The Cheerleaders

by Kara Thomas

  When we get back to the car, the sky is a pearly gray with threatening-looking clouds rolling in. Ginny unlocks the car and I pour myself into the passenger seat, suddenly in a very foul mood. “So that was a huge waste of time. I dragged us out here to hear about locker room drama, and we were almost part of a football field brawl.”

  “It wasn’t a waste of time,” Ginny says. “She did say that Allie was always listening to the girls’ problems.”

  Would my sister open up to her coach about what was going on between her and Juliana and Susan? When Jen was happy—which seemed like almost all the time before that year—she spread her joy around like it was sunshine. Every other emotion, though—fear, sadness, and loneliness—she’d kept them locked up. After Jen died, one of the only times I heard my mother lose it was when she was on the phone with Grandma Carlino: She never told me anything. I tried so hard, but she would never tell me anything.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Jen was pretty private.”

  Ginny turns the heat on. Wiggles her fingers in front of the vents. I glance at the side mirror; there’s still chaos in the parking lot. Too many people trying to leave at once, boxing us into our spot.

  “Juliana, though.” I turn to Ginny. “If she was in some sort of trouble and couldn’t tell her mom or Jen, I could see her going to someone older that she trusted. Someone like Allie, maybe.”

  Ginny turns down the heat so I can hear her over the air rattling in the vents. “Maybe Juliana found out something that she felt like she had to tell Allie.”

  I look at Ginny. “You think Juliana told Allie her boyfriend was cheating on her?”

  Ginny shrugs. “Juliana might have been more loyal to her coach than to a girl she only knew for a few months. Especially if she wanted to rid herself of Carly.”

  I turn this theory over in my head. “If you were Allie, and Juliana told you that your boyfriend was cheating on you, and then Juliana was murdered a little while later…would you be suspicious of Carly?”

  “No,” Ginny finally says. “I wouldn’t think it had anything to do with the murders. Especially if the police said they knew who did it.”

  A thumping noise rattles Ginny’s car. We jerk in our seats; in the side mirror, I see a pack of guys whooping, weaving between cars, giving each one a hearty slap on the back. I wonder if the brawl on the field has died down.

  “You’re right,” I tell Ginny. “Carly sounds scary, but her killing two girls because Juliana ratted her out to their coach…it doesn’t fit. Also, Patrice confirmed the pickup truck wasn’t Carly’s.”

  “It doesn’t mean Carly wasn’t there that night or that she wasn’t involved somehow.”

  Ginny looks lost in her thoughts. I keep quiet, letting her piece them together.

  “I just keep thinking about something Patrice said. How no one understood the power Carly had over Juliana.” Ginny lifts her thumb to her mouth, ready to gnaw at her cuticle. When she catches me eyeing her, she drops her hand to her lap. “What if Carly got Juliana mixed up in something really bad? Maybe Juliana was in over her head and confided in Allie. We should talk to her,” she says. “If we can find a way to contact her.”

  “We can.” I look out my window, my stomach suddenly feeling very tight. “The first person in my sister’s contacts is named Allie.”

  * * *

  —

  I head straight for my closet when I get home and open my jewelry box. Jen’s phone rests on top, where I left it.

  I sit back on my heels and open her contacts. At the very top of the list is the name Allie Lewandowski.

  Mango wanders into my closet, nose in the air, trying to sniff out food. He sees me on the floor, empty-handed except for Jen’s phone, and turns to leave, bored.

  Stealing Allie Lewandowski’s phone number from my dead sister is wrong. Obviously I know that. But Ginny and I got this far, and I’m not going to stop because of some false sense of decency. Decency went out the window long ago.

  I copy Allie’s number into my phone and tap out a text message.

  I stay up until past midnight, watching my phone, waiting for her to reply. But my text inbox stays empty until I fall asleep, and it’s empty when I wake up.

  * * *

  —

  It’s Monday evening, after practice, and I’m unlacing my shoes in the locker room. Alexa and Rach are refilling their water bottles at the fountain outside Coach’s office, voices echoing through the locker room. Their conversation bounces from the male kickline routine they’re planning for Spirit Night to regionals in two weeks, and hearing it makes me feel so lonely I could puke.

  Ginny pokes her head around the corner. She sits on the bench next to me. “Anything from Allie?”

  I shake my head. I swing my feet off the bench and wiggle my toes, finally free of the restrictive dance shoes. “Texting her was probably a bad idea. I probably freaked her out like I freaked Carly out.”

  I wait for Ginny to disagree, but she shrugs. “That number is five years old. She may have gotten a new one.”

  We walk into the hall together. The cross-country guys are spilling out of their locker room, bringing the cocktail of body odor and Axe spray with them. My body tenses up. Cross-country practice letting out means Brandon is nearby.

  Next to me, Ginny’s voice is quiet. “Are you okay?”

  I nod. “Yeah. Just exhausted.”

  She studies me, wearing that curious look that says she doesn’t believe me but she won’t push it. “I’ve got to catch the bus. Let me know if you hear from her.”

  “I will.”

  As I’m watching Ginny head down the hall, toward the parking lot, a guy says, “Hey, Monica.”

  Jimmy Varney is walking toward me, hair clinging to his sweaty forehead. Over his shoulder, I spot Brandon emerging from the locker room, talking with a boy half his height. He looks up; his eyes connect with mine as he gives the kid a pat on the shoulder. Brandon is still watching me as the kid takes off down the hall. I swallow and turn to face Jimmy.

  “Hey.”

  “How are you?” Jimmy asks.

  “Sweaty and disgusting.” It sounds a lot like Go away, so I slide my voice up to a friendlier octave. “How was your practice?”

  I uncap my water bottle and start chugging. Jimmy grabs one of his biceps and rolls his shoulder back until it gives a small pop. “State qualifiers are next week. Coach is riding us pretty hard.”

  I think of Brandon, mere feet away from us, and I choke on the water sliding down my throat. Cough until my eyes water and concern knits up Jimmy’s forehead. “You okay?”

  “I’m good. Sorry.” I force out another cough and wipe my lips. Steal a look at Brandon; he’s in the doorway to the athletic office, using a sneakered foot to scratch the back of his opposite calf.

  Jimmy’s voice draws me back. “What are you doing after the dance Saturday? Kelsey G’s house?”

  I remember what Alexa said the other day. Varney wants to ask you to homecoming. The parade, the dance, the party—they’re the furthest things from my mind this year. “I don’t know. Are you going to Kelsey’s?”

  “I am,” Jimmy says. “I think Kelsey hopes you’ll come.”

  I’m pretty sure that Kelsey Gabriel doesn’t think about me much at all, but the nervous blush in Jimmy’s cheeks makes a smile tug the corner of my mouth. The urge to flirt with him takes me by surprise. “Is that your way of indirectly saying you hope I’ll come to Kelsey’s?”

  “Yes.” Jimmy grins. “Yes, it is.”

  More cross-country guys pour out of the locker room, and Jimmy is swept up into a group of them asking him for a ride home. He meets my eyes over their heads—he towers over most of them—and smiles again.

  My giddiness evaporates when I spot Brandon watching us. He looks away, palming the door frame to the men’s athlet
ic office, talking to someone inside. He’s trying hard to angle away from me, suggesting he heard everything Jimmy and I said to each other.

  My stomach does that suction-cup thing it does whenever Brandon is around. I think about last Tuesday in his Jeep, the tug of his fingers through my hair. Tamp down the image, because the thought of Jimmy knowing what we did makes me feel ill.

  I don’t feel like setting my life on fire anymore. I want to fast-forward to the part where I look at Brandon and don’t feel anything at all.

  Alexa’s voice echoes from the locker room into the hall; she and Rachel wander out, fanning their armpits. Like a hawk, Alexa zeroes in on me. “Why are you blushing?”

  “Because we just finished a ridiculous practice,” I say.

  “No, that’s a flirting blush.” Alexa looks down the hallway, past Brandon, whose back is turned to me. When she spots Jimmy Varney and his friends, she pokes me in the shoulder.

  “Stop,” I say, “seriously.”

  Rachel slides the elastic from her ponytail, letting her hair spill over her shoulders. “Monica, he’s been in love with you for, like, ever.”

  I’m about to tell them both to shut the hell up when my tote bag buzzes at my hip. I dig out my phone. There’s a text from a number that’s not in my contacts.

  Allie Lewandowski replied to my message.

  It’s a little after five now; I fire off a response to Allie.

  I chew a fingernail absently, keeping my eyes on my phone as Rach, Alexa, and I head outside the gym doors.

  I look up at Rachel. “Hey, do you think you could drop me off in town on the way home?”

  * * *

  —

  Earth Lily Café is two blocks away. I step into the library vestibule for show, keeping an eye on the window overlooking the street. When Rach’s car disappears from view, I zip my North Face up to my chin and head for the café.

  Earth Lily opened a year ago, but I’ve never been. Tom once called the food hippie shit during one of his rants about how Sunnybrook will eventually be taken over by young, crunchy types like in Millerton.

  I don’t want to take up a table without buying anything, so I order the only thing on the menu I recognize—a cappuccino. I order it decaf and when it’s ready I grab an open seat in the corner of the room, in a velvet armchair. It’s twenty after six, and Allie isn’t here.

  “Monica?”

  Allie Lewandowski is wearing a black off-the-shoulder sweatshirt. Her hair is twisted in an elegant bun at the top of her head. “I’m so sorry. Parking is awful around here.”

  “It’s okay.” I wedge my hands between my knees, realizing they’re trembling. “Thanks for coming. I know you probably have better things to do.”

  “No, don’t be silly. I’m going to grab a drink and then we can chat?”

  I nod. I keep my fingers wrapped around my mug to warm them, trying not to stare at Allie as she orders at the counter. She’s the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. When she returns, she plops in the armchair across from me. Shoots me a warm smile.

  “What do you teach?” I ask.

  “Pilates at Barre-ing It All.” Allie gives a small smile. “It’s not a dream job, but I’m getting my master’s degree full-time. What do you want to major in?”

  My mind goes blank. My sister was the one who was always so sure about what she wanted to be, while I gave a different answer every year. A ballerina. A teacher. A magazine editor. “I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe psychology.”

  Allie’s eyes brighten. “That’s what I majored in! I’m in school to be a social worker.”

  “That’s awesome,” I say. “Really awesome.”

  Allie pulls her straw up to her lips and sneaks a glance at her phone. I’m making this totally awkward, and she’s looking for an excuse to bail.

  “Sorry I’m being weird,” I blurt. “It’s just that my sister also wanted to be a social worker. Or a veterinarian.”

  “Oh.” Allie’s eyes soften as she twirls her straw through her iced latte. “Jen was such a good kid. She would have been really good at both of those things.”

  “She talked about you a lot,” I say. It’s a lie, and it’s a shitty one. All Allie has to do is ask what Jen said about her and I’m done. Once my sister started high school she never talked to me about Allie or about cheerleading or anything, really.

  “You must really miss her.” Allie tilts her head, giving me an encouraging look. There’s sympathy in her expression, but no pity. She’s going to make a good social worker.

  The backs of my eyes prick. “I wish I could talk to her. I just want to ask her what happened.”

  Allie’s fingers go still around her straw. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know. Even before her friends were killed, I noticed something was going on with Jen.” I collect my cappuccino off the coffee table, keeping my eyes on the cup. “There was this other cheerleader my sister couldn’t stand—Carly Amato. She was kicked off the team.”

  There’s a brief flash of something ugly in Allie’s expression. “I never kicked Carly off. She quit.”

  My thoughts swirl. Patrice had sounded so sure that Allie had kicked Carly off the team. “Oh. It’s just that I heard this rumor….”

  “I know the rumor.” Allie’s bubbly voice has gone flat. “Is that why you asked me here? To find out if my boyfriend cheated on me with Carly?”

  My throat has sealed up. I can’t find the words to defend myself, if there even are any.

  Allie stares at me, her expression frosty. “I don’t know why you care, but no, it’s not true. The whole thing got blown out of proportion. I found Carly’s earring in my boyfriend’s car,” Allie says. “Obviously I asked him how it got there. He said that his best friend had met Carly over the summer, and they’d been hanging out. One night Carly called them up asking to buy her beer. They picked her up, and her earring must have fallen out in my boyfriend’s backseat.”

  “And you believed him?”

  “His friend backed the story up. And this might sound mean, but my boyfriend never would have gone for a girl like Carly.” Allie’s eyes flash. “It was still really stupid of them. I mean, hanging out with a high school girl and buying her alcohol? They could have gotten in a ton of trouble.

  “Anyway, I didn’t kick Carly off the team. Before I knew what really happened I said some horrible things to her. I just kind of lost my mind. She quit and the rumors started.” Allie stares back at me. “What does any of this have to do with your sister?”

  It’s exactly what I came here hoping she could tell me. Allie is one of the only links left between Carly and my sister and her dead friends, and all I’ve done is piss her off.

  Connect the dots. Maybe Carly and Allie and her boyfriend were never dots to begin with.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I didn’t mean to waste your time.”

  “It’s fine. I have to go teach now.” Allie stands up, looking at me as if she’s not quite sure how she got here. “Good luck with Oneonta. If you even really want to go there.”

  My mom can’t pick me up until the rehearsal she’s supervising at the playhouse is over at 7:30, so I have to kill time in the library. I grab a chair in the magazine section and text Ginny.

  I pause, thinking it over.

  An ellipsis appears and disappears. Appears again. As if Ginny keeps typing out a response and deleting it. Then finally:

  * * *

  —

  It’s almost ten o’clock, and Ginny hasn’t texted me an update. She messaged Carly as Elizabeth Lewis hours ago, inviting her to coffee to talk about the International Honor Society of Nursing.

  The society doesn’t exist, which Carly could figure out very quickly from Google. Our plan to lure her to the college student activity center relies on Carly not being the brightest bulb in the
box.

  There’s also the chance that her guard is still up after my visit; Carly may not have thought twice about adding Elizabeth Lewis as a friend, but the invitation to meet up in person might be suspicious to someone with something to hide. And ever since I talked to Ethan at Osprey Lake, I’ve been convinced that everything Carly told me is a lie—and that she holds the key to figuring out what really happened the night Juliana was killed.

  If Ginny and I can’t pry anything out of Carly, I don’t know where that leaves us. We can try to track down the guy she was seeing—Allie’s boyfriend’s friend—but after Allie’s abrupt exit after I brought him up, it’s clear she’s not interested in indulging my poking around into the events of five years ago.

  When Ginny calls me, I pick up on the first ring.

  “She’s free Friday at six-thirty,” Ginny says. “She has practical exams this week, so that’s the only night she can do.”

  “That’s fine.”

  Ginny hesitates. “You’ll have to miss a good part of float building.”

  “I don’t give a crap about float building if you don’t.”

  “Monica, I’ve never once gone to float building,” she says. “I could not give less of a crap about it.”

  * * *

  —

  There is still the issue of faking enthusiasm for Friday’s pep rally, and Saturday’s parade, game, and dance. I don’t know how long Alexa and Rachel will tolerate my moodiness.

  If anyone else has noticed how unpleasant I’ve been, apparently it doesn’t bother them. On Thursday morning, the student council president announces that I’m on the junior class homecoming court.

  I sit up a little straighter, cheeks burning from a dozen sets of hands in my homeroom clapping for me. I strain my ears to hear the rest of the girls’ names.