The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading (2 page)

The late movie had just let out, and a group of kids hurried to their cars. Clouds of breath billowed ahead of them, partially hiding their faces, but the giggle sounded like Cassidy Anderson, the “Omigod!” was unmistakably Traci Olson’s, and the clipped, condescending “Check it” could belong to none other than Chantal Simmons.

“What was the question again?” Brian asked, his attention focused near the theater’s exit.

I repeated, “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a…’?”

“A…cheerleader?” Brian answered, his face still turned toward the movie crowd.

Now it was Todd’s turn to snort. “Yeah, that’s it. Final answer.”

I thought it was funny, but Moni’s face fell. She hopped to her feet and took a step away from the group.

“What’d I say?” asked Brian. His round cheeks, already pink, grew red.

“Cheerleader, good one.” Todd leaned across me and smacked Brian on the arm. “Can I quote you on that?” He made a show of pulling out his iPhone to record Brian’s words and probably the latitude and longitude at which they were uttered.

“Moni, come back,” I said. “Please.”

“Yeah,” Todd said, a little too loud. “Besides, it’s my turn next, and I’ve got a good one. ‘A long time ag—’”

“
Star Wars
? Again?” I wasn’t the only one who groaned.

“Okay,” Todd said, “how about: ‘In the week bef—’”

“
Dune
,” I interrupted.

“No way, Reynolds. There is no way you could’ve known that.”

Todd was way more predictable than he liked to believe. So was Moni. She still stood a few feet away, her arms crossed over her chest, a glare aimed at Brian.

“Really, Moni. I’m sorry,” Brian said as he started to stand. His voice rose in volume and pitch, drowning out me, and even Todd. “I don’t know what I said that was so—”

“Trouble in Nerdland?” A pair of teal, pumpkin, and tan ballet flats appeared only inches from my feet. I didn’t have to look up to know who it was. No one in Prairie Stone had a finer shoe wardrobe than Chantal Simmons.

Todd sputtered but gave up before saying anything coherent. Brian froze, half-sitting, half-standing, his posture apelike. Moni tapped a toe but didn’t say a word. I kept my eyes on the sidewalk. It was better that way.

Chantal and crew stepped off the curb, and a few freshmen math whizzes stared after them. No one said a word until the girls were inside their car and slipping down the frosty street. Then one of the boys let out a low whistle.

“Cheerleaders,” his friend said wistfully.

Moni threw her cappuccino into the trash. The cup rattled, and a couple of boys jumped.

“Really, you guys,” she said. “What have they got that we haven’t got?”

“I assume that’s a rhetorical question,” said Todd.

When Brian joined the chorus of heh-heh-hehs, Moni scooped up her mittens and her Sudoku book and clomped down the sidewalk. I hurried after her. Brian tried to follow, but Moni shot him a look that, I swear, dropped the temperature another ten degrees.

“I’m serious,” she said when I caught up to her. “What
do
they have that we don’t?”

She stopped in front of Waterman’s Women’s Wear and made a slow turn in the display window’s reflection.

I didn’t know what to tell her. I was pretty sure we weren’t ugly. Moni was bouncy and petite, curvy in the right places. I was taller and a little too thin, but not in a size-zero-starlet sort of way. Moni’s bright blond curls were the opposite of my straight, dark bob. I hugged myself against the cold. “Maybe it’s the pom-poms,” I said.

“Yeah.” Moni pushed her arms straight forward, then pulled them quickly back. She thrust them up in the shape of a V, then did a swivel-hipped pivot thing and checked her reflection once again.

Just when I thought she was going to go all Dance Dance Revolution on me, she stopped and stared at our images in the glass.

“Maybe.”

The following Monday morning, Moni’s brain seemed as fogged over as her glasses. I had to remind her twice before she pulled off her Camp SohCahToa hat and stowed it in her locker. At lunch she walked right past our meet-up spot and would have glided into the gauntlet if I hadn’t grabbed her shoulder.

It wasn’t until last hour that I really started to worry. Most of the geek squad had been excused from eighth-period classes. We were all in the Little Theater, up on the stage, getting ready to start practice for the National Honor Society induction ceremony. Mr. Wilker, the NHS advisor, had just assigned each of us a sophomore inductee to shepherd through the program when the door to the theater opened.

Cassidy Anderson (senior, cheerleader, gauntlet girl) stepped inside, bringing in a thin stream of light with her. The radiance followed her as she bounced down the aisle to the foot of the stage.

She handed Mr. Wilker a note. “Thank you, Miss Anderson,” he said, then turned his attention back to our group under the lights.

“Um,” Cassidy said, “I sort of need that right away.”

Mr. Wilker paused and glanced at the note. “My grade book is back in the classroom. I’ll have to check that first.”

Moni left her sophomore and nudged me. “I bet she needs proof she’s not flunking,” she said. “Cheerleading tryouts, you know.”

No, I did not know. I didn’t really care, either. Except that Cassidy still hadn’t left. Every second she delayed practice made it more likely I wouldn’t have a chance to finish my Life at Prairie Stone column before the newspaper staff meeting after school. I stole a glance at Todd. If I didn’t turn in my column, he’d make my life miserable. That is, if he could pull himself out of the hormone-induced rapture that seemed to coincide with Cassidy’s arrival.

Dork.

And he wasn’t the only one. While Mr. Wilker negotiated with Cassidy, I took a look at the boys onstage. Their combined IQ was probably close to thirty gazillion, but no one would believe it if they saw them in this state. All that chest puffing and gut-sucking-in-ing, and Brian—was he actually slobbering? Really. They might as well have been Neanderthals.

I turned back to Moni, certain that she’d spit out a suitably scathing, sarcastic remark. Instead she blinked, then turned her head from Brian to Cassidy and back again. Beneath us, Mr. Wilker attempted to get the practice under way again.

“Cassidy,” he said finally, “I’ll meet you in my room after school.”

“But—but—,” Cassidy whined. She blew a bubble with the gum she was chewing. After it popped, she huffed, “I guess you can just have someone bring it to me.”

Fifteen male hands shot into the air as if powered by rockets.

Cassidy turned and headed up the slope toward the exit. When she opened the door, the lobby lights framed her body in silhouette and accented the shine of her hair. She paused as if posing, then whipped around to address us.

“Hey, losers,” she said. “Take a picture next time. It might last longer.”

With that, the door whooshed closed and plunged us all into darkness.

“That’s it,” Moni whispered at my side. “We’re going to do it.”

“Do what?” I whispered back.

“Try out for cheerleading.”

“What!” I said, forgetting for a moment how good the acoustics in the Little Theater could be.

“Miss Reynolds?” said Mr. Wilker. “Something you’d like to share with the rest of us?”

I shook my head, but on the inside I was thinking of all sorts of things I’d like to share with Moni, the main one being,
Was she out of her freaking mind?

T
wo weeks later Moni and I stood in matching purple shorts and gold T-shirts outside that same Little Theater. It might be debate dork domain most of the year, but once in May and once in November, the Prairie Stone High School cheerleading squad takes it over for tryouts. From behind the closed door came stomping, clapping, and a way too enthusiastic, “Ready? Okay!”

I
still
couldn’t believe I was doing this.

“It’s a conspiracy,” Moni said. “I’m telling you.” She licked her fingertips and used the spit to gel back a wayward curl.

“A
cheerleading
conspiracy?” I asked.

“Exactly! I mean, jeez, Bethany, you’ve seen me do the splits.”

I had. It was not pretty.

“This was your idea,” I reminded her.

“Yeah, well, no one said anything about splits.”

True.

Also true: I had let Moni haul me to the cheerleading call-out meeting without protesting—much. But I figured that would be the end of it, especially once we met Sheila. Sheila Manning, the Prairie Stone High cheerleading coach, probably did high kicks while she was still in the womb. How could anyone be that perky?

Another truth: I did take the information sheet when Sheila handed it to me. I needed a bookmark for my honors history text. That was the last time I saw it until Moni called me the night before the first tryout practice.

“Don’t forget to shave your legs,” she said.

“Huh?”

“It says we’re supposed to wear shorts.”

In November? In Minnesota? Still, a girl’s got to have some pride, if not common sense. I shaved my legs and crawled to the back of my closet to pull out the box marked summer clothes.

The first time I suspected Moni had more on her mind than just aggravating Todd or even winning over Brian came the next day, in German class. We were supposed to be conjugating the verb “should” (
soll
,
sollte
,
gesollt
) but all she could talk about was cheerleading. Even worse, she seemed to have developed some sort of
strategy
. Could cheerleading tryout practice even
have
a strategy? But I nodded my head and let her go on because, well, with her parents’ divorce and her dad moving to Minneapolis, I felt like I had to be there for her. Somebody
sollte
.

Of course, I never thought “being there” meant matching purple shorts and gold T-shirts. And I certainly never thought it meant
cheerleading
tryouts.

After school, on the first day of tryout practice, I’d left a note on the big whiteboard in the newspaper office:
Late—B
, and headed to the main hall outside the gym. I figured I’d be back in time for the staff meeting. I mean, how long could it take to learn a stupid cheer?

Longer than you’d think. Especially when your best friend goes all earnest on you and says, “If we’re going to try out, then we should
really
try out.”

I raised an eyebrow at her. “More strategy?” I asked.

That’s when Moni gave me what I like to call her Moni Lisa smile. Mysterious and compelling, it made her whole face light up. All she had to do was turn it on you, and next thing you knew, you’d forgotten that what she was suggesting was a bad idea. If someone could capture that smile on oil and canvas, her portrait would hang in the Louvre. For sure. Bottled, it would be worth millions.

“I think it’s important,” she said, “you know, for the experience. The more we put into this, the more we’ll have to laugh about when it’s over. Just think of Todd’s reaction.”

That was one thing I didn’t want to think about. Todd would kill me if he knew I was memorizing dance moves to the school song instead of writing my next Life at Prairie Stone column for the paper.

But for Moni and for “the experience” I put Todd’s reaction—and my misgivings—out of my head. The truth was, if anyone but the wannabes had shown up at practice, not even friendship would’ve kept me there. But the Prairie Stone elite had opted out of tryout practice. So Moni and I opted in.

I worked on my straddle jumps while Moni perfected her round-offs. And the next day, when it was time to practice the dance routine, I put way more into it than I normally would. I kept up with Moni’s ridiculous faux fervor, shimmy for shimmy, all week.

It was simple. It was easy. It was fun. Nothing about it mattered, not even the stares and giggles from the other girls. That is, until Moni found out about the splits, which was right before the official tryouts started.

“Sheila could’ve mentioned it earlier,” she said to me now.

I agreed. The cheerleading coach had been vocal on every requirement except that one. No doubt Sheila took one look at the assortment of Prairie Stone High cheerleading hopefuls and decided to separate the girls from the…geeks.
Of course
cheerleaders did the splits. Everyone knew that.

I pulled a sheet of paper from my back pocket and unfolded it.

“See?” Moni said. “I don’t see splits on there at all. Where do you think they fall into the scheme of things? Coordination? Showmanship? It’s not fair.”

“You’re right. It’s not fair. Let’s quit,” I said, and tried to saunter off casually down the hall.

Moni grabbed my hand. She turned me around, and I saw something close to panic in her eyes.

I sighed. “I can do the splits,” I said.

“What?” Moni jerked and her blond curls swung, the way they did when she was surprised, or happy.

“I can do the splits.”

“Front and back, or sideways?” Moni asked.

“Both, actually.”

“No way! Since when?”

Ever since Madame Wolsinski’s modern dance class wasn’t as lame as it sounded. Modern dance isn’t all running around a stage flapping your arms, but did I want to explain that to Moni? A grunt, a groan, and a desperate cry came from inside the Little Theater. Any explaining would have to wait. We were up next.

“I’ll do the splits,” I said, a sudden pulse beating in my throat. “Your round-offs are good. You could—”

“No, wait. We’ll wow ’em with a ginormous finish.” Moni’s enthusiasm was back.

“Ginormous?” I asked.

“And you should do the splits sideways—looks more painful. I can do a round-off over the top of you.” Moni bounced on the balls of her feet. “How does that sound?”

“Dangerous?”

“They’ll never know the difference.”

Oh, sure,
I thought, but before I could say anything more, the door swung open. Kaleigh Bartell and Anna Crouse staggered out, faces flushed and sweaty. Anna looked close to tears. Kaleigh was limping.

“Good luck, guys,” said Kaleigh. Halfway down the hall she added, “You’re gonna need it.”

The door to the theater closed behind me, shooing me into the darkness. Moni was already halfway to the stage when I hurried to catch up to her. Mrs. Hanson, the guidance counselor, scrutinized us over a pair of half glasses that sat on the tip of her nose. Sheila Manning tilted her pretty head to one side and tapped a perfect tooth with a pencil eraser. Ms. Bailey, the family and consumer sciences teacher, was the third judge. She had her arms crossed over her chest and stared almost but not quite at the ceiling.

“I’m curious, girls.” Mrs. Hanson scanned the judging sheet in front of her. “Why did you two decide to try out for cheerleading?”

The tone in Mrs. Hanson’s voice made the question seem a lot less like
Why do you want to be cheerleaders?
and more like
What the hell are you doing here?

I looked over at Moni. This was her idea, after all. She opened her mouth, only to clamp it shut.

“Maybe you should start your routine,” Sheila suggested. “You can answer the interview question later.” Like stalling with round-offs and splits would help.

The more I sweated and kicked my way through the dance, the more it burned me. Not just my muscles, either, but the whole idea of it. Why
shouldn’t
we go out for cheerleading? Moni and I had as much right as anyone else, didn’t we? And hey, who said a geek girl couldn’t see how the other half lived?

I sang loudly during the school song, and mostly on key, too. When it came time for the ginormous finish, I slid sideways to the floor and Moni vaulted over me. We didn’t budge. Not even when Sheila gave Moni a “come on, you can do it” nod. I just smiled and planted my elbows on the floor and my chin on my fists. Moni didn’t waver, didn’t even attempt the splits.

Silence. Stares. Well, who could blame them?

“Very nice, girls,” said Sheila at last.

I struggled to stand, my legs wobbly. Sweat coated my upper lip. I gave it a swipe with the back of my hand.

“That was, uh, nice,” Mrs. Hanson echoed. “Very…spirited.”

Oh, yeah. We had loads of school spirit.

“So,” she continued, “what made you decide to try out for cheerleading?”

There it was, that question again. And there was the usually talkative Moni, silent. Again.

Answers swirled in my head. Why was I trying out? To jerk Todd’s chain. To make Moni happy. But besides that, maybe I was doing it to prove I could, that
anyone
could. Maybe I was striking back at the long-held tradition of Prairie Stone High cheerleading being nothing more than a popularity contest. Or maybe it was because so many people thought I shouldn’t—or couldn’t. As if being able to diagram a sentence—or in Moni’s case, solve quadratic equations in her head—made us incapable of doing a herkie.

Those were all good reasons, but not the ones Sheila, or Mrs. Hanson, or the bored Ms. Bailey wanted to hear. I shifted my weight, and the sole of my sneaker squeaked against the floor.

“School spirit?” I said. The acoustics in the Little Theater made my words rebound on me like an accusation.

Mrs. Hanson arched an unbelieving eyebrow. Sheila beamed. Ms. Bailey doodled on the notepad in front of her.

“Very well,” Mrs. Hanson said. “You girls are through.”

We dashed up the aisle, out the door, and into the hall. I took hold of Moni’s shoulders and stared into her too-bright eyes. “We are never,
ever
, doing that again.”

Amazingly, after all that, I still had time to slip into the newspaper office and catch part of the weekly staff meeting. But one look at Moni told me she wouldn’t be satisfied until she read the tryout results in black and white. Or purple and gold—Coach Sheila probably wrote exclusively in the school colors.

The same went for everyone else, or so it seemed. Even though Thanksgiving break had officially started at last bell, twenty girls loitered in the lobby. Sure, a few pretended to study the trophies in the cases, but most of them made no pretense at all. They just sat outside the Little Theater, eyes narrowed, expressions grim.

“How long does it take to copy last year’s roster?” I asked.

“At least the view is good while we wait,” Moni said, and nodded her head toward the open gym doors. The varsity basketball team was practicing there—a worthy diversion, in most everyone’s opinion—or at least the opinion of the girls peering inside. Were they any different from Todd or Brian going brain-dead over cheerleaders?

“So I’m missing newspaper to watch a bunch of jocks?” I said.

“Hot jocks,” Moni corrected.

“Conceded. Still—”

Moni held up a hand and continued as if I hadn’t said a word. “Did you see Jack Paulson today? I think he’s grown five more inches since September.”

Jack had played on the varsity team since our freshman year. Now that he was a junior, he stood a head above even the tallest senior. Did I see Jack Paulson? What kind of question was that?
Of course I saw Jack Paulson
. Everyone saw Jack Paulson. He was…well,
Jack Paulson
.

The door to the Little Theater opened a crack. A hand with perfectly lacquered nails emerged and taped a sheet of paper to the wall.

Most of the girls sprang forward. It must have been mass hysteria or something, but my feet carried me toward the list. I stopped before I got too far, though, vowing not to give it any more attention than it deserved.

Kaleigh came up behind Moni and me. “You guys heard, right?”

“Heard what?” I asked. Moni ducked her head.

“There are three slots up for grabs,” Kaleigh said.

“Twelve,” I corrected her.

Kaleigh tipped her head to one side and squinted. “Twelve?”

“Technically, all positions on the cheer squad last for just one season. ‘Veteran cheerleaders are encouraged to reapply but cannot be guaranteed a spot on the team.’ It says so right here.”

I offered the info sheet to Kaleigh for inspection. She waved it off, rolled her eyes, and turned her attention to Moni. “Dina, Traci, and Chantal can’t cheer this season. Traci and Chantal are banned, and Dina…” She trailed off.

And Dina
…Until that moment I’d almost forgotten about the party last August, the keg of beer, and the accident that sent shock waves through the school. Dina was still in physical therapy and being homeschooled. Now Traci and Chantal couldn’t cheer?

Of course they couldn’t—Prairie Stone High School had a zero tolerance policy. I hadn’t put two and two together before now, but apparently Kaleigh—and Moni—had.