“Okay, Cait.” I hold up my crossed fingers. “Good luck.”
“Thanks, Rayne,” she says, beaming back at me. She seems like a really nice kid. I hope that she gets picked. Me and her. That would be ideal.
“Up next, Cait Midwood.” Mandy already sounds bored.
“Ooh!” Cait squeals, throwing herself at me for a hug. Did I mention I hate hugs? Or any kind of public displays of affection. After all, there’s a three-foot bubble rule for a reason. But I endure it because I know she’s so excited. “Here goes nothing! Wish me luck!”
“Luck!” I wish. And I mean it. Though I don’t know how optimistic I am.
She bounces up from her seat and skips out into the center of the room. I watch as she starts in on a pretty elaborate cheer. Wow. Even I can tell that she’s good. Really good. Almost as if her joints are made of springs, always bouncing from one trick or jump to the next. She ends the cheer with a round-off back-handspring, back-tuck, and then throws her arms up into a V, a huge smile on her face. She knows she’s nailed it.
I’m so excited for her, I break out in applause, then realize no one else is clapping and lower my hands, a bit embarrassed. But whatever. She did an amazing job. Ten thousand times better than the girl before her. They’d be a fool not to accept her on the squad. Then again, they are fools, so really, all bets are off.
“Rayne McDonald.”
Oh great. Here goes nothing.
I try to jump up from my seat as I saw the other girls do and bound across the gymnasium floor. Problem is, I manage to trip on my untied sneaker and fall flat on my face, slamming my knees against the shiny floor. Ugh. A rippling of laughter comes from the stupid peanut gallery.
I try to look as dignified as possible as I pick myself up off the floor and brush the dust off the tight, sexy yoga capris and tank Sunny let me borrow. (So not me, but at least they’re black.) Then I head to my position.
“Hang on a second!” cries Mandy. “Rayne McDonald?”
Eight pairs of eyes stare at me from behind the tables, utter disbelief written on every Kewpie-doll face.
“Uh, yeah?” I ask, feigning complete innocence. “That’s me!”
“Um, yes, we can see that. It’s just… well, why are … you … trying out for cheerleading?” sputters the girl to Mandy’s right.
I clear my throat. I’ve prepared for this very question. “Well, I just felt that lately Oakridge High has become a cesspool of dispirited youth and it would be irresponsible of me not to rise to the challenge of inspiriting our young people. To bring cheer to the uncheerable. Spirit to the spiritless. Joy to the unenjoyable.”
Blank looks all around. Hmm.
I try again. “And I just, like, thought, like, it’d be really cool to be one of you guys?”
Ah, there are the head nods of understanding.
“I’m sorry,” Mandy snorts. “But I really don’t think you’re cheerleader material.”
“I see.” I study her thoughtfully. “Yet, funny, I seem to recall your flyer saying everyone is allowed to try out. I believe this rule is in response to some sort of Big Betty episode back in 2004?”
No one can say I didn’t do my homework. A few years ago, the cheerleaders excluded some three-hundred-pound girl with facial acne from tryouts on the ruling that, well, she was fat and had zits. Turns out, according to the school’s policy and procedures manual, that’s not an acceptable reason to deny someone the opportunity to try out and her mother sued the school. Betty got enough money for plastic surgery and stomach stapling and last I heard she was living in Manhattan, modeling for Calvin Klein.
The cheerleaders murmur to themselves. Obviously it takes eight brains to come to one decision in this crowd. Good thing they have one another. I can’t believe Mr. Teifert thinks these chicks are a threat to the school. I doubt they’d be a threat to a paper bag. I am so wasting my time here.
“Okay, fine,” Mandy says at last. “You can try out. But don’t get your hopes up. I hardly think you have much of a chance.”
“Like, thanks!” I cry, all school spirit. I clap my hands. “You guys are the best!”
Mandy rolls her eyes. “Just go.”
I jump into position, wishing I were a real vampire with powers. Preferably the power to flip and kick. Then this would be uber-easy.
Oh well. Here goes nothing.
“Wolves, let’s hear you yell go-GO
Wolves, let’s hear you yell fight-FIGHT
Wolves, let’s hear you yell win-WIN
Wolves, all together yell go fight win-GO FIGHT WIN GO FIGHT WIN!”
Ugh. I’m already out of breath and that’s just the first stanza. How do these girls last a whole football game doing this crap? Forget part two. I’m ending this while the ending’s good.
I launch into a straddle jump—the kind where you’re supposed to touch your toes with your hands. Unfortunately for me, I’m sort of balance challenged and instead I end up flinging myself backward and landing with a thud on the gymnasium floor.
“Goddamn it!” I cry, rubbing my bottom. If I wasn’t a vampire, I surely would have just broken my butt. Even as a vampire I’m likely to end up with a nasty bruise.
“Um, thank you, Rayne, that was … interesting,” Mandy says. “We’ll let you know.”
I flash her a fake smile and then prance over to the bench. Cait greets me and gives me a comforting squeeze. I can tell she thinks I totally blew my chance.
“Are you coming?” she asks, hopping to her feet and gesturing to the locker room. “I think we’re done.”
“You go on,” I tell her. “I’m going to watch the rest of the girls.”
“Okay,” she says. “I hope you make the squad!”
“You, too,” I say, smiling up at her, suddenly realizing I just may have the power to make her dreams come true as well. Power I plan to use.
Cait waves good-bye and walks away. I turn back to the tryouts. Some perfect blonde is doing some kind of bendy Cirque du Soleil-type movement. It hurts just to watch. Nice.
Anyway, after what seems an eternity, all the wannabes finish their tryouts. The cheerleaders dismiss them with haughty good-byes and insincere good lucks and begin exiting the gym. Mandy is the last to leave, gathering up all the score sheets and stuffing them in a manila envelope. Perfect.
I approach the table. “Hey, Mandy,” I say casually.
She looks up, disdain and no friendly recognition on her face. I can’t believe she and I were once BFFs. “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you the results.” She sniffs. “You’ll have to wait until Monday like everyone else. Though I guess I could give you a hint. You ever hear the expression ‘a cold day in hell?’ “
“Actually, that’s not it,” I say sweetly, ignoring her jab. “I—well, I have this one other cheer I was working on. Sort of a custom-made, personalized thing. I was wondering if I could run it by you.”
She frowns. “Look, you had your official audition, as per our rules. I’m not going to give you any bonus points for this.”
“Oh, I don’t want bonus points,” I say, the picture of innocence. “I just want to see what you think of my cheer.”
She sighs deeply, as if the weight of the world has just landed on her narrow, bony shoulders. “Fine, Rayne. Go ahead.”
“Great!” I clap my hands. “You won’t be sorry!”
I run to the center of the room and get into position.
“Ready! Go!” I cry.
“We’ve .. . got it made
We’re gonna win this race
I have video of you with braces and a bad perm from
seventh grade—
That I’m gonna post on MySpace!”
Okay, so the poetic stanzas don’t exactly match up, but from the look on Mandy’s face I think she gets my message.
“You’ve got a lot of baby fat
You’ve got zits on your face
Let me be a cheerleader . . . and, um, Cait, too. ‘Cause she’s all that!
And th
e video I will erase!”
“Rayne! Get the hell out of here!” Mandy hisses, her face pale and her eyes wide. Is the big, bad cheerleader actually trembling in fear? Ooh, you’ve got to love twenty-first-century blackmail. All you need is a camera phone and a laptop with wireless Internet to destroy their lives.
“Thanks, Mandy.” I grin. “I really hope I make the squad. Goooo, Wolves!” I cry for good measure, before I skip off to the locker room, feeling pretty damn good about myself. I can feel her evil stare at my back the whole way.
Who knew becoming a cheerleader would be this much fun?
6
When I walk into school on Monday, the hallway is crowded with bouncy girls all scrambling to get a better glimpse at a certain piece of pink paper stuck up on the main office wall. Their desperation would make a less cynical girl imagine that the meaning of life itself is inscribed on that precious page. But I know better.
“Did I make it? Did I make it?” squeals one high-pitched voice amidst the mob.
Yep. Cheerleading picks.
I stand at the edge of the crowd, adopting a completely unconcerned expression as I patiently wait my turn. After all, I can’t let anyone think I’m anxious to join the pod people. They’d never understand that, for me, making the squad is a matter of life or death, not some desperate stab at popularity. Well, technically it’s a matter of undeath or death, seeing as I already abandoned the whole mortal coil thing when I became a vampire, but you know what I mean.
I squint, trying to make out the flowing, cursive handwriting from the back of the line. Did my plan work? Did my former friend Mandy sacrifice her standards to save her rep? Did the other lemmings go along with her recommendations without knowing why?
Did I, the worst cheerleading contestant in the entire country, actually make the Oakridge High squad?
Cait suddenly materializes in front of me, the tiny pixie having somehow managed to worm her way to the front of the mob and back again without suffering permanent bodily injury at the hands of the rah-rah wannabes.
Her eyes are bright and shiny and her face alive with excitement. “We made it!” she cries, bouncing up and down like she’s on an invisible Pogo stick. “Oh, Rayne! We’re cheerleaders!”
I smile and accept the hug she throws my way. She really loves the whole touchy-feely stuff. Still, her enthusiasm and pure, unadulterated happiness warms me. I’m so glad I included her in my blackmail cheer. “Wow, that’s great,” I exclaim, feigning surprise and delight. “How lucky for us!”
“I know!” Cait says, releasing me from the hug. “I never thought I’d make it. I mean, I’ve been practicing forever. But my mom …” She stops bouncing for a moment, a sheen of embarrassment coloring her cheeks. “Well, she wanted me to dye my hair and start sucking up to the popular kids. I tried to tell her that being a cheerleader requires athletic talent, not social standing, but she refused to believe me.” The mousy girl pauses, a hurt look washing over her face. Then she shakes her head and flashes me a bright smile. “But this will show her! I did it all on my own. I made the squad ‘cause I’m good, not because of who I’m friends with.”
“That’s great!” I say, guilt gnawing at my stomach. Am I no better than her mom? Discounting her because of her shabby clothes and hairstyle? Believing there was no way she’d make it unless I “helped?” Maybe if I’d just minded my own business …
I shake my head. It doesn’t matter. Bottom line: She’s made the squad and she deserves to be there, whether these morons needed help recognizing it or not. She’s talented and enthusiastic and will be a great asset to the team.
Unlike, let’s say, for example, me.
Because, I suddenly realize, making the squad is only step number one. Now I actually have to perform. Cheer and dance and not topple off the tops of pyramids.
This should be interesting.
+++
So after school, instead of heading home to log in and edit my latest YouTube film or play video games with Spider, I instead trudge my way to the Oakridge High gymnasium. Ugh. I can’t believe some people do this kind of thing willingly— stay at school longer than they’re required to by Massachusetts law. I mean, sure, I suppose some of them just want to come off as “well-rounded” on their college apps, which I guess I understand. But evidently there’s a certain contingency that joins clubs and teams and stuff because they actually think it’s (shudder!) fun.
Once in the locker room, I change into the gym outfit Sunny loaned me. Black sports bra, blue tank top, and some dumb white shorts with SPIRIT written in big letters across the seat. I don’t understand that fad at all. I mean, who in their right mind wants to willingly draw attention to their butt?
“Let’s go, girls!” Mandy commands, clapping her hands together. She looks like a skinny bottle of Pepto-Bismol in her pink Juicy sweat suit, size zero. Her long blond hair has been swept up in a neat ponytail and her makeup is heavy and flawless. Very JLO MTV Video Music Awards. “Time’s a-wasting.”
The other girls, in various states of undress, groan and hasten to slip on shorts and sneakers. I’m relieved to see most of them are just wearing normal raggedy gym clothes and aren’t dolled up like our fearless leader. I’m not sure I could stomach being the sole ugly duckling in a chorus line of swans.
We head out into the gym and form two lines. I, unfortunately, am placed in the front row. So much for keeping a low profile. Mandy stands in front of us, like an aerobics instructor, and starts calling out the cheers.
I try to follow her movements without much luck. Damn it, I knew I should have watched that DVD they gave me to take home on Friday. You know, the one with the detailed cheering moves I was supposed to learn before the start of practice? I’d meant to watch it, of course, but then that night Spider had begged me to play video games with her for just “five minutes.” Five hours later, when I finally logged off, it seemed too late to start bouncing up and down, waking the entire household with spirited yells of “Go Team!” And then Saturday was Get Your Blood On night at Club Fang. Like ladies’ night, but for the undead—no cover for vamps! It seemed unwise to miss out on such a money-saving dancing opportunity. And then last night, well, last night I, um, was busy. Fine, okay, I just sat around and did nothing last night. In hindsight, I probably should have popped open the DVD instead of that pint of Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food. (Especially since I threw it up a half hour later. Sometimes I hate being undead.)
I guess I just figured that it wouldn’t be all that bad to just show up and wing it. After all, these mentally challenged Airhead Barbies could do it—how hard could it be?
Very hard, turns out. Very, very hard.
I listen to the commands, watch the others, and try to mimic their movements. But for some unknown reason, I keep getting it all wrong. They turn left, I invariably turn right. They jump forward as I’m jumping back. They clap down when I’m clapping up. I’m offbeat, uncoordinated, and clumsy.
For those of you who have never done it, I’ll tell you right here and now: Cheerleading is not as easy as it looks.
Unless, of course, you’re Cait. She looks like she was born with a megaphone in her hand. As if she’s been on the squad her whole life. She’s got all the right moves and is completely in sync with the others. So unfair.
“How do you know this stuff?” I hiss, after accidentally colliding with her.
She grins, obviously in her element. “My mom taught me a lot of it when I was a kid,” she explains. “And I go to all the football games. I guess I’ve just kind of picked it up. Plus, you know, the DVD they gave us. I’ve probably watched it fifty times since Friday.”
Oh. Yeah, that’ll do it, I guess.
“Rayne, no! You’re doing it all wrong!” Mandy screams, storming over to my spot in line. “Go left. No, no! Your other left. And put your hands up like this.” She grabs my arm and yanks it above my head. “And your leg should be out like this.” She kicks the inside of my calf to widen my stance. Problem is, the sudden move
ment knocks me completely off balance and I stumble forward, instinctively grabbing onto her to break my fall. A moment later we’re both tumbling to the ground.
“Damn it, Rayne!”
I roll off of her, red-faced. “Sorry,” I mutter.
This sucks. Totally sucks. I can’t believe Teifert is making me do this. There has to be some Slayer Inc. rule banning the forced humiliation of its employees, no? If not, there should be. If ever there was cruel and unusual punishment, this would be it.
The other cheerleaders whisper amongst themselves, clearly annoyed that I’m wasting valuable practice time. I told Teifert this was a bad idea. I mean, sure, the blackmail worked like a charm to get me on the squad, but I’m never going to get them to like me enough to spill their growly little secrets in the locker room.
I pick myself up off the ground, trying to salvage what pride I have left. Nothing I can do about it now except try harder. Show them they were wrong about me. Hell, if Airhead Barbies can do this cheering thing, so can Rayne McDonald. Right?
“Nancy, take Rayne over to the other end of the gym and show her some moves,” Mandy orders, scrambling to her feet and brushing invisible dirt off her perfect sweat suit. She’s probably furious that she’s stuck with me for the season and pissed off she can’t tell her squad why.
“What good’s that going to do?” Nancy, the petite blonde in the back row, whines. “I mean, let’s face it. She sucks. I don’t get why you wanted her on the squad in the first place, Mandy. There were, like, fifteen other girls better than her.”
Murmurs of agreement run through the squad. Mandy looks like she’s been force-fed a cockroach. She opens her mouth to speak. Is she actually going to tell them what I did?
“Nancy, give her a break!” I whirl around, in shock. Holy crap. It’s Shantel. Shantel’s actually speaking up in my defense. “It’s her first day.”
“I don’t give a damn if it’s her first minute,” Nancy says. “She sucks. Totally not cheerleader material.”