THE GEEk GIRL’S GUIDE TO Cheerleading
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON PULSE
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
SIMON PULSE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Library of Congress Control Number 2008944280
ISBN-13: 978-1-4391-6433-4
ISBN-10: 1-4391-6433-9
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonandSchuster.com
For my cheerleaders: Bob, Andrew, Kyra, and Abby.
And for my mom, who never said a word about the pom-poms.
—C. T.
For Matthew—this book wouldn’t have made it without you.
And for Dr. Kerstin Stenson, the mighty Maureen Crowley,
and the Head and Neck Cancer Team at University of Chicago
Medical Center—Matthew wouldn’t have made it without you.
—D. V.
Contents
Acknowledgments
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Acknowledgments
Two! Four! Six! Eight! Who do we appreciate?
No one writes a novel—or makes the cheerleading squad—without a little help along the way. We’d like to thank:
Our parents for reading to us and for instilling in us a love of books.
Our families for putting up with countless hours of writing, revision, IM chats, and general preoccupation.
The Granada Drive Gang for helping us navigate the ever shifting landscape of what’s cool.
Cheer coach Jodie Slavik for reminding us that cheerleaders are people too and for teaching us the proper length of an insanely short skirt.
Our writing friends, especially those at Writers Village University, in particular Pat, Jen, Helen, Marli, Maria, and Dennis; all the gals in the Wet Noodle Posse; the Yahoo Teenlit Authors Group; and Sara Wealer.
Our fabulous agent(!), Mollie Glick, and our equally fabulous editor, Jennifer Klonsky, for guiding us through this process, providing feedback, and teaching us more about writing in one year than we’d learned in the previous ten.
A special thanks goes to Amy W. Without her—and her question to Charity on a cold day in November during French class—this book would not exist. That question? “Have you ever tried out for cheerleading?” The rest, as they say, is history. So, Amy? Thanks for asking.
1
LET YOUR SCHOOL SPIRIT SHINE!
Winter Varsity Cheerleading
Call-Out Meeting
Wednesday
3:15
Cafeteria
Go Panthers!!!!!
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a high school boy in possession of great athletic ability must be in want of…
A bowl of oatmeal.
At least on a cold November morning in Minnesota. And maybe a carton of orange juice on the side, but definitely not a girlfriend. Jack Paulson, mega basketball star and crush extraordinaire, did not date. Just ask any girl in the Prairie Stone High School junior class. The cheerleaders, the preps, the drama queens, the band crew, the art nerds, the skater chicks, the stoners, the loners, the freaks, the cool and the not-so-cool, all of them had tried.
Including me.
I was hoping to try again that day, if only my best friend, Moni, would show up already. Ever since her parents divorced and her dad moved to Minneapolis, it was like he took Moni’s punctuality with him. She’d been totally unreliable. So I wondered, could I pull it off? Could a lone geek girl linger by the cafeteria door in a casual manner? Not likely. You see, every school has a danger zone. At Prairie Stone, ours occupied the space in the lobby that was an equal distance between the cafeteria, the gym, and the girls’ bathroom. It was the spot where all the popular kids hung out. A place the rest of us tried to avoid. Moni and I called it the gauntlet.
We discovered that term last year, in word origins class. In case you’re wondering, gauntlet (noun) = a form of punishment where the victim must endure suffering from many sources at the same time. It comes from the Swedish word gatlopp. In Sweden, apparently, they used to punish reprobates (n. those who are predestined to damnation) by making them strip to the waist and then run between rows of soldiers who were armed with sticks and knotted ropes.
That sounded about right.
And so I stood at the edge of Prairie Stone’s gauntlet, close enough to the gym to sniff the delicate aroma of sweaty socks, near enough to the cafeteria to catch a whiff of oatmeal—and the promise of Jack Paulson. One more step and I would officially enter gauntlet girl territory.
Chantal Simmons, the queen of cool and gatekeeper of popularity at PSHS, stood at the apex of it all. She turned her head in my direction, her blond hair flowing in a way rarely seen outside of shampoo commercials. Her glance made me consider climbing the stairs to the balcony and crossing over the top instead of pressing my way through—but only a coward would do that.
Which is to say, I’ve done it plenty.
Chantal had a radar for weakness. One wrong move and she’d find yours and use it against you. Forget those sticks and knotted ropes. Chantal could annihilate the hopes and dreams of your average high school junior with just a whisper. And once upon a time, back in the dark ages of childhood and middle school, Chantal Simmons was someone I had told all my secrets to. In retrospect, that was kind of like arming a rogue nation with a nuclear bomb.
No risk, no reward, I told myself. If I wanted an early-morning glimpse of Jack Paulson (and I did, I really, really did), then I needed to cross into enemy territory. Alone. But before I could step over that invisible boundary, someone called my name. Someone short, with a mass of yellow corkscrew curls poking out beneath a QTπ cap.
“Bethany!” My best friend, Moni Fredrickson, bounded up to me, still in her winter jacket, her cheeks pink from cold and her glasses fogged. “Brian just called me on my cell,” she said. “They’re in the Little Theater. They have Krispy Kremes. Brian said he’d save us one each, but you know how that works.”
Of course I did. It is another truth universally acknowledged, that high school nerds in possession of a great number of Krispy Kremes must be in want of…
Nothing.
At least not until they shook out the last bit of sugary glaze from the box. Then it was total Lord of the Flies time while they searched for more. We had to get there before they tore Brian limb from limb. Moni pulled me along toward the Little Theater and away from the gauntlet. I glanced over my shoulder, sure Chantal was still glaring at me.
But she wasn’t. No one was. Not a single gauntlet girl or wannabe peered in my direction. Instead they’d all turned toward the cafeteria, eyes fixed on a tall, retreating figure—one with dark spiky hair and a Prairie Stone High letter jacket. Jack Paulson. He didn’t look back at me—not that I expected him to. But then, he didn’t acknowledge Chantal, either.
Jack Paulson = Totally Girlproof.
I stumbled along beh
ind Moni and wondered, What would a girl have to do to get a boy like that to notice her?
If there was such a thing as gauntlet girl territory at Prairie Stone, then the Little Theater was dork domain. Chantal Simmons might rule the lobby, but a few steps down the hall Todd Emerson (president of the chess club, co-captain of the debate team, editor of the school paper, and all-around boy genius) maintained a benevolent dictatorship over the academic superstars and the techies.
In other words, a bossier boy never lived.
Todd was Harvard bound. Or Yale bound. Well, certainly somewhere bound. Somewhere that was far snootier than (what I was sure he already thought of as) his humble beginnings. He was one of those kids who wouldn’t return for a school reunion until he managed to make a billion dollars or overthrow a minor country.
A bright purple and gold notice hung on the door to the theater, instructing all who entered to let your school spirit shine! and inviting us to attend a call-out meeting for the winter varsity cheerleading squad. As if. I passed through the doorway, gripped the handrail, and followed Moni down the small flight of steps, my eyes adjusting to the semidarkness.
The Little Theater had killer acoustics, something Todd took advantage of up on the stage.
“Can you believe they denied Carlson’s request for new desktop publishing software?” he thundered. “You know what they—” Todd broke off mid-rant. “Hey, Reynolds, how long does it take you to lay out the newspaper every month?”
I tried not to roll my eyes about the newspaper—or about Todd calling me by my last name. It was this thing he did, like I was a rookie reporter to his big-city editor in chief.
How long did it take for me to lay out the newspaper? “A while,” I said. Forever was a better answer, but Todd was wound up enough. The computers we used were ancient, the software even older. I sometimes thought that cutting and pasting—with real scissors and glue—might be faster. Mr. Carlson, the journalism teacher, had been lobbying for upgrades for years.
“Guess what they bought instead?” said Todd. He gestured wildly from the podium. “Come on. Just guess.”
I heard the sound of someone’s stomach rumbling and the barest click of a Nintendo DS. I looked around at the collection of smarty-pants misfits that made up our “clique.” These were the kids who lived to raise their hands in class. That no one offered a guess was a testament to the power Todd wielded over the group.
He pounded the lectern. The crack of his fist against wood echoed through the theater.
“They bought new”—Todd stepped out from behind the podium for effect—“pom-poms.” A look of disgust rolled across his face as he approached the front of the stage. “For the varsity cheerleading squad.”
I glanced at Moni. She crossed her eyes at me and pointed toward the seat that held the Krispy Kreme box. Todd glared, daring someone, anyone, to speak.
A throat cleared behind us. “Well, I highly approved of the new outfits last year.” This was Brian McIntyre, Todd’s sidekick, mellow where Todd was high-strung, soft-spoken where Todd was loud. Brian was one of those boys whose looks froze in fourth grade. He had a roundish face and full cheeks, with sweet blue eyes and hair that flopped over his forehead. People constantly underestimated him, which was why he cleaned up in debate, at chess, and in the Math League.
“The cheerleaders had new outfits last year?” Todd asked.
“You didn’t notice?” Brian sounded genuinely puzzled.
Moni paused before biting the doughnut she was holding and raised an eyebrow at me. I’d known her long enough to catch the meaning of that look: When did Brian start noticing cheerleaders? Not the best development, especially when you considered that somewhere around homecoming, Brian and Moni had gone from “just friends” to something a touch friendlier.
“I guess it doesn’t matter how big a boy’s brain is,” I whispered, “it can still be derailed by an insanely short skirt.” But Moni wasn’t paying attention.
“Whatever,” she said to the group. “There’s nothing so special about cheerleading. I mean, even Bethany and I could do that.”
“Do…what?” Todd and I said at the same time.
“You know. Ready…okay!” Moni bounced on the balls of her feet, like she might break into a display of spirit fingers at any moment.
“You mean,” I said, going along with it (because annoying Todd was my favorite sport), “you and me trying out for the varsity cheerleading squad?”
“Who says we can’t?”
Ummm, technically, no one.
Todd knelt at the edge of the stage and frowned down at us, his oversize dork glasses slipping down his nose. “You have got to be kidding.”
Yeah. What he said.
But out loud, I agreed with Moni. “Think about it, Todd. We could petition to expand cheerleading to support the debate team. The chess club, even. You know, Gambit to the left, castle to the right, endgame, endgame, now in sight!”
Moni giggled. Brian, still lazing near the back of the room, snorted in appreciation. A few of the other guys took up the cheer.
You know how in Greek mythology, Medusa could turn anyone who looked at her into stone? At that moment she had nothing on Todd Emerson. Lucky for me, the bell rang. Or maybe not so lucky—Todd and I shared first-period honors history.
We all filed from the Little Theater and straight into the heart of the gauntlet, together. Todd had this theory about strength in numbers. It was one of the reasons he collected the nerds, the debate dorks, the third-tier drama geeks, the lowly and lonely freshmen, and invited them all to his house for Geek Night every Saturday. As a combined force, we could breach the gauntlet. Whereas if any one of us tried it alone? Suicide.
And it worked. Mostly. Chantal Simmons stepped back immediately, but then, she probably didn’t want smart cooties on her three-hundred-dollar coral-colored peep-toe pumps.
Some of the boys still chanted the chess cheer as we passed a few members of the varsity basketball team. Seniors Ryan Nelson and Luke Vandenberg stood with Jack Paulson. All three of them looked up, like the chant was their cue to rush the court and play. Only Jack seemed to notice we weren’t cheering for them. He frowned.
I wanted to turn, go back and tell him that we weren’t making fun of him. But it was too late; the crowd had already taken me along in its tide. Maybe I could explain when I saw him in Independent Reading class.
Oh, who was I kidding? I could barely respond when Jack graced me with a few words across the classroom aisle. I’d never be able to explain, not now, not then. Even so, I turned around for one last look. Instead of Jack, I locked eyes with Todd. He handed me a Krispy Kreme—a slightly battered Krispy Kreme, but one from the middle of the box. It was still warm.
“Checkmate,” he said.
The bank’s time and temperature display flashed: 10:46 p.m./29°. Only in Minnesota could it be this cold just four days past Halloween. All of us—me, Moni, Todd, Brian, plus assorted members of the chess club, debate team, and Math League—shivered outside the Games ’n More video store.
Light spilled from the warm movie theater lobby a few doors down, but I knew the huge sign on its door read no loitering. It was the strip mall and hypothermia for us. And there were still seventy-four frigid minutes before the midnight release of the latest shoot-’em-up video game.
What a way to spend a Saturday night.
We huddled together on a bus-stop bench. Todd lounged on my right—in his Nietzsche “that which does not kill me, makes me stronger” mode—pretending that the cold had no effect on him. Brian sat to Moni’s left. Every five minutes he scooted a millimeter closer to her. The rest of the guys took turns standing in line. Apparently some geeks were more equal than others.
But that was no surprise. In these boys’ world, status was measured in grade point averages and frag counts. Todd and Brian were at the top of both those lists. And Moni and me? We weren’t there because we were dying to buy some dumb video game the first second it dropped.
> “The category is famous first lines,” Todd said. “You go first, Reynolds.”
Of all the books I’d read (1,272 since I started keeping count) I couldn’t think of a single opening line. I was pretty sure that meant my brain was frozen.
“I’ve got one if she doesn’t,” a member of the chess club offered.
“It’s Reynolds, numbnuts. She’s got one,” Todd said in my defense. Some of the animosity I’d felt toward him for moving Geek Night from the toasty confines of his basement to the icy tundra that was Prairie Stone Plaza softened.
“Okay, how about,” I began, but my brain was still iced up. I’d have to go with my fallback—an oldie, a goodie, my favorite. “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a…’?”
“Too easy,” said Moni over the top of her gas-station cappuccino. “C’mon, guys,” she said. “You have to know this one.”
“Uh…it’s…it’s…,” Todd struggled. “Give me a second…er…Brian?”
“Is that your final answer?” Moni snorted, causing the steam from her cup to fog her glasses and loosen a curl so that it fell onto her forehead.
Brian grinned at her, or did until a burst of giggles echoed down the plaza.
The late movie had just let out, and a group of kids hurried to their cars. Clouds of breath billowed ahead of them, partially hiding their faces, but the giggle sounded like Cassidy Anderson, the “Omigod!” was unmistakably Traci Olson’s, and the clipped, condescending “Check it” could belong to none other than Chantal Simmons.
“What was the question again?” Brian asked, his attention focused near the theater’s exit.
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