Radiate (2 page)

A quiet Shelly fingers the label on her water bottle. “I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

My head snaps. “Why do you say that?”

Her orangy curls are starting to escape her high ponytail. “I think the band is more my speed. I don’t know why I let you talk me into this. Marching and formations aren’t nearly this exhausting. You know, I quit gymnastics freshman year because of the bruises and muscle aches. I swear, Hayley, I’ve never been so tired... ever. My heart is
still
racing from all that exertion.”

I didn’t exactly talk her into this. When I told her I was going to try out, she thought it would be “fun.” Now I frown at her. “You know cheerleading’s hard work. It’s one of the toughest sports out there,” I say passionately. “It’s gymnastics, dance, cheers, pyramids—you have to be in top shape.”

“I know,” she says with a nod. “I don’t think I’m up to spending my entire summer working out and practicing all the time instead of hanging by the pool. Band camp lasts only two weeks. Besides”—she pauses dramatically and drains her water bottle—“I totally botched my tumbling run.”

“You did not,” I lie.

Her blue eyes lack confidence. “We’ll see.”

The adrenaline rush from my routine still surges through me, and I can’t sit still. I tap my left foot up and down impatiently, waiting for the last team to return to the locker room. The tension is so thick in here, you could butcher it into a dozen prime steaks and serve it at the football banquet. Everyone is a nervous wreck.

Everyone except Chloe Bradenton.

Yeah, her.

She’s sitting on the bench by the back wall with her legs stretched out in front of her. She’s got her iPhone and is busy texting as if she hasn’t a care in the world. Then again, she probably doesn’t. Her dad is the president of the bank, and her house on Parrot Peak is the most expensive one in Maxwell, Alabama. I don’t hate her or anything—I barely speak to her—but everything just seems to come easily to her. She didn’t even break a sweat in her tryouts. Her makeup wouldn’t dare run, and her thick black hair wouldn’t think of coming out of that slicked-back ponytail.

Suddenly, she lifts her ice green eyes and steadies them on me. For a second, it’s as if I’m going to burst into flames from the hatred she’s throwing at Shelly and me. I know perfectly well how she thinks us “band types” should “stay in our place.” She made that perfectly clear during tryout practice when she was teaching the cheers to everyone. The odds are totally against us in this day and age when newbies rarely make a cheerleading squad. But thanks to graduating seniors, there are spots available. I believe in beating the odds.

Being a good Christian girl, and hearing my mother in my head saying to “love thy enemies,” I smile back at Chloe. Not that I’m any threat to her or consider her an enemy. Funny thing is, we used to be friends back in elementary school when we were both in Brownies. And in seventh grade, we spent our spring break together at Dauphin Island at her parents’ place, cooking barbecued shrimp and floating in the Gulf of Mexico on noodles. Our grandmothers were best friends growing up—and still are—but Chloe and I just slid into different cliques when we reached high school.

The closest we’ve been to interacting with each other was last year when I got the chickenpox from her. Her little brother had the chickenpox and then gave them to her. While she was out, I dropped off some homework from our computer class at her house. That had to have been how I got the nasty skin rash. I’d never contracted the childhood disease in, well, childhood, so, at sixteen, I was sick as a dog. The pox were everywhere—in my eyelids, in my nose, in my mouth, in my stomach—everywhere. I couldn’t eat or even keep liquids down. It was nasty as all get-out. I missed two weeks of school because of it.

The door opens and Janine Ingram, one of the school’s librarians and the cheerleader sponsor, pokes her head in. “They’re ready for y’all.”

My heart skips like five beats at her announcement. This is it. No matter what, I tried, right? I worked hard and put my best foot forward. But I want this
soooo
badly. I
want
to spend my summer practicing cheers and building pyramids and learning how to split to the left (’cause I can only split to the right). I want to wake up early and go for a jog to stay in shape. I want to work out on the school’s weight equipment to bulk up my strength. That way, I can lift my partner, whoever she may turn out to be, like she weighs nothing at all.

I don’t want to report to band camp and march in the three-thousand-degree heat, getting a farmer’s tan, marking time, and standing at attention while the gnats land on my face. I don’t want to memorize formations, commands, and music. I don’t want to be hidden under a band hat—not in my senior year.

I want everyone to know who Hayley Matthews is—and that I’m here to make my mark!

Okay, in my head, I talk a good game, but on the outside, my palms are sweating, my hands are shaking, and I feel like I could totally throw up the half a grilled cheese and six Cheetos I managed to nibble down at lunchtime.

My heart is slamming inside my chest, and nausea bubbles in my tummy and up into my throat.

Mrs. Ingram claps her hands. “Come, come, girls! The judges are waiting!”

We all scurry out into the gym and stand in two lines, no order to the mayhem. I wonder if the girls who were cheerleaders last year are as nervous as I am. Does confidence zip through their system or is there worry? If Chloe Bradenton is any indication, they all know it’s in the bag. It’s very unlikely that a former squad member won’t repeat in making the team. That makes the chances of me snagging a spot even smaller.

I stand next to Shelly, taking the end spot of the first row. The three cheerleaders from Maxwell State University hand over a sheet of paper to Mrs. Ingram. It’s done. The decision is final. These judges have tallied their scores and made their choices.

Mrs. Ingram steps to the microphone, and I tense up to wait and hear how I’ll be spending my senior year.

Will it be back in the marching band?

Or will there be something
more
for me... ?

To accomplish great things, we must not only act, but also dream; not only plan, but also believe.

—Anatole France

The creak of the gymnasium door steals my attention from Mrs. Ingram momentarily.

My heart sinks to my feet.
What are they doing here?

Boys.

They stream in from outside and begin filling the bleachers.

“They aren’t supposed to be in here,” Shelly hisses.

From the row behind us, I hear Brittney Alexander say, “They do this every time. They want to check out who’ll be cheering for them next year.”

Good Lord.
Not just any boys—it’s the football team. Which means . . .

My throat goes dry before I can even think his name, because at that moment, Daniel Delafield saunters into the gym like he owns the place, which he pretty much does. He’s not the quarterback on the team, but he’s the star receiver who’s broken every Polk High School record and who’ll probably have every major university in the Southeastern Conference and beyond dangling scholarship offers at him.

I watch as he climbs up two steps, plops down on the steel bench, and leans back with his arms spread next to him, taking up enough room for three people.

Everyone at Polk High School knows Daniel Delafield.

He doesn’t know I exist.

Freshman year, the Pep Club had secret pep pals. I, of course, chose Daniel. For the entire football season, I decorated his locker, left him spirit notes, and baked him cookies. When the big reveal came as to who was the secret pep pal, someone had to point me out to Daniel. And we’re in the same grade! Hello! He thanked me by tousling my long hair in Algebra II.

Wow. You’re welcome.

I must have spent more than two hundred dollars on things for him.

“Pay no attention to those boys,” Mrs. Ingram says, bringing me back to the here and now.

Right. Right. Ignore the cute, popular boys. My future hangs in the balance of that score sheet.

Mrs. Ingram leans into the microphone. “You all did a wonderful job. So many talented girls. But, as you know, we have only twelve slots on the team next season. We’re looking for girls with a good, strong cheering ability, coupled with fantastic dance moves and a complete knowledge and execution of gymnastics. Well, here we go!”

She crinkles the paper in her hand and my palms get itchy. I don’t move a muscle, though.
Please, please, please, please, please, Lord .
.
.

“In no particular order,” Mrs. Ingram says. “First is Chloe Bradenton.”

Of course she’s first,
I think in a snarky, inside voice.

Chloe squeals like it’s some big surprise... not. Big surprise? She’s been on the squad since freshman year.

“Next is Melanie Otto.”

More screeches from behind me. My nerves pick up like a ticking time bomb. Like I said, it’s probably a foregone conclusion that all nine of last year’s returning cheerleaders will once again be on the team. Three available spots. One
has
to be mine.

Mrs. Ingram continues reading names off: Hannah Vincennes, Lora Russell, Ashlee Grimes, and Ashleigh Bentley. As the girls run out front to hug and huddle, the rest of us stand here anxiously rocking back and forth on the heels of our sneakers... waiting.

“Tara Edwards,” Mrs. Ingram announces. That’s a new name.

The tall brunette pulls her hands up to her mouth and screams. Tara’s family moved to Maxwell last year from Pensacola, and she’s been in tight with Chloe Bradenton. She dates Chloe’s twin brother, Phillip, who’s the kicker for the football team. It all makes sense.

Of course, that means only two “new” spots.

“Brittney Alexander,” is announced, and I clap. Brittney started off in band with Shelly and me in sixth grade, but when she got braces, she had to give up the trombone because her lips kept bleeding. She’s an amazing dancer, so she totally deserves another year on the squad.

More names follow. Samantha Fowler, a petite freshman, aka newbie, steps forward to join the winners. Lauren Compton rejoins the squad, as does Madison Hutchinson.

One more spot left. I glance over at Shelly. She shrugs at me. I smile weakly.

I want this spot. I need this spot. I have to be a cheerleader. It’s all I can think about. How cliché that it’s coming down to the last name and only four girls left standing.

Let it be me, Lord .
.
. please .
.
. I’ve worked so hard for this.

Mrs. Ingram pulls the paper away from in front of her. “And the last slot on the team goes to . . .”

Everything moves in slow motion. The words. The actions. The thoughts. The announcement.

“Hayley Matthews,” the sponsor says.

Snap!
Zoom! Boom!
Then the world is on fast-forward.

Shelly grabs my arm. “You did it, Hayley!”

I did? I did!

She said my name! I made it!

I squeeze Shelly back and then skip over to the group of winners.
I’m
a winner. I’m a varsity cheerleader. I. Made. It.

Random arms embrace me. Congratulations flow as much as the tears of joy. I’m engulfed in the celebration, and I return the hugs of my fellow teammates.

Chloe faces me, and a feigned smile crosses her pretty face. “Well, I suppose I should say congrats, Hayley.”

“Thanks, Chloe,” I say heartily, ignoring the veiled venomous tone in her voice.

“This isn’t going to be like band, you know?” she continues. “You’re gonna have to work your ass off. We have a reputation to uphold, and I won’t let a lucky newcomer stand in the way of this team’s success.”

Well, excuse the hell out of me for living,
I think, noticing she doesn’t move to give the same speech to Tara or Samantha. I smile, though, that exaggerated cheerleader smile that obviously helped land me the role. “You can count on me, Chloe.”

Before anything else can be said, Ashlee Grimes launches herself on me. “Dude! You totally did it! I told you that you’d make it!”

We hug like long-lost sisters who’ve just found each other, and I can’t stop the tears from escaping my eyes. Thank heavens my makeup is waterproof.

“Maybe we can be partners since Megan is graduating and I don’t have a base anymore,” Ashlee says.
Base
is cheerleader talk for the girl who does all the heavy lifting of the flyers, the term for the girls on top.

“That would be cool. When will we know?”

“After we vote on a captain, she’ll decide the pairings. But who cares about that now! You’re on the squad, and we’re going to have an awesome senior year!”

My pulse trills out a rhythm in my ears. I’m picturing everything. Wearing the cool uniforms to school on game day, helping to lead pep rallies, driving to away games, standing in front of the whole school and leading cheers, and, before that, practicing all summer, hanging out with new friends, learning dance routines, and perfecting my tumbling. And actually doing my hair and makeup for games instead of scrunching it up under a band hat. There’s homecoming with its parade and bonfire and celebration... and maybe a date with a football player this year. Yep, senior year here at PHS is going to totally
rock!

Lora Russell comes over to hug me. She and I were lab partners in biology last year, but she’s another with unattainable status in Maxwell. Her father died when she was little, so she and her mom live with her rich uncle, Ross Scott, president and CEO of Game On, a sports franchise based here. “I’m so proud of you, Hayley!” Lora says with much enthusiasm. She smashes her face against mine, and I feel as though I belong.

“Thanks, Lora. I’m jazzed beyond words.”

“We’re gonna have a great squad! Welcome to the team.”

Before I know it, the football players descend from the bleachers and join in the mayhem. Skipper O’Rourke, one of the defensive backs I know from Spanish class, gives me a fist bump. “All right... Matthews.”