by Kara Thomas
Back when our football team still won, NHSE was our biggest rival. The year after all the girls were killed, before the first game of the season, some kids from NHSE snuck into our parking lot and hung a bloody cheerleading uniform from the flagpole.
I shoot Ginny a confused look. She points to the bottom of the page.
PIONEER CHEER NABS GOLD AT ULSTER COUNTY REGIONALS
There’s a brief paragraph about the cheerleading squad’s path to victory, complete with a quote from Coach Patrice Johnson. Ginny moves her finger to the team photo accompanying the article, resting on a gorgeous black woman in a coach’s warm-up jacket. Patrice looks familiar.
“She was in Carly’s prom photo,” Ginny whispers.
The sub locks eyes with Ginny and me. “I said silently.”
As if on cue, someone shouts in the hallway. There’s an explosion of laughter. When it doesn’t die down, the teacher sighs and gets up. “I’ll be back in one minute,” he says as he steps out of the classroom.
As soon as he’s gone, Ginny leans over and whispers, “Newton East has a football game tomorrow. Patrice should be there.”
Before I can answer, Chris Tavares shouts in our direction. “Yo, Rayburn, what are you doing here?”
“Yeah, what’re you in for?” One of the guys by the window, an enormous senior, stares at Ginny and me. His friend—a guy with a patchy beard—pipes up: “Why don’t you come sit by me? This is where the party’s at.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I say.
Chris and the other guy howl with laughter as the huge kid tells me he’ll give me a tip any time I want. Ginny stares at her fingers, her face scarlet.
“Yo, you’re making the other one blush,” the guy with the beard says.
“I’d take her, too. She’s got no tits. But that ass, though.”
“I seen her on the school website,” Beard says. “In one of those gymnastics leotards. Gimme your phone, I’ll show you.”
The big kid hands over an iPhone, and Chris Tavares turns in his seat. Lemmings gathering to leer at Ginny’s body.
I stand, the sound of my chair legs squealing against the floor startling the guys. They’re taken so off guard that Beard doesn’t even fight when I snatch the phone from his hand.
“Put this away, or I will shove it so far up your ass a doctor won’t be able to find it.” I slam the phone on the desk and walk back to my seat, Beard’s friends howling with laughter.
“Man, she is savage.” Chris Tavares lets out a whistle of admiration, while the substitute teacher wanders back into the room, shouting for us to settle down unless we want to join him again for detention on Monday.
“Thanks,” Ginny whispers as I sit down. The guys by the window don’t say another word, or even look at us, until the teacher tells us we can leave.
* * *
—
Detention and dance team practice both end at five, so I can still grab a ride home with Rachel and Alexa. I wait for them outside instead of meeting them by the gym, because I am a coward and can’t face Coach right now.
Regionals are in two weeks, and I missed practice. I’m well aware that, when she gets here, Rachel might have to relay the message that Coach has thrown me off the team. And I can’t even blame her for it.
“Was she mad?” I ask. We’re at Rach’s car; she’s digging at the bottom of her bag for her keys.
“I don’t know,” Alexa says, glancing at Rachel nervously.
But Rach is watching me over the roof of the car. “Why did you get detention?”
“Mrs. Coughlin,” I mutter. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Alexa opens her mouth, but Rach freezes her with a look. She must have told Alexa about my meltdown before the memorial this morning. They both must assume I had it out with Mrs. Coughlin at some point today, because neither of them asks me why Coughlin wrote me up.
Rach lets us into the car. Neither she nor Alexa questions why Ginny missed practice either, and I don’t offer that information. Ginny already left to catch the late bus on the other side of the school.
“Well, at least it’s Spirit Night,” Alexa says.
I wince. I completely forgot to tell them that I’m not allowed to go tonight.
“About that,” I say. “I can’t go.”
“What the hell, Monica?” Rachel is studying me, silent.
I can’t look at her. “My mom flipped out because of the detention.”
Alexa leans forward and puts her arms around my headrest. “Let’s go to your house. Rach and I will convince her you have to go.”
“Lex. Seriously. You do not want to do that.”
My voice must be scary, because Alexa promptly shuts her mouth. She buries herself in her phone for the rest of the ride to her house; Rach has to turn the radio up, the silence is so awkward.
When we drop Alexa off at her house, Rachel looks at me head-on. “I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t be,” I say. “Things are just messed up with my family right now. They always are at this time of year.”
Rachel puts the car in reverse and inches out of Alexa’s driveway. When we’re on the main road again, she eyes me. “Why can’t you talk to me about it? Bethany was my cousin. I understand.”
I look away from her so she can’t see my face flush with annoyance. She can’t possibly understand. Jen was my sister, and her death will never compare with Rachel losing a cousin she didn’t even like.
“I don’t talk to anyone about it,” I say. “It’s nothing personal.”
After a beat, Rach speaks, her voice frosty. “Do you talk to Ginny Cordero about it?”
I close my eyes and tilt my head back. “Rach, don’t do this.”
She doesn’t have much else to say to me until she pulls into my driveway and I get out of the car. “I got the triple today,” she says. “In case you were wondering.”
* * *
—
I don’t want my mother to figure out that barring me from going to Spirit Night is the best gift she could have given me this week, so I make sure to be quiet and sulky during dinner.
As I’m clearing the table of pizza grease–stained paper plates, I force myself to look at my mom. “Can I go to the Newton versus Shrewsbury football game tomorrow?”
She blinks, as if she can’t grasp how I could possibly have the balls to ask her that. “You’re still grounded.”
Tom’s head snaps up from the garlic knot he’d been polishing off. “Grounded? Why?”
Mom doesn’t look at him as she collects balled-up dirty napkins from the table. “She got detention.”
“Seriously?” Tom looks at me.
“For the stupidest reason,” I say. “I’m really sorry. I’ll come straight home after the game.”
My mother inhales sharply as Tom sits back in his chair. “Why do you want to see Newton versus Shrewsbury anyway?”
“My friend Ginny’s cousin is playing,” I say. “He’s Newton’s running back.”
Tom is incapable of saying no to football. He raises his eyebrows at Mom. Her lips form a line, and I can tell she’s feeling guilty about making me miss Spirit Night when she can’t stand Mrs. Coughlin either.
“Fine,” she says. “Straight home, though.”
When her back is turned, Tom gives me a triumphant smile. For some reason, it makes my stomach turn over.
I wake up early in the morning. I went to bed at ten, for lack of anything better to do, and the sunrise leaking in through my blinds has me flopping between positions, unable to fall back asleep.
Mrs. Cordero doesn’t have to work until tonight, so Ginny can borrow her car to drive us to the game. I shower and blow-dry my hair, and when Petey wakes up at eight, I even sit at the kitchen island with him as he eats breakfast, listening to his plans for the model Vietna
m Veterans Memorial he’s designing for his social studies class.
The game doesn’t start until two, and the school is only twenty minutes away, but Ginny picks me up at one. Newton High School East’s team is ranked first in the county. Their games sell out quickly, and we want to make sure we find a parking spot.
Newton East’s campus is a lot bigger than Sunnybrook’s, and even though the game doesn’t start for another half hour, Ginny has to fight for a parking spot several hundred yards from the field.
The spot is a tight squeeze; I climb out of the car to help direct Ginny into it. When she gets out of the car, she’s put on a knit cap with earflaps. “Ready?”
I nod, and we fall into step with a crowd of people heading for the field. A group of tailgaters gathered around a charcoal grill starts to boo. I tense up, worried they’ve somehow recognized Ginny and me. Then I see the real object of their scorn—a pack of high school kids behind me, wearing green and white. Shrewsbury’s colors.
Ginny protests when I pay the fourteen-dollar admission fee for the two of us.
“Stop,” I say. “It’s the least I can do.”
“I’m seriously not mad about detention.” She thrusts her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie as we pick our way up the bleachers in search of a free spot. We settle into a row three-quarters of the way up the first level. As soon as we sit down, Ginny produces a steel thermos from her bag and hands it to me. “Hot chocolate.”
The thought of hot chocolate, and Ginny pouring two packets into the thermos, warms me before I even take a sip. I peel off my gloves so I can unscrew the top of the thermos. The last time I was here was for a NHSE vs. Sunnybrook game freshman year, with Rachel and Alexa and Matt. One of Matt’s friends had smuggled in a flask of rum, which we mixed with hot apple cider from the concession stand. It was only the first weekend of November, but the forecast said there was a chance of snow flurries. Under the blanket we brought, Matt traced a finger up the inside of my thigh and I shivered, thinking, If I weren’t me, I would kill to be me.
“Are you okay?” Ginny asks.
“I’m good,” I say, and in spite of everything, I mean it.
“Look.” Ginny points across the field, where a bunch of girls in navy-and-white skirts are huddled. Someone shouts, and they break apart, staggering into groups of three. Ginny and I watch them bend, pop the fliers up into formation. The fliers pull their legs up into scorpion positions. They hold them while someone shouts a count to three before the bases drop them back down. The girls march into a pyramid formation.
The counter—a slender and tall black woman—is off to the side, admiring the pyramid as if it were a piece of art. Her hair is in a high bun, and she’s wearing a navy-and-white warm-up jacket to match the girls’ uniforms.
“That’s Patrice,” I say.
I keep my eyes on her through the anthem, the home team’s ceremonial entrance set to an AC/DC song, and through kickoff.
“Have you figured out what you’re going to say to her?” Ginny asks.
Shrewsbury picks up a first down, and the crowd boos. Below us, at the bottom of the bleachers, a line of cheerleaders in green and white attempts to lead our side of the stadium in a cheer, waving their pom-poms.
“Not exactly,” I say. “But Patrice isn’t Facebook friends with Carly. I’m not that worried about it getting back to her.”
At halftime, the score is 21 to 14, Shrewsbury. The field clears so the NHSE cheerleaders can perform their routine; a techno remix of this summer’s most played-out pop song blares from the speakers. The girls are out of sync in a way that would make Coach claw her eyes out, but the crowd goes wild for their tumbling passes.
Shrewsbury winds up winning 34 to 27. Ginny and I stay seated while the bleachers around us clear out. I say a silent prayer that no one from Shrewsbury gets the shit kicked out of them on the way back to the parking lot.
Down on the field, Patrice is giving the cheerleaders a pep talk. They raise their pom-poms in a cheer of solidarity before breaking apart and heading through the locker room entrance below the box. Patrice hangs behind, collecting pom-poms.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Ginny is at my heels as we hurry down the bleachers. Patrice looks up. Looks through us and goes back to packing up the pom-poms.
“Patrice?” I say.
Her back tenses as she takes Ginny and me in. “Yeah?”
“Do you have a minute?”
Patrice studies my face. “Where do I know you from?”
“I’m Jennifer Rayburn’s sister.”
Patrice’s onyx eyes soften. “Monica, right?”
I nod. “This is Ginny. We’re both on the dance team.”
Patrice’s mouth tightens in a polite smile. “I’m glad you came and said hi.” No doubt wondering what the hell this is all about.
I swallow to clear the nerves from my throat. “I wanted to ask you—were you friends with Carly Amato in high school?”
Patrice blinks. “Carly? I knew her. I wouldn’t call her a friend.”
“I was just wondering, because I saw a picture of you guys together at prom.”
Patrice’s forehead wrinkles. “Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. I mean, we were friendly, kind of, but I only took that picture at prom because she asked.”
“But you were on cheerleading together,” I press.
“For a little while.” Patrice closes the top of the pom-pom box and pauses. “Why do you guys care about Carly? That girl was bad news.”
I glance over at Ginny; I can tell she picked up the ominous note in Patrice’s voice too. Somehow, I don’t think Patrice said Carly was bad news because she snuck cigarettes in the school parking lot.
“Bad news how?” I ask.
Patrice straightens and brushes a stray pom-pom string from her palm. “I mean, I didn’t know her that well. She only went to Sunnybrook her senior year. She got kicked out of Catholic school for fighting. She ripped out a chunk of this girl’s hair and bit her so hard she needed stitches,” Patrice says. “At least, that’s what people said.”
“That’s horrible,” I say. When I met Carly, I’d gotten the vibe that she was scrappy. But Patrice is describing someone who is downright vicious.
Patrice shrugs. “She got into a couple fights at Sunnybrook, but she was mostly talk. She was kind of desperate, like always hanging around me and my friends as if it would give her street cred or whatever. I don’t know, everyone called her a skank or wannabe ghetto but I just felt bad for her. She didn’t have any friends.”
“What about Juliana Ruiz? Everyone says they were friends.” Everyone except Carly herself.
“Yeah. Sweet little Jules.” Patrice sighs. “It was honestly kind of sad.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“At practice, Carly would make it a point to talk really loudly about the parties she and Juliana went to over the weekend with these older guys Carly knew. I think Carly wanted to show off, like she was too cool for high school shit. But that, like, wasn’t Juliana at all. None of us really understood the power Carly had over her.”
“When you said Carly was only on the squad for a little while,” I say, “do you mean she stopped cheering before Juliana died?”
Patrice shakes her head. “She got kicked off the squad before.”
I glance at Ginny. Her eyebrows are raised, eyes on Patrice. “What did Carly do to get kicked off?” Ginny asks.
“There were rumors. But no one knows what really happened except Carly and Allie.”
“Allie?”
“Our coach,” Patrice says. “You never met Allie?”
A flash of my sister’s coach, in the bleachers at one of Jen’s regional competitions that my mother dragged Petey and me to. Cheerleader Barbie.
I shake my head. “What was the rumor?
”
A gust of wind flies past us. Patrice zips her warm-up jacket to her chin. “That Carly slept with Allie’s boyfriend.”
“That’s nuts,” I say.
Patrice shrugs. “If it’s true, it’s the least scandalous thing that would have happened when I was in school. A girl in my grade had a threesome. When we were freshmen. God, I do not miss that place.”
Patrice picks up the box of pom-poms. “I’ve got to head out. Why do you guys care about Carly anyway? Can’t you talk to her yourselves?”
“I think she can tell me something that happened between my sister and her friends,” I say. “She wasn’t exactly cooperative when I tried to talk to her.”
Patrice balances the pom-pom box on her hip, looking thoughtful. “Maybe you should ask Allie.”
“She knew everything that was going on with us. She was always comforting some crying girl in her office.” Patrice’s voice suggests that she was definitely not one of those crying girls.
Some shrieking draws our attention to the other end of the football field; a handful of football players in navy-and-white uniforms are almost forehead to forehead with two guys on Shrewsbury’s team. I recognize the hulking kid in the center as the linebacker who got a nasty penalty off of Shrewsbury during the game.
There’s some cursing and scuffling, a crowd gathering around the guys, voices swelling like a melee is about to break out. Patrice drops the box of pom-poms and starts jogging toward them, shouting, “Are you for real right now?”
Something occurs to me. I call out: “Patrice, wait! One second!”
Patrice stops short. “What is it?”
“Did Carly have a pickup truck?”
Patrice blinks at me. “No. She couldn’t drive.”
Parents are hurrying down the bleachers, toward the fight. Patrice disappears into the chaos; Ginny and I hurry off the field and duck out of the stadium, wending our way through a crowd thick with tension. Jubilant people in green avoiding the somber throngs of people in navy and white.