“It’s okay.” He shrugs. “It is what it is. So, here I am, back in Maxwell.”
I smile sweetly. “It’s really great to see you. You’ll have to come over some night so we can catch up.”
His eyebrow lifts. “I bet your social calendar’s a little too full these days for a boring night at home going down memory lane.”
There’s no bitterness in his voice, but I do sense regret from him. Regret for ever leaving town? Or regret for coming back. Either way, I do my best to welcome him back. “You should come to Skipper O’Rourke’s party Friday night. Everyone will be there.”
I’ve been to so many pool parties and backyard barbecues since I won my slot on the squad in mid-May, I can’t keep them straight now. “I bet there’s still time to try out for the football team, if that interests you,” I add. I remember back to elementary school where Gabe, I mean, Gabriel was a pretty promising peewee football player. He could outrun them all.
Gabriel shrugs again, that thing so many boys love to do when faced with something they don’t want to answer. “I actually ran into Coach Gaither at Pasquale’s Pizza the other night. He was impressed by how I’ve, um... filled out and up. I think he said I was ‘buff,’” he says with a laugh.
I laugh heartily at the break in tension and then move to knock him on the upper arm. “Dude, you are buff.”
“Lots of hours in the gym,” he says with a slight smirk.
“Are you going to try out for the team?”
“No... I don’t really want to do sports anymore. But Coach Gaither asked me to be a trainer for the team. Weightlifting. Drills. Stuff like that. Pretty cool, huh?”
I bob my head up and down. “That’s awesome, Gabriel. It’s great to have you back in town.”
The back door opens, and Mom sticks her head out. “Hayley! Ashlee just called, looking for you. Said you didn’t answer your cell.”
“I’m leaving!” I yell back. “Just saying hey to Gabriel. You remember him, right?”
Mom steps out and wipes her hands on her tan pants. “Why, Gabriel Tremblay. Look at you all grown up! I’d heard your parents were back.”
I watch as Gabriel’s tanned face reddens under Mom’s scrutiny. “Hey, Mrs. M. Nice to see ya.” Then he turns back to me. “I’ll catch you another time, Hay. Have fun at cheerleader practice.”
“Thanks!” I say, waving to his retreating figure.
As I watch him saunter—and yeah, he does—back to his house, I can’t help but note how he’s grown up and changed from the kid I knew. Guess we all grow up eventually.
***
“Again!” Chloe Bradenton shouts out through her blood-red megaphone with “captain” written on it in white lettering. Yeah, like I didn’t see that one coming.
My new partner, Lora Russell, and I exchange glances, and she rolls her eyes. I give her the “Don’t look at me, I didn’t vote for her” glare and wipe my sweaty palms down the side of my navy blue athletic shorts as I’m trying to catch my breath from the dance routine we’ve been practicing for the last two hours.
When we first arrived at Brittney’s, there was the whole hugging and laughing and drinking Diet Cokes stage, followed by a secret ballot for captain. I voted for Lora, since I’ve thought for the past two years she was the best cheerleader PHS had. She actually understands the game of football and knows what cheers to start when. But Chloe took it in a seven to five vote. Think she voted for herself? So, imagine my surprise and delight when newly crowned captain, Chloe, assigned Lora Russell to be my flyer because Chloe wanted Lora’s former flyer partner, Melanie Otto, to be her flyer. So, now, Lora’s retraining as a flyer from being a base. It’s a bit of a mess, all to accommodate Chloe and her desires. Whatever. The terminology and politics. What can I do?
Lora bends over and puts her hands on her knees to catch her breath.
“Is she always this bitchy?” I ask.
Lora rolls her eyes. “Welcome to the squad.”
Chloe snaps at everyone, and, I swear, I think Tara Edwards is going to cry. Poor freshman. “We’ll stay here all day until we get these moves right, ladies!”
I snicker at the situation. When most kids my age are busy spending their summers traveling with their family to cool places, going to Disney World or visiting relatives, possibly even touring potential college campuses, I’m standing in Brittney Alexander’s yard sweating like some sort of farm animal and gyrating to a Techno beat like a spastic reject from the Pussycat Dolls.
But I won’t complain. Like the McDonald’s slogan, I’m lovin’ it!
And I think it’s awesome that I’m paired up with Lora. We’re going to be a great match.
Speaking of loving it, Chloe adores the power she wields over our cheerleading world. The movie Bring It On was right in terming it a “cheerocracy.” Chloe is the head dictator.
And so it begins.
For the next two weeks of practice, Chloe is the task master, keeping us on point. While she’s helpful with the dance routines, jumps, and moves, she tolerates me at best. I’m working hard, sweating as much as the rest of them, and getting stronger. I lift Lora over my head as if we’ve been doing it for years. Chloe laid out the intense, aggressive summer practice schedule, and she let us pick which PHS uniform to retire and which new one to purchase. (We ditched the ugly midriff-revealing white sweater and split skirt and went for a new crisscross back with a straight front skirt. Totally chic.) At the end of the second week, her mother served the team a mega-welcoming formal tea and made everyone matching hand-painted water bottles decorated with our names, our graduation year, and the Patriots’ logo. You’d think Chloe could take a page from her mother’s book of hospitality and friendliness.
Thing is, cheerleading is serious business. Chloe is the boss, and we are her minions. And she’s still not a hundred percent convinced that the band geek can cut it on the varsity cheerleader squad. Even though I made the team, I still feel as if I have to prove myself over and over and over to the girls who’ve been around the last couple of years. But I’ve got the stamina, the fortitude, and the drive to be the best cheerleader I can be. So, I wipe away the perspiration, tighten my ponytail, and get back to the physical grindstone.
Cheerleading is work. But it’s well worth the effort. It’s what I’ve always wanted, and I can’t wait for the first football game so I can be down on the field, close to the action, and in front of the crowd, showing my school spirit.
I saw this article online from ABC News that said cheerleading is the world’s most dangerous sport with the most injuries. Seriously... people have been paralyzed doing stunts; some have even died. I totally believe it. Hell, just last week, Samantha Fowler got these nasty-ass grass burns on both elbows from Lauren Compton and Ashlee Grimes not scooping her properly on a cradle out. Good thing Melanie Otto’s lawn is so finely manicured and packed with lush, cushy grass. Samantha could have really hurt herself.
Pain is part of the game.
And it’s something I have to confess to my partner.
Lora’s stringing new laces in her Nikes when I plop down next to her with a half-drunk bottle of Gatorade. “I hate to admit it, but my left leg is really sore.”
She peers at me through her blond bangs. “Did you pull a muscle or something?”
I shrug. “Not sure. I started feeling it last night. I’ll just slap a little Bengay on it when I get home from practice.”
With a small laugh, Lora says, “With the way we practice, everything throbs.”
I take a sip and return the cool bottle to my sore left calf muscle. “My eyelashes and hair even hurt.”
“Should we tell Chloe?”
I drain the remaining blue liquid and chuck the bottle over toward my gym bag. “Nah. It’s nothing. I’m sure it’ll go away. I’m certainly not giving Chloe a reason to bag on me.”
“Gotcha. Just keep me posted,” Lora says sweetly.
See, there’s more to cheerleading than the cute uniform and the instant popular
ity. I love the physical challenge. I’ve already lost six pounds (mostly water weight from sweating since I’m not fat at all), and my muscles, while cursing at me inwardly, are toned and strengthened and ready for more work.
Two measures in to the Daft Punk mix, Chloe stops the action.
“Hayley,” Chloe calls out. “You’ve got to watch Hannah next to you and not get out in front of her during the routine.”
She says it nicely enough, but there’s an underlying “you idiot” implied in the undertone.
I catch my breath and nod. “You got it, Chloe.”
“Madison, you’re a half beat off,” she continues.
I push my damp hair out of my face, wishing I’d brought a couple of bobby pins for the loose wispies. Seriously, it’s a huge distraction when my hair is sticking to my skin. All us cheerleaders have long hair. It’s a good thing, because Chloe literally has a schedule for the fall of how we’ll wear our hair for each game: high ponytail, bun, messy bun, French braid, back with barrettes—you name it, she’s got it planned out.
I think if anyone got a bob or short do, our captain would kick her off the team.
Chloe claps her hands together. “From the top.”
The music cranks back up and I jump to action.
Kick, step, kick, pop.
Swing, lunge, clap, clap.
Stretch, crouch, spread, jump.
Oww . . . left leg hurts . . .
Pump, pump, pump, pump.
Bend, turn, pop, lock.
Crunk, crunk, spin, juke.
Ouch . . . Ouch . . .
“Good! Better!” Chloe hollers over the music. “Y’all got it. Go, go, go!”
To see Chloe Bradenton this happy with the new squad this early on means we’re doing something right. It means I’m doing something right. When the music stops, we all clap and cheer for ourselves. Chloe walks up and down the line, smiling and nodding with great pleasure.
“Perfect, as always, Brittney,” she says. “And Tara, good form. Watch your elbows and keep them closer to your body. You’ve got the routine down.” Madison gets a high-five, Ashleigh and Ashlee get fist bumps, and then the captain stops in front of me.
My chest heaves up and down from the exertion as the adrenaline continues to flow like a raging river through my veins. Please don’t tell me I suck.
Chloe flattens her lips into an indiscernible expression. Dare I call it a smile? “Yo. Band geek,” she snaps.
Great. Will I be stuck with that moniker all year? “Yeah?” I ask with a bit of disgust tinting my tone.
A half grin crooks the corner of her mouth and she nods approvingly. “Strong dancing, good timing, and on top of that, it looks like you’re having fun.” She pauses dramatically and then says, “Maybe you’re not a band geek anymore. Go high on me.”
Seriously?
Chloe raises her hand and I do the same. High-five.
Just like that, I feel like I might actually belong.
Chapter Four
Know, then, whatever cheerful and serene
Supports the mind supports the body too.
—John Armstrong
Are you limping?” Mom asks with concern painted across her forehead when I walk into the house later that afternoon. The smell of her famous forty-cloves-of-garlic roasted chicken fills the very air around me, and I involuntarily drool.
Spent and exhausted, but button-popping proud of myself, I drop my duffle to the kitchen tile and collapse into the nearby wing chair. “Not really. I think I have blisters on my blisters, however.”
I carefully kick off my Nikes and white footies and squiggle my feet around to loosen them up. A small fiery pain shoots up my left leg, and I massage my ankle to work loose the apparent charley horse. I hope that’s all it is.
Mom chortles at me, but the motherly worry is still there. “You’re not overdoing it, are you Hayley?”
“It is what it is, Mom,” I say with a smile. As she hands me a cold bottle of water from the fridge, I regale her with deets of the day, including how Melanie’s mother had Tastee Town cater our lunch with fried chicken, potato salad, and corn on the cob. “We each host a week of practice,” I tell her. “Mine is next week.”
She cracks the oven door to peer in at the roasting chicken and then closes it. “Sweetie, I hope you don’t expect me to order catering for your friends.”
“Of course not,” I agree. Then I waggle my tongue at her. “But maybe you can make a batch of your yummy egg salad?”
With a wink, Mom says, “We can work something out.”
Dad walks in, seeming tired and exhausted in his own way. He plops a stack of mail on the kitchen table and lets out a long burst of air.
“What’s wrong, Jared?” Mom asks.
He rubs his head. “Nothing. Everything. Nothing to worry about, Nan.”
“Right, Dad,” I say. “And she’ll quit breathing, too.”
Mom gives him “the look,” the one that says he had better tell her what’s wrong... or else.
Dad nods. “The numbers are low so far this month for the store. Slow economy, you know. People don’t need hammers and nails as much. At least, not ours.”
“I would think in a slow economy, people would be doing a lot of DIY projects,” I chime in.
Mom doesn’t give up. “What about bridal registries for the summer wedding season?”
Dad reaches for his reading glasses and begins shuffling through the mail. “They’ve got Crate and Barrel, Macy’s, and everyone else online for that.”
“I should come back to the store and work.”
“Now, Nan, don’t start that again. I’m doing perfectly fine with—”
Pacing the kitchen, Mom says, “I knew it. I knew it. I told you, Jared. Last fall when Homestead Hardware built their super center out on the highway, I knew this would affect our business.”
He holds his hands up. “Now don’t go jumping to conclusions. A lot of the businesses in downtown are hurting. We’re not out on the highway where you get the college foot traffic and the people on their way to the beach in Florida.”
I down the water in about three gulps and then toss the plastic bottle into the blue recycle bin by the back door. This seems like the ideal time to leave the parentals and make myself scarce. Family finances shouldn’t be my business. “I’m gonna go take a shower,” I announce. “Lora and I are going to the movies tonight after dinner.”
“I think it’s sweet that you’re spending so much time with your new partner. But what about Shelly? Are you not hanging out anymore?”
“She’s in Mobile this summer with her dad, and then she’s going to summer music camp. It’s not a bad thing, Mom. We just have different interests now.”
“Leave her be, Nan,” Dad says from over the top of his American Express bill that seems as thick as the last young adult novel I read.
“Don’t be out late,” Mom says quickly, taking her eyes from Dad’s for only a second. Then she adds, “And take your cell phone. That thing’s been buzzing all afternoon.”
Damn! I forgot I’d left it in the charger overnight and didn’t take it with me to Melanie’s today. I wonder who’s been calling.
I hobble over to the phone, and thoughts of Matthews Hardware Store battling a corporate giant fade away. I nearly swoon when I see the name on the caller ID:
Delafield, Daniel S.
“Omigod, omigod, omigod!” I repeat over and over as I stare at the number.
“Is everything okay?”
I can’t exactly talk to my mom about boys. I mean, sure, we had the whole “how babies are born” talk over a plate of heart-shaped pancakes when I turned thirteen and everything—which took a bigger toll on her than it did on me—but she’s like forty-eight years old and totally ancient. She and Dad have been married forever and have three kids. She’s my mom. She’s not a girlfriend to share secrets with. She’s the woman who birthed me, changed my diapers, and now houses and feeds me. I’m not saying that’s bad or she�
�s bad or untrustworthy—we’re just from different worlds.
“Everything’s awesome. Just cheerleading stuff,” I say, brushing aside the fact that Daniel Delafield has been calling me. How did he even get my number? “I’ll be back down for dinner.”
I bolt up the stairs, two at a time, scaring the crap out of my cat Leeny, who was napping in the sunshine at the very top. Once behind the door to my personal sanctuary, I fling myself onto the quilted bed on my stomach and immediately dial my voice mail.
“You have three new messages,” the lady with the calming voice says. Does she not understand she needs to be a little more psyched when delivering this news to me?
“Received at 3:43 p.m.—Hey, Hayley . . . This is Danny. Daniel Delafield, you know. Got your number from Lora. There’s a pool party tonight over at Justin Agace’s house. Thought you might want to come and hang out, you know, whatever. It’d be cool. Call me back or text me.”
Danny? And he’s inviting me to a party?
“Next message, received at 4:21 p.m.—Hey, Hayley . . . Danny again. I guess you’re at cheerleading practice. Phillip and I rode by Melanie’s house and saw all the cars. Listen, the party at Justin’s starts at seven, so hope to see you there.”
Wow. He, like, seriously wants me there. Awesome casserole!
“Next message, received at 4:57 p.m.—Hayley . . . Me again. Don’t think I’m stalking you or anything. Will Hopkins has the hots for your girl, Lora. Bring her along with you tonight. We’ll help hook them up, too.”
Too? Hook them up... too? Does that mean Daniel wants to hook up with me?
My heart stops. Well, not really. But hyperventilation is surely on the horizon for me. Breathe . . . breathe . . . breathe . . . Who can be calm at a time like this? My high school dreams are about to come true. The hot hottie of all hotties at Polk High School wants to get with me. Me!
I text Lora . . .
FORGET THE MOVIE. WE R PARTYING W/DANIEL & WILL @AGACE’S!
WHAT?
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