Revenge of the Cheerleaders

by Janette Rallison

  See, things always work out somehow.

  "Hey."

  I'd been so busy brooding I hadn't noticed anyone approaching. Now I looked up and saw a guy, and not just any guy—the Clark Kent guy.

  Chapter 9

  He wore faded jeans and a sweatshirt, but somehow managed to look even better than he had at Rick's party.

  I blinked in surprise and struggled to find my voice. "Oh, hi."

  He sat down in the chair next to me and smiled but his eyes had an edge to them. "You know, when some girls run out on a guy at a dance, they at least leave a glass slipper behind to help him out. You disappeared without so much as telling me your shoe size."

  I laughed, and blushed, and felt happy despite the accusation in his voice. He had the most gorgeously familiar eyes, and he had cared that I left the dance. "Sorry about that," I said. "You see, there was this thing . . ."

  He nodded with his eyebrows raised. "This thing? Are you sure you don't just make a habit of fleeing from dances?"

  "No, you see . . ." But I didn't want to explain any of it. How did I go about telling a stranger that Rick and his deadbeat band hated me and had written a whole CD of awful songs in my honor? "It's a long story," I said.

  "I see." More nodding. "Does it involve a carriage that turned into a pumpkin at midnight?"

  "No." It did involve a wicked sister, but I wouldn't go into that either.

  "Then, can you tell me your name?"

  I hesitated, wondering if he had listened to, or remembered the song Rick had been singing when I left. I hoped not. "It's Chelsea."

  "Chelsea?" he repeated, perhaps because I'd been hesitant to answer.

  I was about to ask him what his name was, when Molly and Polly walked up. Well, Molly walked up, Polly sort of shuffled over and bumped into the table. Then she put one hand down on the top to stop it from wobbling.

  Right on cue Molly said, "Hey Juliet, are you ready to go to English? We'd better hurry or we'll be late."

  "Juliet?" The guy asked.

  "Oh, my name isn't really Juliet." I looked back and forth between Molly and Polly. "You don't have to call me that. I know this guy. He's . . ." and that's when I realized I still didn't know. "Urn, what's your name?" I asked him.

  He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. "Romeo Montague."

  Polly waved her hand nervously in my direction. "Come on, Juliet. We've got to leave for English. Remember—Professor Dotti and our eyebrows?"

  Molly just shook her head at me, tsking under her breath. "You're pitiful. You didn't even last two minutes."

  I turned back to Romeo/whoever he was. "This is all just a big misunderstanding. You see, I came here to try to pick up guys—well, no, wait, that doesn't sound right. You see, actually I wasn't really trying to pick up guys, which is why I gave out a fake name, only I didn't give you a fake name because I really am Chelsea."

  He nodded, his arms still folded. I could tell by his expression that he thought I was insane. Which is when I knew there was no point trying to explain because I couldn't talk my way out of this situation and come out looking like a normal person. I stood up and pushed away from my chair. "Urn, I'd better get going or I'll be late for English. See you around."

  "Yeah, see you, Juliet."

  We were able to get Molly and Polly an appointment in the salon. Dotti cut their hair shoulder length, adding layers and highlights. Then she did the eyebrow waxes. And yes, Molly shrieked during the process. Polly did one eyebrow and tried to chicken out and not do the other. We had to convince her that she couldn't walk around with uneven eyebrows.

  Then we went shopping, and I found them some nice shirts that didn't cost a whole lot—which was a feat of willpower, considering I just wanted to sulk the entire time.

  I couldn't believe I had met the guy again. He had looked even better than I remembered, and now he thought I was crazy. How could I fix that?

  Samantha kept gushing about how wonderful the twins looked, and even they seemed happy with the end results, eyebrows and all. I could barely manage to get out a few compliments though. My thoughts kept returning to the guy.

  I knew where he worked. If I went to the Hilltop, say on a daily basis, sooner or later he'd have to be my waiter, right? And once he was my waiter I could . . . well, I wasn't sure what I could do. Maybe give him a certified doctor's note swearing to my sanity along with a really big tip.

  I was as pitiful as Molly had said. I'd spoken about three sentences to him and was willing to spend my entire college fund hanging out at a restaurant. And all this for a guy who most likely wouldn't take another look at me once he learned I was only a senior in high school.

  When Samantha dropped me off at my house, I paused before shutting the car door and asked her, "So . . . do you want to go out to dinner at the Hilltop tomorrow night?"

  Molly and Polly made quite the entrance when they walked into school in the morning. A lot of girls told them how nice they looked. The guys were silent on the matter, but even this was a good thing. No one called them Roly and Poly. I did hear the term Holy and Moly floating around, but I figured that was a compliment.

  Polly smiled a lot, and told me her parents agreed to buy her contacts. Molly pointedly told me there was no way she was wearing contacts and seemed suspicious about the attention she received. But despite all of my coaching, when I saw them in the hallways between classes, both girls still shuffled their feet and kept their eyes downcast. "Watch your posture," I'd whisper to them as we passed. "You're confident, remember?"

  When that didn't produce results, I took Mr. Metzerol's methods to heart and threatened to smack them in the back if they didn't straighten up. Instead of listening to me, I think they just avoided me in the halls.

  At lunchtime Mr. Metzerol complimented me on their appearance though. "You're a miracle worker," he said. Of course, that was the last nice thing I heard him say. I sang my song for him again, and judging from his dour facial expression I hadn't improved since yesterday.

  I got another lecture on using my diaphragm. He also told me my notes were breathy and in my throat as opposed to in my forehead, where I should be feeling them. Really. He told me that. I was supposed to feel the notes in my forehead. Which is why artistic people are so annoying, because they say these sorts of things and expect the rest of us to know what they're talking about.

  Still I thanked him, promised to do my scales, my exercises, and to try and produce sound emanating from the region of my eyebrows.

  After school we had cheerleading practice. Or at least we were supposed to—what we really did was practice our song. We had to do some sort of cheer routine for the halftime of the next game, but instead of coming up with a new routine, we decided to just modify our "Shoop Shoop" song and dance. Rachel, Aubrie, and Samantha would do the backup part wearing football uniforms, and I'd change the words of the song so they described a winning football team.

  Easy enough and we wouldn't have to learn new dance moves.

  After rehearsal I had just enough time to get home, do my homework, my chores—and all right, I admit it—primp nervously in front of a mirror before I drove to the Hilltop.

  Samantha and Logan were meeting me there. Samantha because she'd been the one standing within three feet of me when I rashly decided to track down 'the guy,' and Logan because they'd barely spent any time together recently. Samantha used to work at the bookstore with Logan but had quit when school started up so she could spend more time on her studies. And she did study more—well, when she wasn't moping around because she didn't see Logan at work anymore. Anyway, Samantha insisted Logan come too because the Hilltop was "their restaurant." They went there on their first date.

  I asked Aubrie and Rachel if they could come too, but they already had study plans with some guys from the team—something that Rachel sighed repeatedly about. "Can't you go to the Hilltop another day?" she asked. "Samantha already got to watch you make a fool of yourself this week."

  Rachel has s
o much faith in me.

  Anyway, it was just Samantha, Logan, and me. For once I was glad they were so engrossed in each other, because that way Logan didn't harass me about the pathetic depths my love life had reached. Although as we walked into the restaurant he did say, "Have you tried the guys at Taco Time? I bet they'd be cheaper to stalk."

  I ignored him and we walked up to the hostess. Samantha and I had this part of the night perfectly planned.

  "Table for three?" the hostess asked. She didn't look much older than us, definitely a college girl.

  "Yes," Samantha said, "and if it's possible we'd like the same waiter we had last time."

  "What's his name?" the hostess asked.

  Samantha snapped her fingers and put on a look of consternation as though the name had escaped her. She turned to me. "What was his name?"

  I shook my head. "I've forgotten, but he had brown hair, blue eyes. He was tall . . ."

  The hostess considered this. "Was he an older guy with glasses?"

  "No. He was young . . . and he had a nice smile . . . " I hoped the hostess would produce a name but instead she shook her head like she too was stumped. "Donald and David are both blond. Randy has red hair. John and Cleave have brown hair but brown eyes . . . Are you sure it was this restaurant?"

  It had been this restaurant, but either he wasn't a waiter here or the hostess had forgotten him. And since she was a female and he was a hot guy I doubted she would forget him. So who was he? My hopes fell. "Maybe not," I said, and then I let her lead us to a table.

  Dinner consisted of me glancing around the restaurant half a dozen times just to make sure I hadn't somehow overlooked the guy, and me feigning interest in the salt and pepper shakers so I didn't feel like a third wheel in Logan and Samantha's conversation.

  Maybe he worked here as a busboy or a chef. Only there wasn't a way for me to casually ask about him now that I'd told the hostess he was a waiter.

  Besides, Rachel was right. The whole thing was a stupid idea. It wouldn't have worked anyway.

  I ate slowly, mostly because I had no appetite. Samantha and Logan finished way before I did and then had to sit there and watch me pick at my food. "You don't have to wait for me," I told them. "If you need to go, I understand."

  "We can wait," Samantha said. "It's no problem."

  "Are you done with your calculus homework yet?" Logan asked her. Logan is Samantha's self-appointed tutor ever since last year when she bombed the SATs.

  "Not really," she said and looked at me to see whether I wanted her to stay or not.

  "You might as well go," I said. "We came in separate cars anyway."

  The waitress brought our checks, and Logan took care of their bill.

  "Sorry Romeo didn't show up," Samantha whispered to me.

  Logan leaned closer to me and said, "Don't feel bad. It wouldn't have worked out—I've read the story and you both die in the end."

  Then Samantha and Logan said their good-byes to me and walked out of the restaurant holding hands.

  I dug my wallet out of my purse, laid twenty dollars on the bill, and took a drink, waiting for the waitress to come.

  When she did, she looked over her shoulder, then back at me. "Can I see some ID with that?"

  I blinked up at her, wondering if she'd automatically assumed I laid down a credit card. "I need an ID to pay with cash?"

  "The manager requested it."

  "The manager," I repeated, and blushed.

  I dug my driver's license out of my wallet and gave it to her. Maybe in some horrible twist of fate I'd unknowingly given them a counterfeit bill and I'd be dragged off to a police station for questioning. Rachel would be so disappointed to have missed it.

  Or maybe, yes—it was the guy, and he was walking toward me with my ID. I wondered when he had noticed me and why I hadn't seen him.

  He sat down on the chair across from me and handed me both my money and my driver's license.

  "I'm comping your meal, Chelsea. It was worth it just to find out what your name really is."

  "Thanks." I slipped my ID back into my wallet. "I told you all along my name was Chelsea."

  "Yes, but you did it under suspicious circumstances. Why was everyone else calling you Juliet?"

  I hesitated, thought about it, and took the fifth. "I could explain, but I'd rather appear mysterious. Is it working?"

  He tilted his head down and laughed. The tenseness left his eyes. "I guess so." He held out his hand to shake mine. "I'm Tanner. Now we've officially met."

  I shook his hand, afraid I was blushing again. College girls probably didn't blush when they met guys. "Aren't you kind of young to be a manager here?" I asked and held my breath, hoping he didn't answer with something like, "Yeah, everyone tells me I look so young. Actually I'm twenty-five . . ."

  Instead he shrugged. "I'm really an assistant manager. For a while my brother took to shortening the term 'assistant' to—well, it's just easier to say manager—so that's what most of the employees call me." He shrugged and his blue eyes crinkled around the corners as though he was letting me in on a secret. "My parents own the restaurant."

  How come every time I saw him he looked better than the time before? "That must be nice," I said. "I bet you always get really good dinners and stuff" I didn't know what else to say and realized my last sentence had verged on babbling. Having a hot guy sitting so close will do that to you.

  "I eat well when I work here," he said. "I can't say the same for dorm food."

  He probably needed to get back to work doing whatever it was assistant managers did, but I didn't want him to leave. We stared at each other for another moment and then because I couldn't think of a casual way to say it, I just blurted out, "So Tanner, we didn't really get off to the greatest start. Do you believe in second chances?" The next moment stretched out as I waited for his answer.

  He smiled, nodded and leaned closer to me. "Yeah, I guess I do."

  "Great," I said and then mentally added as though it were a mantra, Don't ask me how old I am. Don't ask me how old I am.

  He shrugged. "Would you like to get together sometime?"

  "Sure." Don't ask me which dorm I live in. Don't ask me which dorm I live in.

  "Can I have your phone number?"

  I gave him my cell phone number. He wrote it on the back of my bill, studied me for another moment, then shook his head. "I keep trying to figure out where I know you from. Do you take Economics 101?"

  "No." Don't ask me what my major is. Don't ask me what my major is.

  "Have you ever lived in California?"

  "Nope."

  "Do you go to the Rec Center to run track?"

  "Maybe you just recognize me from the restaurant. I come here a lot." I didn't, but I didn't want him to keep asking about my schedule.

  He nodded uncertainly. "That could be it." Then his expression changed, and I could tell he'd put the matter out of his mind. "I'm closing tonight, but we could get together after classes tomorrow. What time are you done?"

  "Two-thirty." Which was, after all true, because that's when the high school got out.

  He nodded. "Let's get together for dinner. Can I pick you up at six?"

  If I gave him my house address he'd know I wasn't a college student. My throat felt dry. "I have some errands to run tomorrow. Why don't I meet you somewhere. Where did you want to go?"

  He said, "Let's go someplace where my coworkers and family won't be around. How about Basilios?"

  We worked out the last of the details and then he glanced around the room. "I'd better get back to work. If I stay here too long the other employees will never let me hear the end of it." He stood up but gave me another smile before he left. "I'm glad you came in tonight, Chelsea."

  So was I. All the way home I repeated his name in my mind.

  My friends and I generally got together on Jock's Landing before school to talk. The subject the next morning was my secret double life as a college student.

  "I never told him I went to W
SU," I pointed out. "I just never said I didn't."

  "It's almost the same as lying," Samantha said.

  "It's not lying," I said. "It's verbal camouflage."

  "Camouflaged or not, he's going to be mad if you're not up front about it from the beginning," Samantha said.

  Aubrie nodded. "He'll wonder what else you haven't been honest about. Besides, it's not such a big deal. A lot of the guys we dated last year are in college this year. Girls date guys who are older. People know that."

  "But there's a difference between a college guy dating a girl he went out with in high school and a college guy hitting on some random high school girl." I folded my arms and stared out at the river of students making their way to the lockers. "He'll think I'm too young for him."

  "He'll find out eventually," Samantha said. "You can't hide it forever."

  "I don't have to hide it forever," I said. "Just until next year when I actually go to college." Or until he decided he liked me so much he didn't care I was seventeen—well, almost eighteen.

  "Why not let her pretend to be older?" Rachel asked, finally chiming in on the subject. "Chances are she'll get tired of him before he figures out her age." Rachel forgets that the rest of us don't date as much as she does.

  "And how is she going to keep her age from him?" Samantha asked.

  "Easy," Rachel said. "Just keep him talking about himself. That's what guys like to do anyway."

  "Maybe," Aubrie said, "but the subject will come up sooner or later."

  Rachel shook her head and then stared at the ceiling in contemplation. "I probably shouldn't reveal my dating secrets. Once I do, you're likely to steal all sorts of guys away from me." She lowered her gaze with a sigh. "Still, what are friends for? Chelsea needs help and she's not getting any good advice from the rest of you." Rachel took hold of my arm and pulled me closer to her. "I have a method. It works every time, and it will work for you if you can manage to follow it."