The Cheerleaders

by Kara Thomas

  Shit. I’d completely forgotten about that part of Spirit Night. Last year, Alexa, Rach, and I picked the song “Save a Horse (Ride a Cowboy)” for our class’s male kickline routine. The guys ad-libbed in the middle, unbuttoning their shirts and lassoing them around their heads, earning us a five-point deduction, but a raucous reception from the crowd. We came in second to the seniors.

  “I don’t think I can do it this year,” I tell Alexa.

  She stares at me like I’ve told her I have cancer. “Why?”

  “I’m failing chem,” I say. It’s not completely the truth, but it may as well be—my average is hovering at a 70 right now. “I just don’t have time, between homework and practice.”

  “You have time to hang out with Ginny Cordero,” Alexa says, eyes on her packet of salad dressing.

  “Ginny Cordero knew my sister. Sometimes I want to be around someone who will actually talk about her.”

  It might be the most honest thing I’ve said to Alexa or Rach in weeks.

  As wounded as she still looks, Alexa doesn’t press the issue. When the bell rings, I realize I’ve only taken a few bites of my sandwich. I miss Alexa and Rach, and I don’t know how long I can keep this up, how long I can hide what’s been going on.

  All I can do is hope that the truth will come out, and that they’ll forgive me when it does.

  * * *

  —

  There’s an assembly during last period on drunk driving. The juniors are filing into the auditorium, and I decide to break apart from my gym class and wait by the doors for Ginny.

  She lifts a hand in a small wave when she sees me, and I nod to the topmost row in the stands by the lighting booth. Usually those seats fill up the quickest during assemblies, but today both the guys and the girls are scrambling for the front rows.

  The reason is on the stage: Mike Mejia is setting up a PowerPoint presentation, along with an extremely pretty officer I’ve never seen before. Tom didn’t say anything about Mike doing the assembly. It unsettles me a bit, having Mike close by, considering what I’m about to tell Ginny.

  Ginny and I find two seats at the end of the highest row, skipping over one with particularly nasty-looking stains.

  “My stepdad is going to a fund-raiser in Westchester Friday night,” I tell her before I even say hi. “Most of the department is gonna be there too. Except Mike. That’s Mike.”

  I point to the stage. Ginny’s lips part, as if she’s having trouble processing everything I just threw at her. But I want to tell her everything before the assembly starts and the teachers tell us to shut up.

  “I’ve been thinking about it all day,” I say. “If I can find a way to get the key to Tom’s office, I can stop by and pretend I need to talk to Mike. I’ll create some sort of diversion, and when he’s distracted, I’ll take his ID card from his reader and use it to get on the database on Tom’s office computer at home.”

  “You mean steal the card? He’ll know it was you. And what if the database keeps track of who logs in? Tom could see that Mike logged in on his home computer and—”

  “Okay, okay, you’re right,” I say, deflating. “I got ahead of myself, I guess. Forget it.”

  “I didn’t say it’s not worth trying,” Ginny says. “But you can’t steal the card. You have to get him to leave the station somehow, like an emergency, and if we’re lucky and he leaves his ID card in his computer, you can get on the database and email the files to yourself or something.”

  Onstage, Mike is speaking with the woman cop, arms crossed over his chest, ignoring the girls leaning against the orchestra pit preening to get his attention.

  I turn back to Ginny. “But how do I get Mike to leave for long enough?”

  “You mean we. How do we get him to leave.”

  The force in her voice jolts me, just like it did the other day in my kitchen. “Ginny. If I get caught, I’m screwed. There’s no use screwing both of us.”

  “I’m not abandoning you now,” she says. “This is too big to pull off alone.”

  I can’t think around the swell of noise in the auditorium. I want to tell her of course I need her, but there’s some sort of invisible force pulling me back. A conscience, I guess. “I can’t ask you to do this.”

  “You’re not asking. When have you ever asked me for help?” Ginny’s cheeks are blooming pink. “I offered help. I want to help you.”

  The area behind my eyes gets tight. “Why, though? Why me? I’m not like Jen.”

  I stop short of saying I’m not good like her. I would sooner die than hear Ginny lie to my face and tell me I am like her, and I am good.

  But Ginny doesn’t lie. I know that much. She simply looks at me and says, “It’s not really you I’m helping. Jen deserved better. All those girls did.”

  I don’t know what to say; I glance down at the stage, where Mike is adjusting the microphone for the assembly. Behind him, the female officer is clicking through a PowerPoint of gruesome accident-scene photos, making sure the projector is in focus.

  Mike taps the microphone, sending a shriek of feedback through the auditorium. It draws the entire room’s attention to the stage. Principal Heinz steps around Mike to speak into the microphone. “Ladies and gents, quiet down! Officers Mejia and DiBiase were kind enough to give their time—”

  He’s drowned out by the swell of noise in the room. Mrs. Coughlin, who has stationed herself at the bottom of the upper level, sticks two fingers in her mouth and lets out a piercing whistle that shuts us all up.

  “You will give these officers your complete attention,” she says, before taking a seat.

  Onstage, Mike clears his throat. I keep my eyes locked on him, my head swimming. While he’s introducing Officer DiBiase, who elicits approving hoots from the guys in the room, I lean over and whisper in Ginny’s ear, “How the hell are we going to get him out of that station for more than a few minutes?”

  Ginny is staring at the PowerPoint on the screen, at the image of a mangled car. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  * * *

  —

  On Friday night, Petey and I pile into the back of Tom’s car. He puts an arm around my mom’s seat while he backs out of the driveway; she twists away from him, one hand patting her French twist self-consciously.

  Tom’s eyes meet mine in the mirror. “Whose house am I driving to? Thing One’s or Thing Two’s?”

  “Neither,” I say. “I’m staying with my friend Ginny.”

  “Ginny? Who’s Ginny?” Tom turns to my mother.

  “I met her the other day,” Mom says. “She’s on dance team with Monica. She seems like a sweet girl.”

  Petey opens his mouth, no doubt to chime in and tell Tom about our excursion to the library with Ginny, and I kick his ankle. “Make a right out of the driveway. She’s number eighty-four.”

  “On this street?” Tom sounds surprised.

  “I told Mom I could walk.”

  My mother is silent; I know she didn’t trust me to go straight to Ginny’s or even to go to Ginny’s at all, but she won’t dare say it in front of Tom.

  Less than a minute later, Tom pulls over in front of Ginny’s house. The sight of the car in the driveway makes me exhale. She’s home from driving her mom to work, so my parents won’t grill me about whether or not there’s an adult home.

  “Yup, see you tomorrow, bye.” I’m stumbling out of the backseat when my mother says my name.

  “Are you sure Ginny’s mother is home?” she asks.

  “Yeah, that’s her car.” I hike the strap of my dance bag up my shoulder. My mother chews the inside of her cheek. I know she wants to hassle me, get out of the car and ring the doorbell and see for herself, but Petey is shouting “It’s six thirty-three and you told Grandma we’d be there at six-thirty!”

  Mom sighs. “Please come home when you wake up tomorro
w.”

  “Got it. Bye.” I wave one last time before slamming the door. Tom pulls away and I walk up the driveway, heart battering against my ribs at the close call.

  Ginny opens her front door before I can knock. A black and white cat at her feet takes one look at me and bolts down the hall.

  “Hi.” She ushers me into the kitchen off the hallway, knocking into a table in the foyer in the process. A picture frame falls over; I reach to right it, but Ginny tells me not to worry about it—to just leave it. I realize she must have been at the window when we pulled up, waiting for me.

  Ginny stops short and turns to me, as if she’s forgetting something. “Did you eat dinner? I could make something….”

  “I think if I tried to eat something right now, I’d projectile vomit.”

  She gives me a small smile. “Good, because I feel the same.”

  I use the bathroom off the kitchen—it’s my third nervous pee break in the last hour. When I’m done, Ginny is sitting at her kitchen table. The cat climbs the back of her chair and leaps onto the table.

  I keep my distance as I take a seat. “What’s his name?”

  “Panda,” Ginny says. “She’s a girl.”

  One side of her face is black, and I can see how she got her name. She sits up on the table and glares at me. Cats don’t trust me. I honestly don’t blame them.

  “I hate using Mike like this,” I tell Ginny. “I can’t stop thinking about how he’ll feel when you make the nine-one-one call.”

  “It’ll be okay,” she says. “There might be another officer on duty tonight, and we can’t risk someone else other than Mike taking the call. He’ll realize soon enough it was a false alarm.”

  She sounds so sure of herself, but my stomach is a pressure cooker of anxiety. And not just because the idea about putting in a fake 911 call about an intruder in Mike’s yard nauseates me.

  We’ve gone over the plan dozens of times this week, and I haven’t been able to tell Ginny about the part of the plan that’s really worrying me.

  Panda nudges Ginny’s arm. Ginny stands up and heads to the counter, where a bag of Friskies treats is waiting. Panda leaps onto the counter, beating Ginny to it.

  While her back is turned, I take a deep breath. “I’m really nervous about something. Mike might get suspicious if I say I’m just there to say hi.”

  Ginny’s turns to me, her forehead creased. “But that’s why you’re bringing him dinner.”

  “I know. But what if he’s not on his computer? I need to get him onto the database Daphne was talking about. That eliminates the problem of him potentially not being logged in.”

  A sigh flutters through Ginny’s lips. “I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.”

  My heart climbs into my throat as Ginny feeds Panda a treat. Just say it.

  I swallow. “What if I told him you needed help finding your dad?”

  “My dad?” Ginny goes quiet, the bag of treats in her hand. “I know where my dad is.”

  And this is why I knew I shouldn’t have brought it up. The look on her face right now—I’ve never felt like a bigger piece of shit. “I’m sorry. I thought you said he left and you haven’t spoken to him.”

  “He did. And I haven’t.” She’s retreating into herself, a far-off look in her eyes.

  “Look, forget it,” I say. “I can come up with another excuse—”

  “No,” she says. She looks up at me, as if she’s snapped out of a trance. “It’s fine. You can ask him about my dad. It’s not like Mike will know the difference.”

  She gives me a smile, as if to say, Really, it’s fine, but when she turns around, I see it dissolve from her face.

  * * *

  —

  By ten after seven, Ginny and I are in the 7-Eleven parking lot across from the police station, twenty feet away from the pay phone Ginny will use when I give her the go-ahead. There’s a hefty McDonald’s bag on my lap, warming my thighs.

  “This could all go to shit very quickly,” I say.

  “It might.” Ginny cracks her fingers at each joint, then absentmindedly slips her thumbnail in her mouth. I swat her hand away.

  “Sorry,” I say. “But you have really nice fingers. You should let your nails grow.”

  Ginny stretches her fingers out in front of her and gives them a wiggle like she’s never seen them before. “ ‘Really nice fingers’?”

  “Okay. That was a little creepy.”

  Ginny breaks into a grin. There’s a tiny chip in one of her eyeteeth that I never noticed before. “A lot creepy. Who says that?”

  I smile in spite of myself, and then we’re both laughing, and then a big guy steps out of the 7-Eleven, yelling at the woman trailing behind him. Ginny and I fall silent and I remember why we’re here, what we came here to do, and I suddenly want to puke.

  “Hey,” she says softly. “You don’t have to do this.”

  “It’s the only idea I have left.”

  Ginny nods. “If you change your mind—or if something starts to go wrong—text me a code word or something.”

  “Like a safe word?”

  Ginny’s upper lip quivers with laughter. “Yes. Sort of.”

  I laugh, because I don’t know what else to do, and it feels good. “What should it be?”

  We kick around a bunch of phrases straight out of an erotica novel before remembering how serious this is and settle on stop.

  My fingers tremble around the seat belt buckle. As I reach for the door handle, Ginny says my name.

  “You’ve got this,” she says. “I have faith in you.”

  At least someone does. I give her a nod and head through the double doors into the police station.

  I’ve never seen the older woman behind the front desk before, but she knows who I am. “Officer Carlino’s gone for the night, hon. PBA dinner.”

  “Oh, I know. I wanted to say hi to Uncle Mike.” I have never once called Mike “uncle.” But this woman doesn’t know that. I hold up the McDonald’s bag and flash an innocent smile. “I brought him dinner.”

  “How sweet of you,” the woman says. “I think he was just about to take his break. You know where his office is?”

  “Down the hall and to the left.” I smile at the woman again and she grins back, nodding for me to walk on back.

  This is going to blow up in my face.

  I drop my shoulders, trying to look relaxed and not like I’m about to commit a felony as I push open the counter gate and make my way down the hall. In one of the cubicles in the larger squad room off the main entrance, the officer from the assembly—Officer DiBiase—is drinking a Big Gulp and clicking around her computer. She doesn’t notice me.

  Shit, shit. I should have known Mike wouldn’t be the only officer on duty tonight. I slink past the main squad room down the hall, texting Ginny: The woman is here too!

  She immediately responds: Don’t panic. Remember the 911 call.

  I inhale. Mike’s office door is open. I rap on the frame and wait in the doorway.

  Mike looks up from his computer and beams, happy to see me. “Hey, kid.”

  “Hi. I brought this for you.” I set the McDonald’s bag on his desk.

  Mike’s eyes light up as he rifles through the bag. “What’d I do to deserve being spoiled like this?”

  “Nothing,” I say. I could die from the guilt right now. “I heard you were alone, so I figured you might not get a dinner break.”

  Mike’s eyebrows lift. “You need a favor, don’t you?”

  I feel my cheeks go pink. “Just a small one.”

  “I’m a little insulted you felt like you had to bribe me,” Mike says, but he’s already tearing into the Big Mac. He swallows, a string of lettuce clinging to his lower lip.

  “Well.” I sit in the chair on the other side of his de
sk and balance my phone on my knee while Mike is wiping his mouth. “It’s the kind of thing I feel uncomfortable asking Tom for.”

  “In other words, you don’t want him to know about this.”

  I shift in my seat. Mike sets his burger down. “You in trouble or something?”

  “No, nothing like that. My friend needs help looking for her dad. He left five years ago and she hasn’t heard from him.”

  Mike steeples his fingers under his chin. Nods.

  “And it’s just that…Tom doesn’t know I’m friends with this girl. Her dad had a bunch of DUIs,” I say. “I don’t want him judging her or anything.”

  Mike lifts the bun from his Big Mac. Examines the patty. “You remembered the extra pickles.”

  “Of course. So do you think you can help?”

  Mike looks away from me. Wiggles his mouse, springing his computer monitor to life. “I don’t see you. You were never here.”

  I exhale and stare at the computer screen as Mike clicks an icon on his desktop. His wallpaper is a picture of him with his wife, Anna, and his stepdaughter, Danielle. Cheeks mashed together, pumpkins in their arms. I think of Mike’s little family at home, his pregnant wife giving Danielle a bath.

  My palm goes sweaty over my phone, imagining sending the text to Ginny. Stop. One word could shut this down.

  Mike will be terrified on the drive to his house. It will be the longest drive of his life, worrying about the safety of his family.

  But it will only last for ten, fifteen minutes tops. And now that I’m here, I only have two choices: try to get into that file or abandon the plan completely.

  I take my hand off my phone.

  “Okay. What’s your friend’s dad’s name?” Mike asks. On the screen, he’s pulled up the database I saw a few weeks ago on Tom’s computer. I look at his computer tower; an ID card with Mike’s photo is resting inside the same card reader Tom has at home.

  I have to swallow to clear the sound of blood pounding in my ears. “Phil Cordero. How are you looking him up?”