by Nancy Warren
Her eyes looked huge and somehow sultry. Her skin glowed and her cheekbones glinted with some kind of bronze sparkly stuff. Her mouth looked coppery and wet, though she knew it wasn’t water but some multistep process that had involved two shades of lipstick and a lining pencil.
To top it off, her brows and lashes were darkened.
She looked…She was so amazed, she said the word out loud. “Pretty.”
Cinderella’s fairy godmother couldn’t have looked more proud. “Oh, no. No. Not pretty, my dear. Beautiful.”
Tess, who’d disappeared when the doorbell rang a quarter of an hour earlier, now came in with an armload of mostly black exercise clothing and grinned. “Now you look more like a cheerleader.”
Harriet nodded, feeling a blush heat her cheeks.
“Mom.” She gave the older woman a quick hug. “You are a genius. And look at all this stuff Caro brought over. Come in, Caro. You don’t mind, do you Harriet?”
What could she say? She shook her head, even though her stomach was wobbly at having yet another fairy godmother, or sister or cousin or whatever fairy role the younger women were playing.
She’d only ever seen Caro at the office, and they’d never been introduced. A few weeks ago, Harriet had stopped seeing Caro at all and had heard through the gossip vine that the publisher and his wife had separated. Harriet was less shocked than some since she’d worked there less than a year, but even so they’d seemed like a perfect couple to her.
“I hope you don’t mind me coming in. It sounds like you’re having so much fun,” said the woman herself, entering the bathroom.
Harriet’s first thought was that marital separation didn’t agree with Caro. A former model, she still looked as elegant, and as coolly beautiful as ever, but, where she’d always been model-slim, she was now hovering on the hostile border between svelte and skinny.
Then she smiled, and Harriet couldn’t imagine any man, even handsome and successful publisher, Jonathon Kushner, ever letting her go. “You look wonderful, Harriet,” she said. Harriet felt flattered to think Jon’s wife had noticed her before today. Tactful and classy, she cast an experienced eye over Harriet’s figure and bit her lower lip. “I hope something fits. You’re more, um, voluptuous than I am.”
“Everything will stretch,” said Tess with the breezy determination that made her one of the Standard’s top reporters. “Come on, Harriet. Let’s see what works.”
She ended up in black dance tights courtesy of Caro and a black top from Tess’s mother, who also took Pilates but was bigger in the bust than Caroline. It was really just a fancy sports bra as far as Harriet could tell and it left little to the imagination.
“I can’t wear this in public,” she cried, gazing down at the firm mounds of her breasts rising from the bra like overrisen bread.
“Wow,” Tess said. “I never knew you had so much, um, cleavage.”
Instinctively, Harriet crossed her hands over her chest and dived for her pale blue Shetland sweater.
“Stop!” said Rose.
She stopped.
“You’ve got to learn to make the most of your assets, Harriet,” she said. Picking up the big soft brush she’d used to put the bronze sparkle on her cheeks, Rose dashed some of the sparkly powder across Harriet’s exposed, blushing chest.
“There, that’s better. Now stand up straight. You look lovely.”
Harriet caught Caro’s eye and of all places to see sympathy, she read it in the woman’s cool blue gaze. “I remember feeling exposed a few times when I was modeling. You look fine, but if you really think you’re half naked…”
Harriet nodded frantically.
Caro nodded in understanding and hunted through the pile of stuff to pull out yet another black stretchy item. “Here, put this over top. But remember, attitude is half the battle.”
Harriet thankfully donned the garment, careful not to muss her hair, and found herself in a sleeveless dance wrap that covered a bit more of her breasts but left her belly bare. Somehow she didn’t think she was going to get any more cover-ups so she did her best to straighten her shoulders and summon some “attitude.”
The three makeover mavens glanced at her, then at each other, smiled and nodded. “Perfect,” they said in unison.
Harriet wasn’t at all certain she was anywhere near perfect, but they’d been nice to help her and, besides, she’d run out of time.
“Can you drive me back to the newspaper and I’ll pick up my car?” she asked Tess.
“No way. I’m not missing out on all the fun. I’m going with you to watch the audition.”
“Well, you’re certainly not leaving me behind,” exclaimed her mother.
“Or me,” said Caro.
The quartet spilled down the stairs giggling like schoolgirls, and ran for Tess’s car.
Harriet had been so wrapped up in her transformation she’d forgotten to be nervous. But now, as the car neared the Pasqualie auditorium, her stomach cramped with nerves. She started to pant like an overheated dog.
“Breathe, dear,”
“Yes, Mrs. Elliot,” she panted.
“Please, you’re wearing my bra. Call me Rose.”
Harriet choked on a laugh. “Thanks for everything…Rose.” She turned to glance at both of the younger women. “And you guys, too. I can’t believe you did this for me.”
Her happy bubble just about popped when they pulled into the stadium parking lot. There were an awful lot of cars there, and seven or eight young women heading toward the auditorium reminded her so strongly of the cheerleaders in high school that she wanted to turn around and bolt.
“I think I’m going to be sick.”
“Nonsense,” said Rose. “You’ll muss your hair.”
“I should go home and put on something else,” she said desperately to Caro. “I don’t want to sweat on your stuff.”
“It’s sweat. It’ll launder.”
From thinking of the three women as fairy godmothers, she now saw them as a trio of Mafia heavies frog-marching her to certain doom. They didn’t leave her until she’d given her name at the registration table and received a number. Harriet tried to pin it so it covered her cleavage, but Rose grabbed it and pinned it to her waistband.
“Good luck,” said Rose.
“Break a leg,” said Tess, giving her a quick hug.
“I admire you for this,” said Caro, surprising her most of all.
Then she was alone. But it was too late to run.
5
THE AUDITION HALL was Harriet’s worst nightmare. She’d never seen so much lip gloss in one place.
She was sent to the “dressing room,” which was a fairly large meeting room that had been converted for the tryouts. There were mirrors, outlets for curling irons, even an ironing board and a small table with hairpins and safety pins.
Harriet inhaled deeply and nearly choked on the sweet sticky pall of hairspray hanging in the air.
Young women were chatting in groups, giggling nervously, fluttering, adding last-minute touches to their makeup, switching hair clips.
Blue exercise mats were scattered across the wooden floor and some of the other contestants stretched and bounced on those. It seemed like a good idea to limber up; besides, it might stretch out the huge knot in her stomach.
She ought to act reporterly and chat to the other hopefuls, but she was too darn nervous. To Harriet, this wasn’t a lark. She wasn’t a reporter going “undercover” for an insider’s look at cheerleading. This was her last chance to fulfill a lifelong ambition.
Steve had told her to listen to chitchat and to get a sense of the atmosphere before telling anyone she was a reporter, so by standing here mute and bashful she was actually following instructions.
Not that she could take in a word, or describe the atmosphere in any terms other than terrifying.
“All right, girls!” A woman who glowed with perkiness bounced in. “Is everybody ready?”
“Yes!” shouted everyone but Harriet it see
med. She would have shouted, too, but her tongue had just become paralyzed. She hoped like heck it was a localized paralysis or she was in big trouble.
Move, she told her feet. She glanced down in panic. Had someone nailed them to the floor?
Nobody else seemed to have that problem. They all bounced, giggled, danced and tumbled out the door.
She’d have called for help but her tongue was still numb.
Dreadful moments passed when she saw her dream vaporize, her closest-held wishes smash like crystal under a hammer.
She looked at her hand, welded to the barre and thought of all the countless hours she’d pirouetted, stretched, leaped and practiced, practiced, practiced. It had led her here, all the ballet and the gymnastics, the summer jazz and trampoline camps. Here to this moment and her chance.
Her last chance.
It was hopeless. Even though she could feel the sweat building under her palm, she couldn’t get her fingers to uncurl from the smooth wood rail. A quiver broke out on her upper lip and humiliation washed over her in a tidal wave.
“What’s going on?”
She jumped at the sound of Steve’s voice as familiar as it was dreaded. “What are you still doing back here?” he asked.
“How did you get in?” she asked in a ghost of her normal voice.
He flashed his press card. “Came to check on my undercover agent.”
Harriet gave a final desperate tug on her hand, but it might as well have belonged to someone else for all the notice it took of any messages her brain sent.
“I can’t do it.” She moaned. “I can’t go out there.”
He was behind her in an instant. In the mirror above the barre she watched him watching her face. Instead of derision, she saw understanding, even sympathy. Or was that pity? She could stand anything but pity.
She narrowed her eyes at him just as she felt his hands drop, warm and solid, onto her shoulders.
“I know,” he said, squeezing the boulders of tension in her shoulders, and sending her an enigmatic look. “It’s no big deal. If you can’t do it, you can’t.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Forget about it,” he said heartily. “I never thought you could do it. Cheerleading takes a lot of physical strength and talent. It’s not just tossing pompoms around and saying ‘Go team’ anymore.”
“I know, but I’m—”
He slapped her on the back. “Don’t sweat it. Stand at the side and watch them and you can interview the candidates as they’re disqualified.”
Stand on the side and watch. Hadn’t she been doing that most of her life?
Watching while other girls got all the attention. Watching from the sidelines while guys like Steve chased after women with perky breasts and limp brains. Maybe it was her turn to shine for once.
Her spine straightened and she raised her chin. Wasn’t it better to fall on her face at least knowing she’d tried than to give up before she got started? Attitude, Caro had said. How hard could that be?
“I’m going out there.” She took a deep breath and suddenly everything was moving at once. Attitude, huh? She’d show Steve so much attitude his eyes would bug out.
She yanked the dance sweater thing off and tossed it at him, pulled herself up straight, fluffed her hair and pasted on a smile that only wobbled at the corners.
“You can watch from the sidelines,” she told Steve with false confidence.
Then she noted that his jaw had dropped and he sported a peculiar expression.
The false confidence fled in an instant and she stared down at herself in apprehension. “What? Is something wrong?”
He just stared at her, his gaze scanning her from top to toe with the oddest expression on his face, as though she’d just turned into an alien in front of his eyes. “No,” he said at last, his voice sounding oddly strained. “There’s nothing wrong.” He cleared his throat. “Nothing at all.”
“Well…” She glanced down again, turned her back to the mirror and craned her neck over her shoulder for a rear view. Everything looked tucked in and neat. “If you’re sure.”
“You look terrific.” He pulled himself together and gave her a grin. “Gorgeous, in fact. I never knew…” He shook his head. “Knock ’em dead, babe.”
She nodded, oddly reassured that he was there then skipped out to the rock-concert size wooden stage where the other women were being placed in order. Another perky woman with a big smile checked Harriet’s number and took her to a spot about two-thirds of the way back.
Nerves jiggled in her stomach and she looked toward the stage entrance to see Steve lounging in the doorway, his gaze on her. He gave her a thumbs-up, and somehow it gave her courage. The overhead lights glinted on Steve’s glasses and she reminded herself that her dream was in reach while he’d never had a chance at his. She had to do this—for both of them.
A scary-looking woman in a Braves’ tracksuit appeared at the front of the stage with a megaphone.
“I’m Betty Lederhammer and I’m the choreographer and cheerleader director of the Bravehearts. I want you all to welcome our girls.”
There was general hooting and clapping as the squad bounded out in their spangly blue-and-silver uniforms. Envy smote Harriet’s heart. She wanted one of those uniforms more than she’d ever wanted anything in her life.
“All right, girls. Watch closely. The cheerleaders are going to do a routine. Then we’ll teach you and see how well you can do it. Don’t worry about those people roving around with clipboards, they’re helping us judge the talent out there. So put on your best smile and your best foot forward!”
Harriet held her breath as the high-energy music boomed out with a beat that made you want to dance and cheer, and she watched carefully as the cheerleaders went through a simple routine, one she’d seen on their video and practiced dozens of times as, she was certain, had all the other contestants. It wasn’t a long routine, and it wasn’t difficult. They went through it a second time then each cheerleader took her place in one of the lines.
The woman in Harriet’s line was the former Miss Georgia Peach. Merely looking at her in all her blue and sparkly glory brought all Harriet’s insecurities rushing back, until the woman glanced down the line, giving them all her beauty contestant smile. Her eyes widened slightly when she saw Harriet. “Good luck, y’all,” she said, and Harriet was so thrilled to be recognized, she fully believed Miss Georgia Peach meant it.
But it wasn’t luck that was going to help her tonight, she reminded herself, it was all the years of work. Whether she’d consciously realized it or not, she’d never stopped training for this moment.
She was as ready as she was ever going to be.
The music started up. “And, five, six, seven, eight!” The coach boomed and they were off. She strutted up and down, giving it her all, going through the routine in her head.
Remember to smile, Harriet told herself.
As she tried to put a smile on her face she discovered it was already there. She was having fun!
Suddenly it didn’t matter that she’d probably be knocked out after the first round; here she was, for this one moment in time, dancing with the Bravehearts.
She had maybe two minutes and she gave it all she had, seeing in her mind’s eye not a hundred other women in exercise gear, but the roaring crowds in the stands. She could practically feel the swirl of her blue-and-silver skirt.
The music wound down and she found herself jumping with a whoop, clapping and waving to the imaginary crowd of fans.
She caught herself with a blush, only to find the woman with the megaphone staring at her, a “You betcha!” grin on her face. “That’s the way to show the team spirit. Yeah! Woo!”
Woo-oo! shouted her inner cheerleader, a grin on her own face. “That was so much fun,” she said to the young woman beside her, who gave her an anxious smile.
“I guess.”
The real cheerleaders jogged forward, along with the other six women and two men who’d been wandering aro
und with their clipboards, observing and making notes. They all huddled with the coach while the contestants chatted nervously, paced, ran for their water bottles. After what seemed like an eternity, the megaphone squealed. “All right. Listen for your number, girls,” the woman bellowed. She called out a list of numbers.
Harriet waited, feeling the euphoria settle to a contented glow. She’d done it. For two minutes she’d felt like a real cheerleader. She hadn’t fallen on her face, or embarrassed herself, Steve or the Standard.
As the numbers were called, some jumped up and down and clapped. Some hooted, most merely stood silent.
Her number wasn’t called, but that was okay, she’d never expected to get further than the first round. She’d shown up and she’d given it her best. For that she’d always be proud.
She turned toward where Steve was still standing, and shrugged, letting him see by her huge smile that she was just happy to have had the chance. He grinned and gave her a wink.
Then a remarkable thing happened.
“Thank you very much, ladies. Those whose numbers I called are free to go.”
Harriet’s jaw dropped.
Steve’s didn’t. He nodded to her as though he’d expected her to do well.
The megaphone woman had called out the numbers of those who hadn’t made it to the semifinals. So, if Harriet’s number hadn’t been called, then it meant…
She’d made the first cut.
The field was now down to fifty and this time they were taught a cheer that was a little more challenging.
Harriet forgot to feel nervous, instead adrenaline and excitement coursed through her body as she watched carefully, still riding the high of knowing she’d made it to the second round.
Whatever happened, she’d always remember this day.
6
STEVE COULDN’T TAKE his eyes off Harriet. He removed his glasses, polished them on the bottom of his shirt and put them back on, but she still looked amazing.
He was no expert on female stuff, but he couldn’t get over the changes. Her hair, which normally hung straight, swirled around her shoulders like hot silk, catching the light and gleaming crimson, gold and bronze. He wouldn’t have known hair could go from boring to sexy, but today he’d discovered it could.