“I’ve noticed a tremendous amount of progress between your first blocks and your last,” Pauline chimed in, and then she made a sudden, pained face as if someone had kicked her beneath the table. “That came out wrong. I’m not saying your first blocks looked bad—”
“That’s not how I took it,” Jocelyn broke in, laughing. “Thank you. I think I’ve come a long way in a short time too.”
“Doesn’t it feel good to be quilting after wanting to for so long?” Mona asked her. “Linnea has been promising to teach me for years, but we live so far apart, it’s been impossible to fit lessons into the schedule.”
“Our visits are too few and too far between,” Linnea lamented. “And whenever we’re able to get together—”
“There’s always so much to do,” Mona broke in.
“And too many other people around,” Linnea finished.
“I learned how to quilt here at Elm Creek Manor,” Karen said. “A few years ago, when I was expecting our first child, my husband surprised me with a week at quilt camp after I mentioned that I had been seized by an irresistible compulsion to make a crib quilt. I can’t really explain it. None of my friends or family quilted at the time, and I hadn’t grown up with quilts around the house.”
“You don’t have to justify your obsession with quilts and quilting to us,” Pauline assured her.
“I forgot I’m among people afflicted with the same condition,” said Karen, smiling. “So, I didn’t have anyone to teach me, and I was absolutely terrified of what might result if I tried on my own. Once I learned how, though, there was no holding me back. I think that week at quilt camp might have been the best gift my husband ever gave me.”
“Other than your children, of course,” Pauline said.
“No, that’s the best gift Karen ever gave him,” said Linnea, and everyone laughed.
“My mom taught me how to quilt,” said Michaela, suddenly missing her very much. Her mother would have enjoyed Quiltsgiving. Why hadn’t they signed up together?
“I meant to take a class a couple of years ago,” said Jocelyn. “I had my tuition paid, my supplies purchased, and everything, but then—” She drew in a deep, shaky breath and after a moment, she managed a smile. “Well, things don’t always go according to plan, do they?”
“No, they don’t,” said Linnea.
She spoke so firmly that Michaela knew, somehow, that she was referring to something else besides quilting.
“No,” she agreed, frowning at her cast. “They definitely don’t.”
* * *
Michaela’s favorite picture of herself as a child had been taken by her mother more than twelve years before. Her parents had brought her along to a football game at the local high school where her father was the principal. From their front-row bleacher she had watched, enthralled, as eight older girls in red and white sweaters and pleated skirts ran onto the sideline laughing and shouting, their hair pulled back into ribbon-tied ponytails, their smiles confident and bright. When they told the crowd to shout, even the grown-ups obeyed. When they danced, the audience clapped along. When they did cartwheels and kicks up and down the field, the audience responded with thunderous applause. They were pretty and admired and everyone did whatever they said. Michaela was transfixed. She left her seat and clung to the guardrail at the front of the bleachers, the only barrier that prevented her from running onto the field to join them.
“Do you see them, Mommy?” she called, turning around. “Aren’t they awesome?” That was when her mother snapped the photo.
Anyone else viewing the picture saw a pretty girl frozen in a moment of perfect childhood joy, her blue eyes wide with wonder, her blond curls tousled by the September wind. Michaela alone knew that the photo had captured so much more than that, for it had been taken at the very moment she realized for the first time exactly what she was going to do with the rest of her life.
When she grew up, she was going to be a cheerleader.
Fortunately, she only had to wait until junior high to begin fulfilling her dream. The first time she cheered with other girls instead of at home in front of the mirror was in seventh grade. In eighth grade she was chosen captain and learned how to do a round-off back handspring. When she moved to the high school the following year, she was the first freshman to make the varsity team in the history of the school. Her knees shook so badly when her new coach handed her the long-coveted red and white uniform that she almost sank to the floor weeping tears of relief and gratitude. Only her deeply ingrained cheerleader poise allowed her to keep her composure until she got home.
That year she added a standing back tuck to her repertoire; by the time she was a sophomore she could do as many back handsprings in a row as there was room to do them. Her team won the state cheerleading championship every year she was a member, and in her senior year they were invited to perform in the Rose Bowl Parade. As she danced behind the Bank of America float in the glorious New Year’s Day sunshine of Southern California, Michaela knew that it was the most thoroughly fulfilling moment she had ever known, perhaps that she would ever know.
For all too soon high school came to an end, and Michaela was forced to move on.
By then she had realized that professional cheerleading was not for her. Those teams didn’t want athletes; they wanted sexy Barbie dolls with perky breasts and tight buns, and although Michaela had them, she wasn’t about to shake them in front of a national television audience when her grandparents could be watching. Instead she would become a coach. She would earn a college degree in secondary education, find a job in a nice high school like the one she had attended, and help future generations of young women achieve heights never before seen in the sport.
When the time came to select one of the five colleges that had accepted her, Michaela chose St. Andrew’s College because it was within driving distance of home, but not so close that her parents would drop by unannounced; because it had a highly respected school of education; and although she would never admit it, because its school colors were red and white, just like her high school. Actually, its official school color was a red, white, and black plaid called Crusader Tartan, but that was close enough.
When autumn arrived, Michaela felt a strange hollowness that the excitement of starting college couldn’t fill. For the first time in six years, she was watching the football games from the bleachers with the civilians instead of taking her proper place along the sidelines. But at that first game she ordered herself to stop mourning and start planning. Cheerleading experience at the college level would give her an edge when it came time to apply for coaching jobs, and if she were going to be a Crusader cheerleader, she needed a plan.
She embarked on a detailed program of study, attending every sporting event she could in order to see what skills she needed to learn and what dancing styles the team preferred. She saw at once that she would need to learn more difficult partner stunts, since the guys were always flinging the girls up in the air in ways that her all-female high school squad never could have done. Her tumbling was fine, but her dance style would need to become more daring. A surreptitious investigation of the current team members suggested that decent grades and a sorority membership wouldn’t hurt. She was disappointed to learn that an archaic university policy forbade her from trying out until the following year, since all candidates had to have two consecutive semesters with a GPA of at least 3.0 before they could join the team. It wasn’t fair, since no other sport had a similar requirement, but she decided to use the time to her advantage.
She enrolled in a dance class for her physical education elective and spent her evenings in the gym or in the library, knowing that if she started out with a solid GPA she could ease up once she made the team. Her dorm roommate had turned out to be a ghastly creature who dressed in baggy clothes, wore black lipstick, and wrote morbid poetry about death and despair, so at least she didn’t dist
ract Michaela with too much socializing.
The days fell into a routine that kept her busy but not overwhelmed. She had three classes on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays; two on Tuesdays and Thursdays; dance or tumbling practice in the afternoons; and studying every evening. Her worst class was Basic Chemistry, which she managed to get through by reminding herself of the GPA requirement for cheerleading. College Writing—or Freshman English, as everyone but English department faculty and the registrar called it—was her favorite class, mostly because the professor encouraged them to choose their own topics. She earned an A for her personal narrative titled “Rose Bowl Bound: A Cheerleader’s Journey to Southern California,” and the professor had scrawled a note at the top of the page admitting that she had opened his eyes about the athleticism involved in cheerleading. His new awareness, and her 3.75 GPA, brought her first year of college to a satisfying end.
Summer passed. Michaela impatiently studied and danced and tumbled her way through the fall semester of her sophomore year. It seemed forever until February and the organizational meeting for cheerleading tryouts.
When the day at last arrived, Michaela attended to her hair and makeup with care, put several crisp sheets of paper into a thin binder with the St. Andrew’s College emblem prominently displayed on the front, and carried her favorite lucky silver pen. When she brought out the supplies to take notes, she would make exactly the right impression: school spirited, motivated, prepared but not too bookish.
As she entered the library auditorium, she made a swift check of the competition. Most looked nervous, some looked frightened, but a few near the front looked relaxed and confident. Michaela recognized the last group as the younger members of the current squad. The senior cheerleaders sat at a long table on the stage with the coach. Michaela decided to take a seat in the center—behind the current cheerleaders to show respect, in the coach’s line of vision but not in her face.
The coach began the meeting by welcoming the prospective cheerleaders and thanking them for their interest. Then she described the tryout process. Eight men and eight women would be selected from the approximately forty women and twelve men who were present that night, and that included the juniors on this year’s team, who had to try out again like any other candidate. There was a murmur of satisfaction at this news, but Michaela knew better than to think all sixteen openings were truly open. Even if the coach managed to avoid favoring the current cheerleaders, their experience would all but guarantee that they would reclaim their spots.
Beginning in the middle of February, the coach continued, she and the graduating seniors would hold workouts every weekday in the auxiliary gym, where candidates would learn stunts, practice the Crusader Cheer, and receive individual help on any other elements they desired. The workouts would also give the coach a chance to get to know them, to learn about their work ethics and personalities.
A redhead in the back row raised her hand. “Are the workouts mandatory, I mean, if you don’t need any help?”
Michaela sucked in a breath as the seniors and the coach exchanged glances and raised their eyebrows at one another. “No,” said one of the male cheerleaders, with the barest trace of condescension in his voice. “We won’t be taking attendance like in Freshman English.”
Someone muffled a laugh. In her notebook Michaela wrote, “Attend absolutely all workouts.” She underlined “all” so firmly that she almost tore the paper.
In the ninety minutes that followed, she filled several sheets with valuable information. The tryouts would be held on the last weekend in March. First cuts would be held on Saturday. That evening, female candidates would perform the Crusader Cheer, the Hell Dance, a tumbling run, and two stunts; the men would do everything but the Hell Dance. The judges would pick the twelve best men and twelve best women to go on to final cuts the following afternoon.
The twelve male candidates grinned when the number was revealed. A few exchanged high fives. Several of the women sank down into their seats in despair, but not Michaela. She was too busy writing “Find out what a Hell Dance is” and planning her tumbling run.
Final cuts would consist of a private interview with the coach and the athletic director, followed later that day by their final performances. The men would perform their original cheers and be evaluated on how well they motivated the audience, while the women would perform an original three-minute dance and stunt routine to their own music selections. “And then,” the coach said, building up to a shout, “we will choose our new Crusader Cheerleaders!” It was clear that she expected an enthusiastic response, so they gave her one.
Before ending the meeting, the coach said she deeply regretted that not everyone who tried out would make the team. “There are other options, however,” she said. “Men who don’t make the cheerleading squad can still try out for mascot.”
A scoffing snort came from behind them, and Michaela turned her head slightly to see who had made it. At least a dozen men stood just inside the door at the back of the auditorium, waiting, Michaela guessed, for the organizational meeting for mascot tryouts. She knew from her observations last year that it was considered far more prestigious to be the Tartan Crusader than a mere cheerleader. No other symbol of St. Andrew’s College was as well-known or beloved as the Tartan Crusader. It was unthinkable that the role of Tartan Crusader would be anyone’s second choice.
As if it were an afterthought, the coach said, “Women, if they like, can join the pompom squad.”
A ripple of laughter eased the tension in the room, but Michaela didn’t allow herself to join in. The pompom squad was such an easy target that it was cruel to make fun of them. It was a club rather than a sport, which meant that it had no coach and only the thinnest of ties to the athletic department. They didn’t even hold tryouts, but they never had so many applicants that they had to turn anyone away. The pompom girls wore pretty costumes—which they paid for themselves—and danced during halftime at games the real cheerleaders were too busy for or didn’t want to attend, like the intramural football games and the Harry Potter Society’s Quidditch Campus Cup. They were earnest and happy and unintentionally funny. Michaela felt sorry for them.
She spent the next week working ahead in her classes so that when workouts started she could give them her full attention. Every afternoon, Michaela put her classes out of her mind and enjoyed the cheerleading workouts. Within a few days she observed to her satisfaction that she was definitely one of the top candidates. On the first day of tumbling practice, each candidate took a turn on the mat trying a back handspring from a standing position. Most used at least one spotter, and some had spotters on both sides who gave them so much support that the candidate contributed very little to the stunt.
When it was Michaela’s turn, she made her eyes wide and anxious as she approached Logan, a graduating senior who seemed to be the unofficial leader of the squad. “I’ve done this before, but sometimes my knees stick out funny,” she told him. “Could you watch and see if I’m doing it right?”
“Sure.” Logan planted his feet on the mat, preparing to spot her.
“Is it okay if I try it on the floor, without a spotter?”
He shrugged, looked at the coach for approval, and then told her to go ahead.
Michaela tucked in her T-shirt, made sure she had a clear path, then did a round-off back handspring series that ran the entire length of the gym. When she finished, she returned to the mat, where Logan was grinning and the other candidates were watching her in awe.
“Your knees looked fine,” Logan deadpanned with a look that said he knew that she knew that already. “Good job.”
“Thanks,” Michaela said, flashing him a winning smile as she returned to her place at the end of the line.
The girl in front of her turned around and shook her head in wonder. “That was so great,” she said. “You’ll definitely make the team.”
Michae
la feigned modesty and said something about how she didn’t have a chance, but the girl in front of her would have none of it. “You’ll make it,” she said. Then her smile faded. “As for me, I’m probably just wasting my time.”
“Don’t stress yourself out.” Michaela lowered her voice so the others wouldn’t overhear. “Trust me, half of these girls will chicken out by the time tryouts arrive.”
She giggled. “Maybe we should leave a few banana peels lying around so they’ll slip and break their legs.”
“That’s the spirit,” Michaela said, laughing. “Eliminate the competition.”
The girl’s name was Emma; she was a year ahead of Michaela, and this was her second attempt at tryouts. Michaela was surprised to hear that the previous year she had not made it past first cuts. From what she had seen, Emma was one of Michaela’s few real competitors. When it was Emma’s turn at the mat, Michaela discovered why. Emma was brave enough to try her back handspring on her own, but the spotters always reached in at the last moment to keep her from falling on her face. Michaela observed Logan shake his head ever so slightly at the coach when Emma couldn’t see.
For a week Michaela watched Emma struggle to improve. She noticed, even if Emma didn’t, that the senior cheerleaders had dismissed her chances of ever mastering the skill. One evening after the workout ended, she saw Emma alone in a far corner, throwing back handsprings over and over again, each one as awkward and hazardous as the one before. Michaela winced as each time Emma stuck out her hands to catch herself an instant before her face would have smacked the mat. She glanced around the gym. The crowd had thinned, but the coach and the current cheerleaders were standing in a group talking and joking, unaware of Emma’s struggle or ignoring it.
Indignant, Michaela went over to the mat where Emma stood with her head bowed, breathing heavily. “You’re undercutting,” Michaela told her.
Emma turned, and Michaela saw tears of frustration in her eyes. “What?”
The Giving Quilt Page 16