The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading Read online

  But it was already eleven thirty. So far I’d managed the title and the phrase, “This past year at Prairie Stone” and nothing else.

  It wasn’t like I didn’t have material to work with. Even Mr. Carlson, the journalism teacher, was impressed when he listened to the quotes I’d collected on my digital recorder. “Those are outstanding, Bethany,” he’d said. “Excellent cross section of the student body. You’re really putting yourself out there this year.”

  I didn’t think I was putting myself “out there.” Not really. But instead of the usual collection of lines from my “go to” kids—the debate dorks, the band geeks, and the clueless freshmen who still thought being in the newspaper = instant popularity, I had quotations from, well, everyone.

  It was weird. And so totally unlike ninth grade. Back then I’d interviewed a senior, who later claimed I’d made up the whole story. Somewhere in between “I have no recollection of talking to you” and “Please, oh please, can I give you a quote for your column?” my social status had apparently shifted. It was as if a pair of pom-poms made people want to talk to you, even when you weren’t lugging them around. I found the whole situation bizarre, but—if I were honest with myself—also kind of awesome.

  I clicked on the recorder and listened. I had funny quotes, I had heartfelt ones. I had honest, crude, and every other kind of New Year’s resolution you could think of.

  Karl: Make at least one person laugh each day—without resorting to flinging boogers.

  Kelli: Learn to knit.

  Elaine: Recycle more. (Hey, Bethany, can I borrow that history paper you turned in last month?)

  Whitnee: Work to achieve world peace.

  Jarrod: Quit pretending I wear dirty socks because they are lucky.

  Brian: Stop responding to my friend’s lame jokes with the even lamer LOL.

  I even had the one-two punch:

  Ryan: My New Year’s resolution is to pass Mr. Wilker’s Independent Reading class.

  Mr. Wilker: My New Year’s resolution is for Ryan to pass Independent Reading. I don’t want to see him during summer school.

  All I had to do was string the quotes together with a few transitions, mix in some “should auld acquaintance be forgot,” and e-mail the whole thing to Todd as a belated Christmas present. There was nothing he liked better than tearing apart one of my drafts.

  Instead of writing, I logged on to my instant message program. All my friends’ icons were grayed out. I picked up the phone, but my fingers stalled on the keypad. Who could I call? Both Moni and Todd were busy with family parties.

  I hung up and nudged the can of Dr Pepper, my souvenir. I squeezed my fingertips against the sides, listened to the soft click of aluminum. This year I’d even collected a quote from Jack.

  Jack: Making the honor roll, but it’s more of a two-year plan.

  I wondered where he was tonight. Probably at Rick Mangers’s, along with the rest of the Prairie Stone High School royalty. It was an invite that meant you’d made it, socially.

  Shelby shifted on my bed, arms clutching the gold and purple pom-poms. She tried so hard to stay up until midnight, and since my parents were out, I’d let her. Yes, even my parents had New Year’s Eve plans, a party at another Prairie Stone State professor’s house. Claiming I was forced into babysitting duty might make me look less like a dork, wouldn’t it?

  I could hear the question now: What did you do for New Year’s?

  I had to babysit, I could say. Not that I’d fool anyone, not even myself. A short skirt might get me a few more quotes, but it still wasn’t enough to get me invited to parties.

  “Those kinds of parties are never as fun as everyone makes them sound,” Sheila had said. Was it that obvious that I wasn’t on anyone’s A-list? True, I could count the number of “those kinds of parties” I’d been invited to on one hand. One finger, even. That party. The one that changed everything for Chantal and Traci, and for Dina especially, but for me and Moni, too. I remembered it all, from the moment Ryan Nelson leaned across the counter at Games ’n More last summer to invite us, to when Moni and I left in her mom’s car—way before midnight.

  Each August the Nelson family threw a Farewell to Summer bash. Ryan was the youngest in a long line of Nelson boys, the last in a long line of hosts to the party that took place on their big farm. Bonfires and hayrides. It was supposed to be good, wholesome fun. A party endorsed by parents, teachers, and even the popular kids. The only difference last August was, this time Moni and I were invited.

  “Everyone will be there,” Ryan had promised, flyer in hand. He leaned across a glass display case and handed it to me. “And everyone’s invited. Directions on the back,” he said on his way out the door.

  Moni pinched my arm so hard, it left a bruise. I waited until the bell chimed behind Ryan to let out the breath I’d been holding. Moni squealed.

  “I bet Jack Paulson will be there,” she said. “And you should be too. We all should.”

  Brian peeked out from behind a display of upcoming video games. “He didn’t invite me.”

  Moni turned on him. “Of course he did. He said everyone.”

  Brian poked the flyer in my hand. “Naw, he’s out inviting girls. Think he cares if another guy shows up?”

  “Well, if he doesn’t care,” Moni countered, “then why not come?”

  “You girls go.” He gave the life-size stand-up of Lara Croft a leer. “Me and Lara have plans, anyway.”

  So we went. As soon as we arrived, Moni wandered off to talk horses with Ryan’s older sister, leaving me all alone. “Mingle,” she’d said. Right.

  It’s not like I didn’t want to. When I saw kids from school heading in my direction, I’d start thinking up something clever to say to them. But by the time I’d settle on a topic, they’d already passed. Or worse, I’d toss out something infinitesimally witty, like, “Hey,” only to be answered by blank stares—or no reaction at all. Geek Girl, meet Invisible.

  Which is why I felt so grateful when two little girls from Shelby’s science camp recognized me. They stopped chasing butterflies long enough to greet me, then ran off again. I called after them out of desperation. “You know, I bet there’s a ginkgo tree around here somewhere!”

  The last time all three of us had seen one was at the Minnesota Landscape Arboretum. The girls stopped again. They looked at each other like they were weighing their options. I held my breath and prayed I wouldn’t get dissed by a couple of nine-year-olds. Lucky for me, they were nine-year-old geeks.

  We were headed toward a grove of trees when I spotted someone tall, with dark hair, adorably spiked with sweat. I started to turn the girls in the opposite direction, then hesitated. Moni would pound me if I didn’t take this chance.

  I watched him slip into the trees. I called the girls’ attention to a monarch butterfly fluttering past, then ditched my nerd protégées to follow Jack. That was when I found the real party.

  As I approached the tree line, I saw the elite of Prairie Stone High School duck beneath the branches in groups of twos and threes. Just as one bunch headed in, another would pop out. It seemed almost choreographed—like a changing of the guard. I pushed aside a limb, noting the saw-toothed leaves of the amur maple, and found a path. Once I was under the canopy of trees, not even the piney tang of insect repellent could disguise the thick scent of beer.

  I scooted around an outcrop of poison oak and bumped straight into Chantal Simmons. The amber liquid in her cup sloshed over the rim.

  “Nice move, Reynolds.” She glared at the damp patch of beer-soaked dirt. But then she laughed, loud and long, and handed me the half-full cup. “You spilled it, you drink it.”

  The evening was turning cool. In the thicket, surrounded by trees, the noise from the parties—both of them—was cut off. It was just Chantal, me, and the buzz of mosquitoes. What harm would it do if I took a few sips?

  I brought the cup to my lips. The taste was more plastic than alcohol, more foam than liquid. I made a face. “It’s w
arm.”

  Chantal laughed again. “Still gets you drunk.” She didn’t move away, didn’t even look on the verge of saying anything mean. She looked almost…friendly. I considered asking her what had happened, what changed? How had each of us landed so neatly on separate sides of the popularity fence?

  Before I could, Moni broke into the small clearing. At first she looked panicked, but her expression shifted when she saw Chantal—and then the beer in my hand.

  “What’s going on?” Moni asked.

  “Absolutely nothing,” said Chantal. She took the cup from me, downed the last drops, and took a few uneven steps down the path—before turning and giving me a nod in the direction of the keg.

  Your call, the look seemed to say.

  I didn’t move. After a few awkward seconds, Chantal staggered off, alone, but probably not for long.

  “Whoa. What was that all about?” Moni said.

  I shrugged. “She’s drunk.”

  “I got that.” Moni peered down the path, her eyes squinting. “Do you think the Nelsons know about this?”

  “I doubt it.” My eyes followed the trail that Chantal had stumbled down only moments before. “Should we tell?”

  “Would it really make a difference?” Moni asked.

  “Probably not,” I agreed. We were already outcasts as it was. Why make it any worse?

  But later that night, long after Moni and I left the party, Chantal and Traci Olson scrunched into the passenger seat, while a drunk Dina slipped behind the wheel of her father’s Lexus. A mile from the party, Dina plowed into a guardrail. The car plunged down a small ravine and nearly wrapped itself around an oak.

  When I heard about the crash the next morning, a weight settled on my chest. And no matter what I did, I couldn’t make it disappear. Would it have made a difference if I had told? Maybe. But, no matter how much I wanted to, I couldn’t change history.

  Thanks to the accident and Prairie Stone High’s zero tolerance policy, Chantal, Traci—and Dina—couldn’t cheer this year. Though it had never been intentional, I had Chantal’s spot on the squad. I knew, at least intellectually, that none of it—the party, Chantal’s drinking, the accident—was my fault.

  But that weight in my chest remained. It was like a bruise I’d touch now and then, hoping it had healed, only to find it was just as sore.

  6

  From The Prairie Stone High Varsity Cheerleading Guide:

  Exclusionary tactics and cliques will not be tolerated on the Prairie Stone varsity cheerleading squad. Treat your fellow squad members the way you would want to be treated. Remember: There is no “I” in “cheerleader.”

  On Tuesday—our first morning back after winter break—Moni and I shuffled into the auditorium for a volunteer awards assembly. We were careful to watch our step when we passed the rest of the squad. Even though Elaine had given me a New Year’s resolution quote, the hours we’d spent with her and the other cheerleaders over break hadn’t exactly made us BFFs. An “accidental” foot in the aisle would not have surprised either of us.

  We made it safely through and took the seats Brian had saved for us. Todd shifted away from me, ever so slightly. Must have been afraid he’d catch cheerleader cooties. Our time together over break hadn’t done much for our BFF status either. Although something told me he was merely keeping up appearances—even geeks had street cred to think of.

  The principal called my name right before Chantal’s. Because, you know, Reynolds comes before Simmons—at least in the school directory. Polite applause rippled through the room, and even Todd clapped semi-enthusiastically. The noise doubled, maybe tripled, when Chantal stepped onto the stage. Moni, an alphabet soup of last names away, rocked forward and peered down the row at me. Her face held one question: What the hell is she doing here?

  Moni wasn’t the only one who couldn’t picture Chantal Simmons with a presidential award for volunteering. That same question echoed up and down the aisles.

  Principal Henderson passed me a certificate and shook my hand. What had started as a one-time-only demonstration at Shelby’s science camp had turned into a summerlong project for Moni and me. We’d racked up serious volunteer hours when Moni took over the Math Marvels and I’d catalogued leaves with the Eco-Explorers. It didn’t get much geekier than that.

  Naturally, we were already signed up to help out next summer.

  But Chantal? Who knew she could pencil in volunteering between nail, hair, and tanning sessions?

  Besides me, that is.

  After the assembly, students streamed from the auditorium. They stood in groups in the hallway, on the stairwell. They even flowed through the gauntlet. Making a run for it seemed like an option. When the smell of oatmeal wafted over from the cafeteria, it seemed like an even better idea. Jack Paulson might stop by for a to-go bowl before class.

  What would I risk for a glimpse of Jack? Just about anything.

  But there was something about the gauntlet that made the lockers look taller there. The floor felt slicker too, like the janitor gave it an extra coat of wax. That whole hallway should really have been marked off with yellow tape and traffic cones—caution: danger ahead. That way you could make an informed decision: Take the long way around and be late for class or push through and hope for minimal damage.

  “Check it.” Chantal’s voice rose above the chatter. “College admissions drool over this kind of thing.”

  Todd glanced over his shoulder. “Great. Now college is a popularity contest too,” he said, his face wrinkling into a sneer. But the gauntlet wasn’t just slick, it had a way of amplifying things that were best left unheard, too.

  Chantal whirled. She tossed her head, and her blond hair settled against her shoulders. She tugged at her top, stretching the material tighter across her chest. She gave Todd the look she usually reserved for seniors of the male persuasion.

  And Todd fell for it. He was instantly rooted to the spot, feet superglued to the once slick floor. Newspaper editor, genius IQ, chess master, and state runner-up debate champion—dissolved into a puddle of boy hormones.

  Dork.

  “Hey, Emerson,” Chantal said sweetly, “you know, it really is too bad.”

  “Too…bad?” His tone held the smallest bit of hope. That he could speak at all was probably a miracle.

  Chantal smiled and Todd stood taller. He reached up in a failed attempt to pat his hair into place.

  Double dork.

  “Too bad money can’t buy popularity,” she finished. She batted her eyelashes at him. “Or class.”

  Todd’s arms went limp at his sides, and his ears burned bright red. The latest round of cheesy commercials featuring his dad’s used car empire had aired constantly over winter break. Todd’s dad had money—lots of it. Class? If you think the Emperor of Emerson Motors sounds elegant or sophisticated, then maybe.

  “Oh, man.” Moni squeezed my arm, her voice a whisper—anything louder was crazy at this point. “She’s someone I didn’t miss over break.”

  Neither did I.

  “Hey.” Where I found the courage to speak, I don’t know. But I flashed my own volunteer certificate and said, “Check it. I hear college admissions drool over this sort of thing.”

  Maybe it was time I told the rest of the world—or at least the rest of Prairie Stone High—the real reason Chantal volunteered. It wasn’t the community service hours she owed after last August’s car accident. It wasn’t because her parents made her do it either. And it certainly wasn’t for drooling college admissions boards.

  Chantal Simmons missed her grandparents. That’s right, head gauntlet girl, the queen of cool, hung out with old people on the weekends because she wanted to. I’d gone to visit the long-term care facility with her once. Faces lit up when Chantal walked in. Old men flirted with her. She was, oddly enough, a sought-after partner for bridge.

  “So the fraud speaks,” Chantal said. She turned and looked me over from the top of my head all the way to my toes. “There, but for the grace of
a decent shoe store, go I.”

  Damn. She made me look. I loved my chunky sneakers. They were comfortable and, I thought, cute. But the to-die-for pink leather flats Chantal wore were the stuff of envy, even for a girl like me.

  Someone laughed, then everything fell silent. The lockers seemed to loom even taller, the floor felt even slipperier.

  “You’re such a brain, I’m surprised you and…Rah-moan-ah don’t get it,” Chantal went on, stepping closer. “Hello? Cheerleading camp? Junior varsity squad? Ever do any of those things?”

  I already knew the answers. Everybody in the hall did.

  “So. For lack of serious competition,” she continued, “you get a spot on the squad. And that makes you what? Different? Special?” Chantal snorted. “Hardly.”

  I swallowed the truth of it. No, Moni and I weren’t that good at cheering. I had mastered one jump. One. Since, really, my herkie was hit or miss. And Moni still couldn’t do the splits.

  “You know what that really makes you?” Chantal paused for a second, as if either Moni or I might try to speak. “It makes you a joke. A big freakin’ joke. The whole school knows it too. It’s embarrassing. Seriously, they’re embarrassed.” With her last words, Chantal pointed. I followed her finger and found a group of seniors from the basketball team.

  The instant their eyes met mine, they looked away. A wave of nausea struck me. The notion that the team—that Jack—might be embarrassed made me cringe.

  “Oh,” Chantal added, “and if you think a short skirt will get you a guy like Jack Paulson, you are so wrong.”