The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading (5 page)

“Yeah, I got that part, and I thought maybe with the notes…,” Jack said while he watched the front of the room. “But that’s not going to work, is it?”

“Not in this class.” Lots of kids took Independent Reading thinking it was an easy A. It was anything but that.

As Mr. Wilker continued detailing the sort of questions we could expect on the test, I thought about the time Jack’s father had come to my house. It was a Sunday about two years ago, when no one else was available for an emergency involving water pipes, a large leak, and our newly refinished basement.

I’d watched Jack work with his dad that day—we all did at first. Me, Mom, Dad, Shelby; it was kind of like a live-action documentary, only instead of the Discovery Channel, it was happening right downstairs. After an hour, Mom and Dad slipped away, then Shelby and I brought drinks for Jack and his dad. The cola was generic—the only kind Mom ever bought—but Jack didn’t seem to mind. He gulped it down, and when he’d finished, his dad smiled.

“Okay, Jackie,” he said. “I don’t care how pretty they are, we need to get back to work.”

I’d peeked at Jack through my bangs, wondering how he’d react. Would he roll his eyes? Look away? Pretend he hadn’t heard? Laugh at me again?

None of the above. Instead he winked at Shelby, gave me a grin, and proceeded to squirm behind the water heater, a place where spiders, centipedes, and who knew what else lived. I’d known from the first day of high school that Jack was incredibly cute, which I’d assumed meant he was also narcissistic and mean.” Now I had to amend my opinion of him. He wasn’t really a stuck-up jerk; he was nice.

After they finished working, Jack drank another cola in the kitchen while our fathers haggled over money.

“Come on, Dale. Let me write you a check,” my dad had said.

“Can’t let you do that. We hardly did anything,” Mr. Paulson countered.

“Except save me several thousand dollars.” Dad sounded frustrated.

I remember shuffling from foot to foot while Jack squeezed the soda can hard enough to leave dents. His jaw had a proud tilt, but his body was stiff and his eyes looked afraid. It made me wonder how much they needed the money, and how many of their customers gave up fighting before they ever wrote a check. Finally Mr. Paulson conceded; he handed the check to “Jackie” for “safekeeping,” and I saw Jack’s shoulders relax.

Since that day, I liked to think I knew something about Jack, something important, something most of Prairie Stone High didn’t know. Everyone saw Jack Paulson, A-list jock. I saw Jack Paulson, a boy desperately trying to hold things together. Somehow, that made him even more appealing.

When Mr. Wilker returned us to our “regularly scheduled reading,” I shoved my copy of
Pride and Prejudice
across the aisle at Jack.

“What’s this?” he asked.

“Take it.”

“But—”

“Like I said, I’ve read it.” I paused. “Plus, I have an extra copy at home.”

What sort of freak has two copies of the same book?
That was the question in Jack’s eyes. He didn’t know it, but I was actually the freak who had
three
copies, or was it four? A hardback, two paperbacks, and one copy in a compilation of all of Jane Austen’s works. Admitting that would be social suicide.

Jack’s expression shifted again. If I was so good at reading, why couldn’t I tell what that look meant? “Thanks,” he said. He tucked the book under his desk and opened his compilation of
The Lord of the Rings
.

And that was that. I turned back to my desk before it hit me. I had nothing to read. Not a thing. I’d planned on spending a little quality time with Mr. Darcy and hadn’t even thought to grab a backup book.

I leaned toward Jack, ready to ask for the book back—just for the hour. But between the time he opened
The Lord of the Rings
and now, he’d switched books. There he was, reading
Pride and Prejudice
. My copy. In his hands. Sa-woon. No way was I interrupting
that
.

A look of surprise lit Mr. Wilker’s face when I approached his desk. He granted passes to the library, sure, but if he thought someone was screwing around (and he had a built-in sensor for that), they were screwed, period.

“Bethany Reynolds needs a library pass?” he said. “Should I check for other signs of the Armageddon?”

A wave of laughter rolled through the classroom. But to tell you the truth, I barely noticed. Instead Todd’s warning rang in my head.

This doesn’t change anything.

We
don’t
criticize the sport we’re cheering for.


We
don’t
socialize with our friends in the stands.


We certainly
don’t
flirt with the participants! Our Prairie Stone athletes need to concentrate.

B
y fifth-period lunch, I knew Todd was definitely wrong about cheerleading. One thing had changed: A purple and gold cheerleading outfit made it pretty much impossible to stay invisible. People noticed. Some did double takes. A few stopped conversations midsentence to stare after me.

But I worried he was right, too. Despite the short skirt, I was still Bethany Reynolds, geek, and the cafeteria was still…the cafeteria. Sure, I’d be there with Moni, Brian, and Todd (assuming he got over himself by then). But other than the gauntlet, no more dangerous territory existed for my kind. It was the reason I’d made
invisible
=
better
my mantra in the first place.

True, in the morning, the cafeteria could be the best place on earth. Its huge bay windows let in a ton of light. The space was warm, with the scent of cinnamon and all-you-can-eat oatmeal. And of course, there was always the sight of Jack Paulson shoveling in two or three bowls.

Something happened to the cafeteria between first bell and lunch, though. The gentle light of morning turned harsh, highlighting every flaw, making the slightest stain (on your shirt, or your reputation) stand out. And today was no different. If anything, it was worse. Moni wasn’t at our normal meet-up spot after fourth period. Now I was all alone, in a cheerleader outfit—and it felt like the first day of freshman year all over again.

Until a few years ago, I’d lived my whole life in tiny nearby Edgerton. I’d gone to school there with the same twelve kids since kindergarten. Then my dad got tenure at Prairie Stone State College, and we moved to the city. No more fifteen-mile drives just to go to the library, grocery shopping, the mall. Yeah, Edgerton was that tiny: think gas station, church, bar/restaurant, as in one of each.

On the first day of high school I walked into a big new school, knowing no one. Or almost no one. I’d known Chantal Simmons from years of dance class (another fifteen-mile drive), and that was something. Sure, I hadn’t talked to her all summer, but that wasn’t abnormal for us. Her family was the sort that vacationed in faraway places like Europe and Mexico, or at least the Mall of America. Mine was more likely to seek out something more “educational” and “authentic”—like Mount Rushmore or even lutefisk-eating contests.

I’d searched desperately for Chantal that first morning. When I finally thought I’d spotted her, I couldn’t be certain it was her. Her hair was lighter, more shimmery. Her body was lighter too. Gone were the thick ankles and slightly pouchy stomach. Even her face looked different. And when I smiled at her and waved, there was something tentative in her response. A case of mistaken identity, I’d thought. That girl wasn’t Chantal.

But then someone called her name, and her response that time wasn’t reluctant at all. She’d spun away from me and greeted the girl with enthusiasm. A tiny crack of doubt opened inside me. But it was the first day. There were schedules to memorize, lockers to open, classrooms to find. Cutting Chantal a little slack wasn’t hard. It was mandatory.

So mandatory that I didn’t think twice about approaching her table in the cafeteria. There was one open chair, right next to Chantal. I walked over, balancing a tray in my hands. “Can I sit here?” I asked.

“Well,” Chantal said. “I guess you could, but—”

Someone snorted.

“But I’m sitting here.” Dina slipped into the empty chair, leaving her own free. She pointed to it. “There’s a spot over there.”

Traci sprang up and dropped onto the open seat. “Oh, look. There’s a space over there.”

Cassidy joined the game; she scooted over too. “Sit here! Sit here!”

The lunch tray trembled in my hands. No way was I chasing a free spot around the table in some demented game of musical chairs. Without another word, I walked away.

I heard a roar of laughter behind me. And like a sore tooth you can’t keep your tongue away from, I couldn’t stop myself from looking back. When I turned, I spotted the tallest head in the freshman class. That cute kid, Jack Paulson. He was laughing too.

For the next few days, whenever I passed Chantal’s lunch table, someone would call out, “Hey, there’s a seat over here.” And again, the laughter that made me wish I could sink into the floor.

By the following Monday, the joke was as stale as the bread in the sandwich bar. No one called out, except a girl named Moni, from my Advanced Algebra class. She waved me over to a table in the far corner. I was hesitant still, but when she nodded her head—and gave me that Moni Lisa smile—I knew I’d found refuge at last. At the geek table, with a couple of boys named Todd and Brian.

Would it feel like that today? What if Todd pulled a Chantal? I could see it now: Todd recruiting anyone, the kids so weird that even
they
didn’t like to sit next to each other, all so I wouldn’t have a seat. As frightening as that was, I couldn’t stand in the doorway forever. I took that first step and crossed the threshold to the cafeteria. The volume dropped as I entered. I swear it did. Not to a complete hush, and no one pointed at me, but it still felt like I was being watched. I caught sight of purple and gold, but it wasn’t Moni. It was Cassidy, the cheerleading captain. She sat with the other seniors on the squad—and Chantal Simmons. When I walked past their table, they scooted their chairs so their backs were to me.

For real? Was that it?
That
I could deal with. It was almost funny.

But after I went through the food line, things didn’t seem so laughable. I still couldn’t see Moni or Brian, and I sure wasn’t counting on Todd. When someone touched my shoulder from behind, the tray teetered in my hands. But before it could fall, Brian grabbed it.

“Come on,” he said. “Everyone’s waiting.”

“Everyone?”

He tugged at my tray, trying to pull me forward, but my Skechers had excellent traction and we went nowhere. “Bethany, come on,” he said. “It’s Moni and…and everyone. Wait till you see.”

I let Brian lead me by the cafeteria tray. What choice did I have? As soon as we reached the table, the reason I hadn’t spotted Moni earlier became clear.

It was like that scene from
Gone with the Wind
, the one with Scarlett O’Hara surrounded by all those men at the picnic. There was Moni, a blond, curly-haired cheerleader version of the perfect Southern belle, enclosed in a circle of adoring geek boys. She turned to one, then another, positively beaming.

“Hey, guys!” Brian said. “Look who I found.” He sounded like he’d just returned from an Amazon quest with some sort of treasure. Three of the boys in front of me scattered, leaving their chairs empty.

“Yo, Bethany!” a boy I knew only as Rad Thad said. “Mine doesn’t tip.” To demonstrate, he ground the chair legs into the linoleum. I picked Thad’s untippable seat, and he did a fist-pumping thing that might have been embarrassing—if I hadn’t been so flattered.

For once no one got into an argument about the latest Dungeons & Dragons campaign. No one mentioned the symbolism in
Naruto
, either. Instead one boy shyly showed me his manga drawings. I compared notes from Independent Reading with a second boy. He whispered how
Pride and Prejudice
was secretly one of his favorite books, then begged me not to mention it. He had his “street cred” to think of. I put my hand over my heart and promised. A third boy asked how my latest Life at Prairie Stone column was going.

Maybe Moni was right. Maybe there was something about donning cheerleading uniforms that transformed us. We were celebrities. Okay, so we were nerd celebrities, but still…

Just as I was thinking I could get used to it, Todd’s shadow fell across the table. He clutched a thick book to his chest and glowered with all the charm of Darth Vader. “Your column is past due,” he said to me. “The rest of you, impromptu debate practice, Little Theater.”

A few kids looked his way but didn’t appear all that enthralled about either debate or practice. When no one snapped to attention, Todd added, “Now.”

Rad Thad jumped up and ran, but toward the soda machine and not out the cafeteria door. When he returned, he handed Moni a fresh Diet Coke.

Todd folded his arms over his chest and cleared his throat. “I said, Little Theater. Now.” This time only Brian glanced at Todd, and he motioned for him to sit.

“If anyone is interested in doing something serious,” Todd declared, “something real, you know where I’ll be.”

“Todd—,” I began. I was about to explain about my Life at Prairie Stone column, but Todd blasted me with a killer look, one that held every ounce of disgust he could muster.

“I said something serious, something
real,
Reynolds.” With that he spun, took a few long strides, and collided with Rick Mangers.

Everyone at Prairie Stone knew Rick, even if they didn’t really
know
him. He was senior class royalty of the highest rank. Todd stammered an apology, but Rick wasn’t listening. Instead he pushed Todd out of the way, sending him careening into a garbage can. The book Todd was carrying toppled inside. Todd blinked, then rooted through garbage while Rick laughed—or did until a group of girls strolled by, then Rick followed. Todd’s book,
The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire: Volumes 1–3
, was streaked with ketchup that looked like blood. He turned and marched out of the cafeteria. Without thinking, I sprang up to go after him.

Brian put a hand on mine. “Don’t,” he said. “He’s so pissed right now, he’ll probably smear that ketchup on you, then go back through the line for mustard.”

I stared after Todd and willed him to turn around. This space, the geek table and its comforting, abiding acceptance, belonged to him—and him to it. There was no skirt short enough to change that.

That night I tucked the pom-poms under my arm and took the school steps two at a time. The wind lifted my long winter coat. Icy air whooshed straight up my legs and made my breath catch in my throat. I turned at the doors, in time to see the brake lights on our ancient Volvo flicker, then Mom was gone. For a minute, I felt empty, despite the pancakes we’d eaten for dinner—something Mom did only for special occasions.

Moni stood alone inside the lobby, pom-poms clutched in one hand. The slap of mats landing on the floor and the clank of bleachers rolling out echoed from the gym.

“Where’s the rest of the squad?” I asked.

“You got me.” From her coat pocket, Moni pulled the cheer schedule. “There’s supposed to be six of us here: Kaleigh, three seniors, and us.”

“So what do we do now?” We looked at each other. Both of us had been counting on the seniors to help break us in.

What the Prairie Stone High wrestling team lacked in student support, it made up for in parental sponsorship. Tons of moms, dads, and grandparents filed in to cheer on the boys.

“Hey, there’s Mrs. Dunne,” Moni said. “My mom knows her.” She dashed off but returned a minute later, looking more confused than before. “Mrs. Dunne says wrestling doesn’t have cheerleaders. She looked at me like I was crazy.”

So much for counting on the seniors. I peeked at Moni’s cheer schedule, although I already knew it by heart.
No cheerleaders?
That didn’t make sense. Dread crept into my stomach, and it was like that dream I always had around final exams. The one where I was late for a test and couldn’t find the classroom. Wrong place. Wrong time. Just plain wrong.

We inched inside the gym. Two young girls grinned up at us. One reached out to ruffle the gold and purple fringe of our pom-poms when Moni and I walked by.

Otherwise, we really could’ve been invisible. Parents rushed by us without a glance. The coach turned his back on us as we approached. The wrestling team huddled in one corner, stealing looks at the two of us. At least that meant we weren’t totally see-through.

A lone boy wearing a Prairie Stone High Athletics sweatshirt over his purple uniform stood and turned in our direction. A second later I saw who it was. Rick Mangers. He walked straight for us. My thoughts went to the cafeteria earlier that day, and my heart rate doubled. This couldn’t be good.

Rick put an arm around each of our shoulders. “Ladies, perhaps I can be of some assistance?”

I waited one beat, and then another. Between the two of us, Moni was always the one to talk to guys first. But tonight her wide-eyed stare and open mouth made her look like she was hypnotized.

Uh-oh. Like I said, not good.

I cleared my throat. “Well, see, we’re just not sure what to do. I mean, we’re new to this cheering thing and…we’ve never been to a wrestling game before. When do the cheerleaders usually get here?”

“They’re called meets, and I’ve been coming to them since my oldest brother was on the team,” he said. “Believe me, no one’s
ever
cheered before.”

“You’re kidding.” I looked to Moni for support, but she continued to stare, her eyes slightly glazed. I pried the schedule from her hands and pushed it toward Rick.

He released me then, but kept his arm around Moni.

Double uh-oh.

“I can tell you this,” he said, scanning the roster. “The rest of the squad won’t show. You might as well go home.”

In theory, I suppose we could have. That seemed to be the unofficial cheering procedure for unpopular sports. Sure, we could call Sheila to ask for help—but ratting out the others on the squad? Probably a bad idea.

“What,” I said, surprised at the words coming from my mouth, “what if we stayed?” After all, no one knew unpopular like me and Moni.

Moni snapped out of her stupor and nodded.