Confessions of a Wannabe Cheerleader Read online

  “Sorry, E, I’ll catch up on SuperBoy tonight. Hey, have you given any more thought to what we discussed? You know, turning SuperBoy into an official comic-like, a printed one?”

  “No comment.”

  “E!” I said, giving him a little attitude.

  “Let’s just say I’m working on it.”

  “You’re weird. Fine, whatever.”

  We reached my English class, and Evan’s class was only two doors down, so he decided to hang for a bit longer and listen to some music he’d downloaded to his iPod. I saw the swish of a pleated skirt go by and looked up to see Clementine, trailed by two of the hottest guys in the school. She left this scent of lavender and jasmine behind her, and I actually saw Evan sniff the air and then look around. His eyes zoomed in on Clementine. I guess what they say about wearing a good scent is true. It really does attract men. (Not that Evan’s a man, really, but you know what I mean.)

  As she talked to the two guys, she sort of looked at me at one point, but only for a second. It’s not like I expected her to jump out and give me a bear hug. (Ha-ha, get it?) Yeah, right. Imagine, a Titan being like, “Heeeeey, Maddy, I just love that shade of lip gloss you’re wearing. Can I borrow some? Want to come over here and meet these cute guys?” I’m sure if I were a Titan, I’d be standing next to Clementine. I’d be batting my eyelashes right along with her and talking about what parties we would be going to this Friday (instead of my lame dinner with my dad). We’d probably have an intense practice later and then all go over to Katie’s house-no, to Hilary’s, because I heard she has this insanely huge bedroom with a walk—in closet. We’d be so exhausted from cheering our butts off all week, but then we’d make, like, amazing tacos or . . . No! We’d order in and talk about all the fun we’d have that night at the party we’d been invited to. . . .

  “Um, Maddy?” Evan asked, interrupting my reverie.

  “Huh?”

  “Why are you staring longingly at Clementine Prescott?” Evan asked me.

  “Me? What?” I asked incredulously. “I wasn’t.”

  “Liar.”

  “Fine. I guess a part of me just wishes that our two teams weren’t so separate, you know? Why does it have to be the Grizzles on one side and the Titans on the other? Don’t we cheer for the same school?” It wasn’t exactly what I’d been thinking, but as I was saying it, I realized it is something that’s been bugging me lately. Or maybe I just want more reasons to be near the Titans, that’s all.

  Evan started to get his things together to head toward class. “It’s because they’re the Titans and they’re ‘untouchable.’ Right?” Evan asked me, making quote marks around “untouchable.”

  I rolled my eyes and agreed with him just because I didn’t feel like arguing. “Yeah, totally.”

  But I know it isn’t true. I think people see how serious and devoted the Titans are to their team and sport and think that somehow that makes them untouchable. What people don’t understand is that being on a cheerleading squad that’s at such a competitive level is like being in a tight—knit family: Everyone sticks together and, well, newcomers have to prove themselves a little. But I have a feeling that once I show them what I’m made of, I can be part of that family too.

  It’s just taking me a little longer to get there than I imagined.

  At practice today, Ms. Burger handed out our team schedule with the list of “games” that we will be spreading our cheer to.

  She had it all typed up and printed out on her Life Studies stationery, so at the top of our Grizzly Bears games schedule were Ms. Burger’s signature flower, which looked like something from a package of feminine—care products, and the words “Life Studies.” Very official.

  “I am pleased to formally announce that the cheer season for the Grizzly Bears is about to begin,” said Ms. Burger, smiling broadly.

  I don’t know why a part of me was secretly hoping there’d be a soccer game (scratch that—I know why, and the answer starts with a B) or a football game or something. We all know that the Grizzlies are notorious for cheering on nerd—type games. And yet I was still surprised and bummed when the list Ms. Burger handed us read as follows (drumroll, please):

  1) Math league

  2) Tennis

  3) Chem league

  4) Chess club

  5) Bowling

  Will someone PLEASE hand me a shovel so I can bury myself in a deep hole and never come out? Thanks. Can you believe this?!? I mean, I understand that we are a little bit cheer challenged (ok, fine, A LOT), but c’mon. Chess? Chess is a SILENT game! What are we supposed to do to cheer on chess!?! Mime?

  After Ms. Burger’s announcement and some stretches to get us warmed up, Katarina and I tried to lead the team in some tumbling drills. I decided we’d start with some easy ones-or, at least, ones that WE thought were easy. Apparently, no one except Katarina and I seemed to know the meaning of “straight line.” We had people rolling every which way all over the field. I think kindergartners could have done better.

  “You have to rolling in street,” Katarina said disapprovingly as she watched Ian and Matt forward roll directly into each other.

  They both sat on the grass looking up at her, scratching their heads.

  “Huh?” they asked simultaneously.

  “Street!” she said, throwing her skinny arms straight up in the air to demonstrate. “Roll in street!”

  I was only half—listening because I was working with a mess of my own: Jared and Tabitha Sue.

  Next thing I knew, Ian and Matt were jogging toward Hunt’s Lane, right on the outskirts of the field.

  Katarina looked like smoke was about to come out of her ears. Her usually ghost white complexion was beet red.

  “Where are you guys going?” shouted Ms. Burger from her usual perch in the bleachers.

  “Katarina told us to roll in the street,” Matt shouted back.

  “I told zem, street. Zey don’t listen,” she said, closing her eyes and shaking her head in frustration.

  I took a deep, cleansing breath.

  “You guys, come back here,” I shouted. “She was telling you to roll straight. It’s her pronunciation. Work with us a little, please?” I pleaded.

  Well, this just tickled them silly, and for the rest of practice Ian and Matt were joking about doing cartwheels in the street, doing handstands in the street, sleeping in the street—you get the picture.

  By the time the sun was going down, I was pretty wiped from (a) babysitting my teammates and (b) teaching the ABCs of cheerleading to almost everyone on my team. I looked across the field at the Titans. They were practicing formations and extended stunts. Two of the Titan guys lifted one of the girls high up in the air into a bow-and-arrow pose. Their teammates clapped as she dismounted.

  After everyone else went home, I practiced a heel stretch and thought about the upcoming week. The Grizzlies’ first game is about a week away. It’s going to be my job to figure out a routine that is simple enough for a group that collectively can’t even do cartwheels. But it will still have to be good enough that it won’t get back to the Titans that we aren’t prepared for our first game. Man, this is gonna be tough.

  At least by now they must have noticed me on the field teaching my teammates everything I know and practicing on my own. That must count for something! And when Katie, Hilary, and Clementine one day finally see that I’m the standout member of my team, I’ll be plucked out of the Grizzlies in no time.

  Right?

  On the drive home, I told Mom about our superexciting cheering schedule. She tried to give me an encouraging smile, but finally she admitted, “You’re right, Madington. You can do much better than this.”

  I leaned back in my seat and put my hands over my forehead. “All I can think is, like, math league? I can’t even imagine what kind of cheer we’d do for that. And who is even going to be watching?”

  Mom pursed her lips in thought. “I guess that’s what you signed up for, though. The Grizzlies have always cheered for
those kinds of teams. But the point is, you’re not going to be a Grizzly forever, right?”

  I fiddled with the knob on the radio. It kind of annoyed me a little that she just came right out and said the obvious: that the Grizzlies are known to cheer for the loser groups at school.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “But until then, it’s just kind of humiliating.”

  After we got me home, I figured a hot bath and catching up on SuperBoy would help my mood. There’s nothing like a lavender vanilla bubble bath à la Bath & Body Works to soothe those achin’ cheer bones. (When I started gymnastics, Mom introduced me to the magic of bubble baths, and boy do those do wonders for sore muscles.) I briefly thought about taking my computer into the tub so I could enjoy two of my favorite pastimes at once. But then the thought of death by electrocution hit me, and I nixed the idea.

  “Mads?” I could hear Mom’s voice muffled through the bathroom door. “You gonna eat dinner with me?”

  “Uh-huh, but can I have, like, ten more minutes of tub time?”

  “Ok! Just wanted to know if I should set the table for two. And also, I wanted to tell you some ideas I had for your math league cheers.”

  “Great. Can’t wait.”

  Ugh. Maybe I shouldn’t tell her every single thought in my head about the Grizzlies. Now she is going to be all up in my grill about my problems. And of course dinner will now be all about cheer. Just when I want a tiny break from it.

  I have a lot of work to do. Homework. Uniforms to design. Routines to create. A team to whip into shape. Jeez, I wish I never had to get out of the tub. . . .

  It’s always the nights that seem harmless that end up being the most disastrous. Mom and I were sitting on our oversize couch—the same one we’ve had since I was, like, a baby. I remember I used to build houses out of the big pillow cushions when I was in first grade, and then Lanes and I would pretend we were Godzilla and Bigfoot and take turns toppling them. Or sometimes we’d just use them as really good hiding places from the world.

  Tonight, Mom and I were using the couch for chilling purposes before Dad picked me up for the big dinner with him and Beth. Well, actually, Mom was Googling math cheers for our first “game” on Tuesday. I’d been scribbling ideas for the past hour but couldn’t think of anything remotely clever.

  I’m not quite sure why I became de facto cheer writer for our team, as well as de facto captain. But it happened like this. At practice the other day, Ms. Burger asked which of us would be writing our cheers. Jared and I raised our hands. Then, almost immediately, everyone on the team pointed at me. I felt bad about not giving anyone else a chance. But that only lasted for, like, a minute, because I realized that any cheer Jared writes will include an homage to Kristin Chenoweth in Wicked, or something like that.

  “Hey, Mom?” I asked, glancing from the clock on the kitchen wall to my wristwatch.

  “Yes, sweetie?” asked Mom, typing away.

  “Do you know this clock is fifteen minutes fast?”

  She tilted down the laptop screen and gave me a weary smile.

  “Yep. Been meaning to change it, but you know. Life gets in the way,” she singsonged.

  I raised my eyebrows. (What is it that Mom does all day long besides get involved with my cheer life?) I absolutely hate having to wait any longer than necessary for Dad.

  “Ooh, hon, listen to this. I think we have a winner.” Mom beamed. She tilted the laptop toward me so I could see the screen.

  Suddenly, synthesized piano music began playing from her laptop, and a man’s voice started singing a folksy tune:

  “Cosine, secant, tangent, sine,

  Oh, geometry, you’re so fine.

  You’re a trigonometric angle

  And I hope someday you’ll be mine.”

  Mom was actually grooving to this as it was playing, and I hoped she was joking, because otherwise I was ready to be like, “Ok, peace,” and run screaming with open arms to Dad’s car. I know it’s been awhile since Mom’s cheered and all, but seriously, that? If we dare do something like this at a Port Angeles School math competition, we’ll be Port Angeles roadkill.

  “You’re not serious, right? Please tell me you’re not serious?”

  “Mads, c’mon. Lighten up! Of course I’m not!”

  T.G. I was so relieved. Then I was frustrated.

  “Ugh!” I threw my head back. “All these math cheers sound so dorky!”

  “You know what this reminds me of?” Mom asked.

  Usually, Mom’s trips down memory lane make me feel good. But tonight, this one gave me a weird feeling in my throat. Like I wanted to just tell her to stop. I couldn’t figure out why exactly. Maybe it’s because I know that when Mom was a cheerleader, she would never have been caught dead at a math league tournament. But I pretended to be a good sport and listened patiently to her story anyway. This whole dinner with Dad’s new girlfriend must be pretty rough on her. I figured I owe her one.

  Mom closed the laptop and rested it on top of a teetering pile of newspapers and magazines on the coffee table. “We once had to cheer at this nursing home, where all the residents were participating in arts and crafts and sports, if you could call them that.” Mom smiled. “You know, we did it as our cheer charity. And it was practically impossible to come up with just the right cheer and the right stunts for the day—especially since we didn’t want to show off too much in front of the elderly.” She laughed. “So we decided to do a whole cheer sitting down and stamping our feet, and we worked in a way for the nursing home folks to join in too!” She looked off into the distance at the spot above my head, obviously daydreaming about some memory I couldn’t see. Nor did I want to. It was the stupidest story ever.

  I still don’t see how her story compared with mine at all. What her team had done was for CHARITY—as in, a special occasion. Our math league cheer—that is an everyday kind of thing for the Grizzlies. And the people on my team can’t do stunts even if they want to. In fact, the old people’s sports are probably more advanced. We’re the B-team. And Mom used to be a Titan. It’s not like I’m following in her footsteps. My cheer existence is all about rooting for spectacle—wearing nerds, not cute guys in helmets. (Ok, so, the Titans have the occasional old lady thrown in there too.)

  I was about to say something to Mom, but I held back.

  Dad finally arrived, fifteen minutes late. From what I could see of Beth, she didn’t look at all how I pictured her. She actually was more the businesswoman type: suit, high heels, expensive—looking bag. Her hair looked perfectly blown out, as if she’d just gone to a salon. And her perfume nearly gagged me to death on the ride to the restaurant.

  “Honey, you ok back there?” Dad asked me. “You’re so quiet.”

  No, I was not OK. I was doing my best to conserve air. And he hangs out around this woman VOLUNTARILY?

  We went to this restaurant called Le French Frog, which is one of the most expensive (aka snotty) restaurants in our town. It’s known for its bad service, high prices, and really strange food. As soon as you walk in, practically every table stops what they are doing to give you a once-over. I’d never been there before, but Evan had gone once with his parents for an anniversary dinner and told me all about it. Or, rather, warned me.

  Luckily, I’d had a feeling we were going to go somewhere fancy shmancy, because ever since Dad started dating again, fine dining has been his new thing. It’s kind of funny, because when I was little, fine dining meant Panda Palace on Sunday nights, or ordering in from Domino’s. Which was fine with me, but whatever. Must be an old—person thing. I wore a supercute scoop—back dress with a raffia bow around the waist that I ordered online, and it just came in the mail yesterday (score!). Even better, the bow matched the bow on my shoes! So, luckily, when the waitstaff, busboys, and patrons were appraising my outfit, I felt confident that at least I wasn’t going to be asked to leave for not being dressed properly.

  Of course, the maitre d’ took an extra—long time to find our name on the reservat
ions list. Keep in mind, there were about fifteen tables there, and only three of them were occupied.

  “Ah, yes,” he said, feigning shock when he got to our name. Then he smiled. “Right this way. We have a special table in the corner just for you.” Ha! Special. Yeah, sure buddy. You totally picked it out for us.

  I think I detected some Brooklyn in his accent, which he was desperately trying to hide. (The funny thing I discovered about Le French Frog is that no one who works there is actually French.)

  The three of us sat down and looked awkwardly at one another until Dad broke the ice.

  “So, Beth,” he said, picking up her hand. “Why don’t you tell Madison a little about yourself? I really want the two of you to get to know each other.”

  Beth seemed a little horrified at the prospect of getting to know me, because she actually backed away a little when he said this. Really.

  I quickly learned that Beth is one of those adults who cringe when they’re near kids. It’s like she thinks she might get pimples again if she gets too close. She has this insane ability to smile and frown at the same time. In that beginning conversation, I found out riveting tidbits of information:

  1) She works at a bank, doing some kind of complicated job that I pretended to understand but that sounded really boring when she described it.

  2) She is from St. Louis, Missouri. Her parents currently live in a “community” in Florida. Her dad’s hip isn’t in good shape.

  3) She likes her bread warmed. When the bread came to the table, she asked the busboy to take it back “por favor.” I saw Dad blush slightly, but he didn’t say anything.

  4) Supposedly she speaks French.

  The waiter came by to take our order. I didn’t really know what much of the menu meant, but Dad insisted that Beth was a “Francophile” and that we should just let her order for all of us.