The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading Read online

  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.

  If I’d heard about Moni’s New Year’s plans a dozen times, I’d heard about the rest of the squad’s plans one dozen times infinity. Not that anyone had told me about them directly.

  “What are you wearing to Rick’s?” Cassidy asked Kaleigh.

  “I wanted to wear the patent leather ankle boots I got for Christmas, but Chantal has a pair of those. You know how she gets about people wearing her shoes.”

  “Wear them,” said Cassidy. “Chantal went to Aspen for break.” Only the way she said “Aspen,” it was a lot more ass and not so much pen. “I can’t believe she’s missing the party, though. It’s almost like—” Cassidy glanced toward us and pulled Kaleigh another ten steps away.

  Moni made a face. “Could they make it more obvious we’re not invited?”

  “Probably not,” I whispered. “I bet they’ve even got a cheer about it. You know, like:

  “One, two, three, four,

  Don’t let the losers in the door!

  Five, six, seven, eight,

  Party at Mangers, don’t be late!”

  Moni snorted so loudly that everyone in the lobby looked at us, including Sheila. Moni and I cringed, expecting Sheila to make us run laps or knock out a few push-ups as punishment for disrupting practice. She didn’t. Instead she clapped her hands together and said, “Okay, girls, once more through the routine and we’ll call it a night.”

  On the way out, Sheila handed everyone a card. They were handmade, wit
h edging and lace and a personal message. Moni’s said: Add it up for a terrific New Year, and mine: Reading, Writing, and a Righteous New Year.

  Not much got past Sheila.

  And while she wished everyone a Happy New Year, she made a deliberate stop by Moni and me. “You probably don’t believe it now,” Sheila said, “but those kinds of parties are never as fun as everyone makes them sound.” With a cheery wave, she wished everyone, once more, a Happy New Year, then walked toward the back entrance and staff parking lot.

  The lobby doors opened and closed as, one by one, members of the squad left, until it was just Moni and me. The bleak cold of January—already in the air—puckered the skin on my legs beneath my thin yoga pants. All I could think was, The only way cheerleading is paying off right now is with frostbite.

  Moni stared at the trophy cases and sighed. “I guess we’ll have to take Sheila’s word for it. But a party at Rick’s—” She broke off, that faraway look in her eyes again.

  Then, from the gym, came the thump, thump, thump of a basketball.

  “Oh…my…God,” said Moni in barely a whisper. “It’s Jack. You got the list?”

  I unbuttoned my winter coat and pulled the folded piece of paper from my pocket. “Always,” I said. “But I don’t know. It seems kind of—”

  I was about to say hopeless before Moni interrupted.

  “Just talk to him,” she said. We heard a car horn, and she peered through the windows at the parking lot. “Oops, Dad’s here.” She gave me a shove toward the gym and swung open the doors. “You said you wanted a second chance. Well, here it is.”

  I did say that, didn’t I? Maybe not in so many words, but the whole reason the list of “Witty Things to Say” existed was because I couldn’t quite give up the idea of Jack. And it wasn’t his hot jockness or how popular he was, but what he was doing right now: practicing late on the night before a holiday, after everyone else had left. That sort of thing said a lot about a person.

  I took a deep breath, unfolded the paper, and scanned the list. This wouldn’t be easy. Many of the things on there were designed for Jack to overhear. Who was I supposed to say these things to now that Moni had left? While I stood pondering, the thump, thump, thump from the gym stopped. A second later Jack peeked through the open double doorway.

  “Hey,” he said. “You still here?”

  I was speechless. So much for the list. I must have given Jack a strange look, because he added, “Uh, yeah, I guess you are.” Then I could’ve sworn he muttered, “Smooth, Paulson, real smooth.”

  “You too,” I said.

  “My layups need some work.”

  “Oh, they so do not.”

  Then he did the most amazing thing. Jack Paulson, the Jack Paulson, actually blushed. “You’re looking pretty good,” he said, and the flush on his cheeks deepened. “I mean, well, everyone on the squad, that new dance. The guys, uh, they really like it.” He looked away from me and concentrated on the hallway that led to the locker rooms. “Hang on a sec.” With that, he vanished into the gym.

  He returned, letter jacket slung over one arm. With the lobby so quiet, I could hear the scrape and clink of quarters in his palm. “All right,” he said. “Got enough. Want something to drink?”

  “Um,” I said. “Sure.” So much for witty. I started to cram the list back into my pocket but stopped. I knew it didn’t contain any soda-machine-specific advice, but maybe there were a few all-occasion phrases that might work. I had the list poised for a quick glance. Then Jack leaned forward in a crouch.

  “Race ya,” he said.

  And before I could argue he was off, tearing down the hall. I had zero chance of catching up, but I ran after him anyway. Jack tagged the soda machine, and the noise echoed against the walls—too loud in a too quiet school. I skidded to a halt, the note slipping from my hand. It floated to the floor, landing words up. Between the time I’d written the list and now, I’d shadowed all the letters in the title with Day-Glo Sharpies. It didn’t take superhuman vision to read “Witty Things to Say When Jack Paulson Is Nearby.” Ditto the magenta heart I’d drawn next to his name.

  Jack crouched again, poised to scoop up the note. Jock versus geek girl? No contest. He had the skill, the speed, not to mention the whole hand-eye coordination thing in his favor.

  But I did have one thing: pride.

  I dove for the list.

  Jack’s fingers skimmed the paper but didn’t quite connect. I launched myself forward, slid on my knees, passed the note, then whirled. It wouldn’t have surprised me if goofy slo-mo music started playing in the background.

  I reached. Jack reached. I tugged. He tugged.

  The paper ripped.

  Jack came away with a corner, but I had all the words. We sat on the cold tile, each of us panting. “That must be some note,” he said at last.

  “It’s—” It was what? I searched my brain for a way to explain and came up empty. So long, second chance. “It’s not something a guy like you would understand.” I kept my eyes on the floor and tried to will myself into invisibility.

  Jack nudged my foot with his and said, “Oh, you mean smart kid stuff?” He was being nice. Even if he hadn’t read the list, he couldn’t have missed his name. Or the heart. But when I looked at him, he just smiled and offered me a hand up.

  “So,” he said, pulling me to my feet. “Are you a Diet Coke kind of girl?”

  I pointed to the Dr Pepper.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Diet gives me a headache.”

  “Cool,” he said. “I mean, not about the headache, but you know.”

  I did. At least, I thought I knew what he meant. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was standing there, while Jack Paulson bought each of us a can of Dr Pepper.

  I held on to that can all the way home, long after I finished the last delectable drops. I didn’t even let go when Mom and I walked into the house—or when I saw Todd and my father conferring over the innards of Dad’s computer.

  “It’s just some dust,” Todd said. “Makes the whole thing heat up.”

  Dad nodded sagely—no small feat for an old guy who had just been schooled by a seventeen-year-old.

  “Todd, you’ve been so helpful,” said Mom. “Stay for dinner? And afterward, we’re having family fun night.”

  Shelby pulled the pom-poms from my hands and launched into a cheer. “Two, four, six, eight, family fun night is really great!”

  “It’s Scrabble,” Mom added, like this was an added enticement. Actually, for Todd, it was.

  “Sure, Mrs. Reynolds.” Todd glanced at me, then shrugged, as if to say, If you want me to.

  My body started to make its conditioned response, a nod, a smile. Over the past couple of years, Todd at dinner, Todd playing Scrabble, Todd geeking out with my parents when I wasn’t even there, had become normal. Dad hadn’t actually said anything, but Moni and I had a bet for when he would pronounce Todd “the son he never had.”

  I stopped myself mid-nod. Nothing was normal these days, certainly not between me and Todd. I wasn’t sure if things ever would be again. Considering the way he’d treated me lately, I wasn’t sure I wanted them to be.

  Still, when Dad clapped Todd on the shoulder and said, “On to the biscuits!” I smiled. A little dose of normal might be good for all of us.

  Dad and Todd continued the computer discussion all through dinner, lapsing into the never-ending debate of PC versus Mac versus Linux. I still wore my practice clothes, still had the “Witty Things” list in my pocket, and still had my eye on the Dr Pepper can. I wanted to make sure Mom didn’t toss it in the recycling bin. First chance I got, I was sneaking it up to my room.

  After dinner, Shelby set up the Super Scrabble Deluxe Edition she’d gotten for Christmas. More spaces! More tiles! More points! The board even rotated so you could view every angle of play. It was a geek’s dream come true.

  Dad sent me to my room for my functioning laptop, so we could have the Scrabble website and special on
line dictionary up while we played. I wanted to suggest we simply crack open Todd’s skull and use the Oxford English Dictionary he kept in there. Instead I used the opportunity to spirit that empty can of Dr Pepper to my bedroom. No one noticed, except Todd. He gave me a look that said, I know what you’re doing, and why you’re doing it, and I think you’re totally pathetic.

  I didn’t care.

  Mom and Shelby played as a team, like they always did. Todd dominated the board, like he always did. We were several plays into the game before I started to pick up on a theme.

  I couldn’t remember who put down SUPER (seven points), but Todd trumped it by adding FLUOUS (sixteen points and pretty much how I was feeling). Mom and Shelby cheered over the fourteen points they won for DITZ. Todd used the O from SUPERFLUOUS for SELLOUT (seven points), and on his next turn added TRAITOR (fourteen with a double-word score). But when Dad put down AIRHEAD (an extra four points for a double-letter score), I almost left the table. I expected something like this from Todd, sure. My parents, though?

  But then Todd surprised me by building onto the D in DITZ, placing each tile on the board with a flourish. He spelled out DARING (eight points), then looked right at me and raised an eyebrow.

  I had nothing. No decent letters and no idea what Todd was getting at. I traded three of my tiles, then shuffled the new and the old together on my holder. That G in DARING gave me an idea. With as much fanfare as Todd, I eased each tile onto the board, spelling out my nine-point masterpiece.

  G

  E

  E

  K

  Trump that, Einstein.

  Todd tipped his chair back, crossed his arms over his chest, and shot me a look as cryptic as the ones Jack Paulson gave me. Totally unreadable. Genius or jock, it didn’t seem to matter. Boys were born with a gene that kept girls, no matter how smart they might be, from understanding them.

  It should have been easy. “Life at Prairie Stone: New Year’s Resolutions” was one of those columns that practically wrote itself. I’d collected quotes at school before winter break, but I waited for New Year’s Eve to type the actual copy. I’d planned to enter the last word at 11:59 p.m. It was one of those nerdy touches Todd usually drooled over.