what a Hell Dance is” and planning her tumbling run.

Final cuts would consist of a private interview with the coach and the athletic director, followed later that day by their final performances. The men would perform their original cheers and be evaluated on how well they motivated the audience, while the women would perform an original three-minute dance and stunt routine to their own music selections. “And then,” the coach said, building up to a shout, “we will choose our new Crusader Cheerleaders!” It was clear that she expected an enthusiastic response, so they gave her one.

Before ending the meeting, the coach said she deeply regretted that not everyone who tried out would make the team. “There are other options, however,” she said. “Men who don't make the cheerleading squad can still try out for mascot.”

A scoffing snort came from behind them, and Michaela turned her head slightly to see who had made it. At least a dozen men stood just inside the door at the back of the auditorium, waiting, Michaela guessed, for the organizational meeting for mascot tryouts. She knew from her observations last year that it was considered far more prestigious to be the Tartan Crusader than a mere cheerleader. No other symbol of St. Andrew's College was as well-known or beloved as the Tartan Crusader. It was unthinkable that the role of Tartan Crusader would be anyone's second choice.

As if it were an afterthought, the coach said, “Women, if they like, can join the pompom squad.”

A ripple of laughter eased the tension in the room, but Michaela didn't allow herself to join in. The pompom squad was such an easy target that it was cruel to make fun of them. It was a club rather than a sport, which meant that it had no coach and only the thinnest of ties to the athletic department. They didn't even hold tryouts, but they never had so many applicants that they had to turn anyone away. The pompom girls wore pretty costumes—which they paid for themselves—and danced during halftime at games the real cheerleaders were too busy for or didn't want to attend, like the intramural football games and the Harry Potter Society's Quidditch Campus Cup. They were earnest and happy and unintentionally funny. Michaela felt sorry for them.

She spent the next week working ahead in her classes so that when workouts started she could give them her full attention. Every afternoon, Michaela put her classes out of her mind and enjoyed the cheerleading workouts. Within a few days she observed to her satisfaction that she was definitely one of the top candidates. On the first day of tumbling practice, each candidate took a turn on the mat trying a back handspring from a standing position. Most used at least one spotter, and some had spotters on both sides who gave them so much support that the candidate contributed very little to the stunt.

When it was Michaela's turn, she made her eyes wide and anxious as she approached Logan, a graduating senior who seemed to be the unofficial leader of the squad. “I've done this before, but sometimes my knees stick out funny,” she told him. “Could you watch and see if I'm doing it right?”

“Sure.” Logan planted his feet on the mat, preparing to spot her.

“Is it okay if I try it on the floor, without a spotter?”

He shrugged, looked at the coach for approval, and then told her to go ahead.

Michaela tucked in her T-shirt, made sure she had a clear path, then did a round-off back handspring series that ran the entire length of the gym. When she finished, she returned to the mat, where Logan was grinning and the other candidates were watching her in awe.

“Your knees looked fine,” Logan deadpanned with a look that said he knew that she knew that already. “Good job.”

“Thanks,” Michaela said, flashing him a winning smile as she returned to her place at the end of the line.

The girl in front of her turned around and shook her head in wonder. “That was so great,” she said. “You'll definitely make the team.”

Michaela feigned modesty and said something about how she didn't have a chance, but the girl in front of her would have none of it. “You'll make it,” she said. Then her smile faded. “As for me, I'm probably just wasting my time.”

“Don't stress yourself out.” Michaela lowered her voice so the others wouldn't overhear. “Trust me, half of these girls will chicken out by the time tryouts arrive.”

She giggled. “Maybe we should leave a few banana peels lying around so they'll slip and break their legs.”

“That's the spirit,” Michaela said, laughing. “Eliminate the competition.”

The girl's name was Emma; she was a year ahead of Michaela, and this was her second attempt at tryouts. Michaela was surprised to hear that the previous year she had not made it past first cuts. From what she had seen, Emma was one of Michaela's few real competitors. When it was Emma's turn at the mat, Michaela discovered why. Emma was brave enough to try her back handspring on her own, but the spotters always reached in at the last moment to keep her from falling on her face. Michaela observed Logan shake his head ever so slightly at the coach when Emma couldn't see.

For a week Michaela watched Emma struggle to improve. She noticed, even if Emma didn't, that the senior cheerleaders had dismissed her chances of ever mastering the skill. One evening after the workout ended, she saw Emma alone in a far corner, throwing back handsprings over and over again, each one as awkward and hazardous as the one before. Michaela winced as each time Emma stuck out her hands to catch herself an instant before her face would have smacked the mat. She glanced around the gym. The crowd had thinned, but the coach and the current cheerleaders were standing in a group talking and joking, unaware of Emma's struggle or ignoring it.

Indignant, Michaela went over to the mat where Emma stood with her head bowed, breathing heavily. “You're undercutting,” Michaela told her.

Emma turned, and Michaela saw tears of frustration in her eyes. “What?”

“You're undercutting. You aren't getting enough distance. Look down and see where your feet are.” Emma did as she was instructed. Michaela motioned for her to try another back handspring, and she obeyed, sticking out her arms at the last minute and landing on her hands and knees as always.

Michaela pointed. “Your hands came down at almost the exact place where your feet left the ground. See?” When Emma nodded, Michaela removed a bright red ribbon and a barrette from her hair and stood beside Emma on the mat. She set down the ribbon to mark the starting position of her feet. “Now watch me, and put down the barrette where my hands land.” She did a back handspring, crisp and swift.

Emma studied the several feet of space between the barrette and the ribbon, then looked up at Michaela, determination in her eyes. “How do I do that?”

Michaela took the spotter's position at her side. “Sit back as if you're going to do the trick.” When she did, Michaela supported her so that she wouldn't fall on her bottom. Then she helped Emma to stand, pushed her forward a few steps, and pointed to the two faint impressions in the mat where she had stood. “What's that?”

Glancing over her shoulder, Emma looked from the fading imprints to Michaela, uncertain. “My footprints?”

“Close. They're your
toe
prints. We should be seeing heel prints. If you push off from your toes instead of your heels, you'll go straight up in the air rather than back. It's a wonder you're getting over at all.” Michaela took the spotter's position and Emma assumed the starting pose without waiting for instructions. Michaela made her practice sitting back with her weight on her heels until two heel prints were visible each time they checked the mat.

When Michaela was sure Emma was ready to try the stunt again, she adjusted the distance between the hair ribbon and the barrette to account for Emma's additional two inches of height. She told Emma to concentrate on pushing off from her heels and reaching back to place her hands on the other side of the ribbon. Michaela spotted her as she tried. It was the best back handspring Emma had ever done.

She attempted several more, each one better than the last, until Michaela told her to take a rest or she might injure herself. Emma was so thrilled that she threw her arms around Michaela and skipped off to the locker room celebrating.

Amused, Michaela watched her go, and as her eyes followed Emma across the gym, her gaze fell on the coach and the cheerleaders. They were watching her, their expressions inscrutable.

Michaela smiled and waved, and as she left the gym she wondered how long they had been watching—and what they were thinking. She felt vaguely uneasy, but she told herself it was only because they had been watching her without her knowledge.

The weeks of practice and preparation passed swiftly, too swiftly, and then it was the last week in March and tryouts were only days away. On Tuesday a blizzard dumped nearly a foot of snow upon the campus, but Michaela trudged to the gym anyway. Hardly anyone else made it in, so she and Emma withdrew to a corner where they could practice their original routines unobserved. Emma had brought a portable speaker for her iPod, so they took turns performing their routines while the other watched and critiqued. Each told the other that they hoped both would make it, but if only one of them made the team, the other would not be jealous, and the one who was selected would bring the other along to all the cheerleading parties.

Emma worried about her tumbling run, which consisted of only one back handspring from a standing position. Michaela was more concerned with the Hell Dance. On Friday afternoon, the senior women on the team would teach all the female candidates a complex four-minute dance, which they would have to memorize for performance the following day. Michaela had never done anything like that before. When her high school team prepared for a competition, they spent days learning a dance and weeks, sometimes months, perfecting it. She suspected that the coach needed to see who could learn dances quickly and who could maintain their composure when the inevitable mistakes occurred, but she didn't think it was a fair test. If she made the team, she would practice their routines until every movement was recorded in her muscles long before the first performance. No team worth its uniforms threw together a dance the night before a big game, and she knew the Crusaders were no exception.

Then, finally and all too soon, it was tryout eve. There was no workout that day. Michaela called Emma to see if she wanted to come over, but her roommate said she had been throwing up all day.

“Not because of the weigh-in, I hope,” Michaela said, alarmed. Unlike in high school, the Crusader Cheerleaders had to meet weight restrictions. Michaela's mother decried the rule as promoting eating disorders and threatened to make Michaela withdraw from tryouts because of it, but she didn't, because she knew it would have broken Michaela's heart to disobey her.

“No,” the roommate said. “Emma isn't bulimic, just terrified.”