“Omigod,” Sara agreed. “I know.”
As Manda and Sara debated the attributes that makes one “cheer material” (not sitting at the square tables near the kitchen FOR SURE), Hope caught my eye.
“Bee-Eff-Effs,” she mouthed.
Hope made me laugh for the second time this entire nerve-racking, nauseating day.
“There!” Sara shouted as if she had just spotted a wildebeest. “She’s right there!”
And all our heads swiveled toward the square tables near the kitchen.
“The one who looks like a ‘before’ photo?” Manda cracked.
As much as I hated to admit it, Dori did kind of resemble a classic makeover candidate. She had limp brown hair and wore no makeup. And she seemed to care even less about fashion than I did, favoring sweaters hand-knit by her grandma that overwhelmed her tiny frame. But with her flawless complexion and piercing green eyes, Dori was nowhere near ugly. She was just, um… pre-pretty.
“Sheesh! She’s right!” Bridget slapped her hand to her forehead. “That’s Dori Sipowitz! I hadn’t even noticed her!”
No one notices grape jelly.
“She must think I’m the worst friend ever! We have to say hello!” Bridget was already up and on her way over. “3ZNUF! 4EVA!”
Now this was just too much for Manda and Sara to handle.
“Three zee wha?” they asked each other.
“Jess! Come on!”
Bridget bopped up and down with impatience. Her cute little move drew applause from the nearby table of football players. Burke Roy led the fist-pumping chant.
“Bee-Em-Bee! Bee-Em-Bee!”
She spun around to face them. Gone were the days when Bridget was totally oblivious to the boys’ mating calls.
“Sheeeeeeeesh!” Bridget squealed. “You guuuuuuuys!” She made a point to swat Burke Roy extra hard on the shoulder.
This distraction was all it took for Manda and Sara to get a jump on the Dori Sipowitz situation.
“Come on, girls,” Manda said. “Let’s wish Dori luck!”
Notice she didn’t specify what kind of luck.
Sara didn’t hesitate. “Omigod! Totally!”
The two of them stood side by side and stared down me and Hope.
“So?”
Hope barely looked up from her doodles.
“This is cheer business,” she said. “I’m out.”
That left me. Alone.
“You heard her,” Manda said. “This is cheer business.”
“Come onnnnn,” Sara whined.
It was a nastily accurate imitation of Bridget, who had totally forgotten about Dori Sipowitz and was now removing the PJHS baseball cap that Burke Roy had pulled down over her eyes.
“Come onnnnnn.…”
I tried to reason with Manda and Sara.
“It can’t really be cheer business when we’re not even on the team.…”
“Yet!” Manda and Sara said at the same time.
Then these two girls who HATED EACH OTHER ALL DAY high-fived because they were so in sync.
“Bee-Eff-Effs!”
Ack.
I cast a quick glance at Dori. She was animatedly telling her friend a story as she zipped up her lunch tote. I bet she brought her lunch every day to avoid the whole cafeteria line-cutting pecking order. That’s why I was a bringer. And though I didn’t know for sure, I’m willing to bet it’s why Hope was a bringer, too.
Manda and Sara were tap-tap-tapping their feet, keeping a furious tempo.
“Comonnnnnnn.…”
I wish I could say that this was when I grew a backbone. When I stood tall and strong enough to say, Hey, Dori doesn’t deserve to be psyched out before tryouts just because you don’t like her, which is stupid because you’ve never even met her and the thing is that I actually do know her and she’s supernice if, okay, a little boring, but you know what? That’s not even fair for me to say—maybe she isn’t boring anymore—but I have no idea because I haven’t bothered to get to know her again, which almost—almost—makes me as judgmental as you two are.…
And maybe I would have. I’d like to think I would have. But I was saved by the eighth-period bell.
Dori was saved, too. She was already out the door before Manda and Sara had an opportunity to prey upon her vulnerability.
I was gathering up my stuff when Hope tapped me on the shoulder and asked a simple yet complex question.
“Why?”
There were a bazillion questions within that three-letter word. Why are you trying out for the CHEER TEAM!!!? was the most obvious and with the most straightforward answer. (IT List #2: Make the CHEER TEAM!!!) Others included: Why am I friends with these girls? (IT List #4: Stick with the IT clique.) Why am I watching Bridget flirt with Burke? (IT List #3: Pick your first boyfriend wisely.) Why did I borrow this shirt from Bridget even though it keeps riding up because my torso is way too long? (IT List #1: Wear something different every day.)
And yet, at that moment, the answer I actually gave Hope also could have served as the correct response to the most common question I’d been asking myself since the last day of summer: Why does Bethany’s IT List matter so much to me?
“Why?” Hope repeated when I didn’t say anything right away.
“I don’t know,” I said finally. “I just don’t know.”
Chapter Fifteen
Ack.
Not even Bridget could put a positive spin on my CHEER TEAM!!! tryout. Let’s put it this way: Losing my hand in Woodshop would have been less traumatizing than what just happened in the gym.
This is one of those stories where the teller is like, “You don’t want to hear this story,” and the listener is like, “Of course I want to hear the story,” and the teller is like, “Seriously, you don’t want to hear this story because it’s a terrible story where terrible things happen,” and the listener is like, “I REALLY WANT TO HEAR THIS STORY SO JUST TELL ME THE STORY,” and the teller is like, “Fine, I will,” and tells the story and when it’s all over the listener is superdepressed and like, “Wow, I wish you hadn’t told me that terrible story,” and the teller is like, “See? I told you so,” but doesn’t feel very good about it.
And yet, part of me thinks that by telling the terrible, traumatizing tale of CHEER TEAM!!! tryouts, I might be less haunted by its memory for years to come.
I certainly can’t imagine feeling any worse about it than I already do.
So. Here it goes.
The day started out okay. Bridget offered me more last-minute tips on the bus to school.
“I believe you’re a base! You have to believe it, too!”
It was nice to know that there was one person in the world who believed in me so completely. Even if such believing was of the Tooth Fairy/Easter Bunny variety. I was reminded of Mr. Pudel’s inspirational song.
“Beeeeee the base,” I sang to Bridget. “Beeeeee the base.”
I expected Bridget to laugh, or even to sing along with me. So I was taken by surprise when she ducked low and yanked me down with her.
“Shhhhhhh!” Bridget hissed.
“Ouch! I need that arm!”
I was annoyed and yet I still couldn’t help but think that a broken arm would be a valid excuse for not participating in the CHEER TEAM!!! Or Woodshop, for that matter.
“Shhhh! Burke Roy might hear you! And that would be, like, so embarrassing!”
This coming from a girl who recently showed up at my house in a fake mustache and shouted at me in a bad Eastern European accent? I almost said as much, but that’s when Bridget popped her head back up and gave Burke Roy a cheery little wave that—I don’t know—made me feel… well… pretty darn cheerless, which is not a good way to feel on the day you’re trying out for the CHEER TEAM!!!
So I got off the bus and spent the next eight periods trying not to puke.
No matter how hard Manda and Sara tried to project coolness, they were obviously as nervous as I was. Manda put so much effort into forcing a smile on
her face that she looked like an insane jack-o’-lantern. And Sara only spoke when called on in class. I honestly didn’t think Sara was capable of keeping her mouth shut for eight seconds let alone eight classes. And when Bridget and Dori Sipowitz didn’t show up for lunch, I assumed that it had something to do with them being freaked out about tryouts, too.
I didn’t find Bridget and couldn’t persuade Manda and Sara to speed up their primping in the locker room, so I went to the tryouts alone. The gym was full of restless ponytailed girls—some I sort of recognized, but mostly not—eager to get started and get done. They burned off their nervous energy by walking on their hands or jumping into full splits, you know, just mindlessly doing amazing things with their bodies that I could never, ever do in a bazillion years.
“Jess!”
I was so relieved to hear Bridget’s familiar voice, but I couldn’t find her in the crowd. The next thing I knew, she and another blur of a girl were cartwheeling, roundoffing, handspringing right at me. They landed in sync.
“3ZNUF!” Bridget chanted. “4EVA!”
Dori smiled shyly at me.
“Hey, Dori,” I said, still embarrassed by that first-day-of-school line cut.
“Sheesh, Jess! Dori is an even better gymnast than I remembered! We skipped lunch because she asked me to coach her before tryouts, but I was the one who really needed coaching!”
“You’re mondo,” Dori said to Bridget.
“No, you’re mondo!” Bridget said to Dori.
“No. Seriously. You’re mondo.”
And I was like, MONDO ISN’T EVEN A REAL WORD.
“Hello, ladies!” a peppy voice cut through the chatter. “I’m Miss Garcia!”
Aha. My sister’s friend. The girls in the gym went, “Whoooooooo!”
“Welcome to Pineville Junior High CHEER TEAM!!! tryouts!”
We all Whooooooooed! again.
Miss Garcia had a girlish, almost childlike voice. And yet she effortlessly commanded our attention without a microphone or even a megaphone.
She started a chant.
“WHO’S A-W-E?” [clap clap] “S-O-M-E?” [stomp stomp]
Every girl in that gym knew what to do.
“AWE-SOME.” [stomp stomp]
“AWE-SOME.” [clap clap]
“AWE-SOME ARE WE.” [stomp-clap, stomp-clap]
Every girl knew to do this. Except me. I just stood there like a slack-limbed dummy.
Then Miss Garcia did a bazillion flips to get from one side of the gym to the other. Apparently, this is a cheerleader’s favorite method of getting from one place to another. All the girls Whoooed again. Miss Garcia stuck the landing and gently patted her slicked-back ponytail. Not a single strand of glossy black hair was out of place.
“The word awesome means ‘to inspire awe,’ ” Miss Garcia said, clutching her fist to her chest. “And that’s what we do here on the CHEER TEAM!!! We make the impossible possible!”
As I looked around the room and saw Bridget’s and Dori’s and everyone else’s enraptured faces, it hit me: WHAT THE HECK WAS I DOING HERE?
The only thing more ridiculous than the IT List was my determination to follow it! Why couldn’t I just explain to Bethany that I wasn’t cheer material? The answer came easily. I couldn’t tell the truth because my sister would be disappointed by my dorkiness and go back to showing zero interest in my life.
I didn’t want that.
“We turn losers into winners!” Miss Garcia continued.
I also really, really didn’t want to try out for the CHEER TEAM!!! And even if I did muster the courage to go through with it, there was no way I was actually going to make it. Not with so many more twisty, bendy, perky girls to choose from.
“Dreamers into doers…”
I had to get out of there. And I’d almost inched my way to the exit without Miss Garcia or Bridget or anyone else noticing when the exit doors sprung open and slammed against the walls with a “look at us” BANG!
Manda and Sara were making their grand entrance.
While the rest of us were dressed in gym shorts and Pineville Junior High T-shirts as instructed, Manda and Sara were head to toe bedazzled in Pineville Junior High’s patriotic colors. Cheerleaders aren’t known for their subtlety, but there was waaaay too much red, white, and blue going on. It was like the Statue of Liberty and Uncle Sam had a baby and that baby barfed stars and stripes all over them.
So much for slipping out unnoticed. Miss Garcia came to an abrupt stop and pointed at Manda and Sara.
“Five laps.”
The sweetness in her voice was tinged with something else.
“Now.”
Poison.
Manda and Sara looked at each other, then looked around the room like, “What?”
“You and you,” said Miss Garcia. “Five minutes late. Five laps.”
And I honestly didn’t know if it was out of nervousness or obnoxiousness or what, but getting reprimanded in front of everyone made Manda and Sara laugh out loud. In an instant, Miss Garcia hustled over and got right in their faces.
“What are your names?”
Manda and Sara stopped laughing and told her their names.
“Well, Manda Powers and Sara D’Abruzzi,” Miss Garcia said, “you are dismissed.”
Manda and Sara laughed again. Until they realized that they were the only ones laughing.
“Puh-leeze,” Manda said. “You’re kidding, right?”
Miss Garcia said nothing.
“Omigod!” Sara yelped. “But we’re barely even late! And the only reason we were barely even late is because well—duh!—check out all this mondo cheer flair! You don’t see anyone else rocking so much cheer flair!”
“And I don’t see anyone else wasting my time either,” Miss Garcia replied before turning her back on them and returning to the middle of the room. “Now where was I?” she asked aloud. The poison in her voice was gone. It was pure sugar. “Oh yes! We turn chumps into champs.…”
And when it was clear to Manda and Sara that no amount of huffing and puffing would make Miss Garcia change her mind, they stormed out of the auditorium, leaving a trail of red, white, and blue glitter in their wake.
Bridget had found me again, and nudged me in the side.
“Whoa,” she mouthed, too intimidated to say it aloud.
Okay. I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, Jessica, you lied! This isn’t a terrible story at all! What’s there not to like about this story?
The terrible part of the story happened right after Sara and Manda were ejected, when Miss Garcia scanned the crowd and pointed a finger in my direction.
“You!” she said, perkier than ever. “You’re Bethany Darling’s sister! I’d recognize that special cheeritude anywhere!”
I’d already felt weird about having inside information about the Awesome Arrow or whatever it was. Now Miss Garcia was singling me out? I didn’t want this special treatment!
“Uh,” I stammered. “Yeah. I—”
Miss Garcia flinched. “No! Not you! The blonde!”
It was clear now that Miss Garcia wasn’t pointing at me after all.
“She’s a mini Bethany and future CHEER TEAM!!! captain if I ever saw one!”
She was pointing at Bridget.
“Sheesh! I’m so flattered!” Bridget’s cheeks burned red. “But I’m not Bethany’s sister!”
Then, in a move I might never forgive her for, she pushed me forward.
“This is Bethany’s sister! Jessica Darling!”
It lasted a millisecond, maybe. But I saw it. The look of disappointment followed by the look of someone trying to cover up her disappointment.
“Oh! You’re Jessica!” Miss Garcia gushed. “I see the resemblance!”
She did not see the resemblance. No one has ever seen the resemblance. It’s never really bothered me before, but it did then. Maybe because it was the first time someone had seen the gorgeous resemblance between my sister and my best friend.
Miss Ga
rcia gestured for me to come forward. I felt like my sneakers were filled with cement.
“Show us what you’ve got!”
Bridget gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up.
“Show us what you’ve got!”
Miss Garcia sure knew how to pump up a crowd. Almost instantly, the gym came alive with the chant.
“Show us what you’ve got!” [clap clap, clap clap]
Here’s the thing: The encouragement was strangely contagious. I know it sounds crazy, but my confidence soared at the sound of their cheers. Miss Garcia’s speech suddenly made perfect sense. Cheering made the impossible possible! Turned losers into winners! Dreamers into doers! Chumps into champs!
“SHOW US WHAT YOU’VE GOT!” [clap clap, clap clap]
I made my way to the end of the floor mat and prepared myself to show them what I had. Whatever that was.
Which, as it turns out, wasn’t very much.
So what was I thinking in these last moments before the disaster?
I had this idea that it might be helpful to approach my stunt according to General Principles of Physical Science. Maybe I could harness what my brain knew about motion, mass, and momentum into something my body could know, too. And with that mind-body knowledge, I’d execute the perfect aerial cartwheel on my first-ever attempt!
“Physical Science, don’t fail me now,” I whispered to myself before running across the mat, pushing off on the balls of my feet, propelling myself into the air…
WHAM!
Fireworks in my eyes. Bells in my ears. Blood in my nose.
The most spectacular, Olympic-level face flop of all time.
Silence. Pin-drop silence.
Followed by peals of laughter.
Bridget and Dori were the only ones who didn’t laugh. Everyone else laughed. My only small consolation was that Manda and Sara weren’t there to see it for themselves. I would have never heard the end of it.
Miss Garcia didn’t waste any time. She brusquely looked me over and determined that the only permanent damage I’d done was to my pride. She told Bridget and Dori to pull me to my feet and efficiently whipped out a tape measure.
“Five foot four,” she murmured. “And a quarter.”
I’d forgotten to slouch. Just a squinch.
I didn’t want Bridget and Dori to miss their tryouts on my account. I refused their offer to escort me back to the locker room.
The (Totally Not) Guaranteed Guide to Popularity, Prettiness & Perfection Page 8