“Got room for one more?” I hear from behind me.
“Well, hey there, Luke!” my dad says, standing up and offering a handshake. “We’ve got plenty!”
Luke ambles over to the grill, following my dad. For as tall and lean as he is, he’s not awkward like a lot of the boys in my class; instead, he’s got a sort of easy, laid-back stride. Plus, he’s just a regular down-to-earth guy, which is probably why it’s so easy to be his friend. He grabs a paper plate and two hot dogs before heading over to the table.
“ ’Bout time!” I say, moving over and passing him the buns.
“Sorry,” he mumbles.
“What happened to your lip?” I ask. The top part’s swollen, for sure.
“Busted it,” he says, shrugging it off. “It’s nothin’.”
He grabs the hot dog buns and loads up his plate with chips and potato salad. I get him a Coke from the cooler and think about our walks down to the pond behind his house… and about the shouts we always hear.
“Did something…?” I start, but can’t find the words, exactly. “No, I mean, did you…?” He looks at me, waiting, and I finally break eye contact to retie the bag of buns.
“It’s nothin’, Ricki Jo,” he says simply. And that’s that. We sit in silence for a bit, letting the conversations around us fill the space. I don’t know what to say, and he’s not the kind to offer up personal information. His lip looks awful and the cut’s fresh, but I know not to push. “This is quite a cookout, huh?” he finally asks, snapping me from my thoughts.
“Yeah! Oh my gosh! I forgot! That’s why I called,” I say excitedly.
“Uh-huh,” he says, squeezing a grotesque amount of ketchup and mustard on his hot dogs.
“Huge news! Gigantic news!”
I pause for effect. He takes a bite and looks at me.
“Well?” he asks, his mouth full.
“I made the squad!” I squeal. “I’m a cheerleader! I’m a Preston County High cheerleader!”
I can’t help it. I’m clapping. Clapping and squealing.
“Congratulations,” Luke replies. He is unfazed, and polishes off the first hot dog.
“That’s it? You’re not happy for me?” I ask.
“Happy for you? Sure,” he says simply. “Surprised? No way. You said you were trying out. I knew you’d make it.”
I don’t know how to explain the flip-flopping of my stomach, except that maybe my momma put too much sugar in the sweet tea, but Luke’s compliment is really nice to hear.
“Thank you,” I say, reaching for a brownie and letting my dark blond hair fall forward to mask the gigantic smile stretching across my face.
So Luke’s not the clap-and-squeal type. At least he believes in me. I decide not to mention the whole Wolf-being-a-vile-human-being scene. Seems like Luke’s in a brooding mood as it is. Plus, it’d kind of ruin the moment to hear, “Told ya so.”
Completely stuffed, my sweet tooth satisfied, I curl up in bed and pile all of my pillows behind me. I am officially a Preston County High School Junior Varsity Cheerleader. I grab my new journal from the drawer in my headboard and turn to the first clean page. I started keeping a diary last year, but I hardly ever wrote in it, and now the things I did write seem childish. I didn’t want to start off high school by writing in that same old diary, so when we went shopping for school supplies, I begged my momma for a new journal from the Barnes & Noble in Lexington. I love it. It has a black leather cover that seems more serious than the pink one with a lock and key that I used to have. Plus, the pages are a faded off-white color, with frayed edges. Totally serious. And a lot of serious things are happening this year already.
I’ve been writing almost every day since school started. I want to be able to look back on these pages in a few years, once I’m popular, and remember every moment so I can see how far I’ve come. I’ve written about the girls in homeroom, and Wolf, obviously, and how different things are from my K–8 private school, but today has been the most action-packed day at PCHS so far and I have tons to tell.
Tryouts ended up a success, although the humiliating Wolf moment was a lesson learned: That kind of guy doesn’t date girls like me… yet. Plus, he’s only fourteen and really immature. Also, I hate him now.
I realize that I’ve already used three full pages talking about Wolf and frown.
But I have made some really great new friends.
I turn the page and chew on the end of my pen. Overall, things are good. Reinventing Ricki Jo is not a mission to take lightly. There are going to be bumps, like growing pains (which I’d love to experience sometime soon). I think about people like Ellen DeGeneres—she used to sell vacuums—and Bill Gates—I mean, he was probably a nerd in high school. And, on America’s Next Top Model, they all start off plain and awkward before Tyra helps them find their inner fierce selves.
I’ve got the desire. What I need are goals….
Project Ericka—
10 Goals by the End of This Year
1. Be best friends with the girls in homeroom
2. Learn how to do a back handspring
3. Start my period
4. Grow (height and bust, please)
5. Make straight A’s
6. Get a real job (no más tobacco!)
7. Get asked to homecoming
8. Pray for Wolf
9. Get first kiss (by Wolf???—if he changes)
10. Get a hickey / Give a hickey
I look things over and feel pretty good about some, and worried about others. I sigh and tuck my diary… um, I mean journal… under my mattress, then lean back and stare up at the ceiling. My Bible is open on my lap, just in case Momma comes in to check on me, but I’m too emotionally discombobulated to concentrate. I feel awesome for making the squad, but I feel stupid for thinking Wolf could like a girl like me—and even stupider for liking him still.
And I think I know how Luke busted his lip… or, rather, who busted it for him. I just don’t know what to do about it.
CHAPTER
NINE
“Boys’ Varsity is totally where you want to be as a freshman,” I hear Kimi say as I walk down the hallway. She’s standing at her locker facing Mackenzie, whose eyebrow is cocked, her foot tapping. I give a little wave and bypass the convo. Kimi on a soapbox is something I’ve already learned to avoid; Mackenzie obviously wasn’t as successful.
School feels different to me today. It’s probably the rain; the hallways seem darker, and tennis shoes squeak nonstop. Wet hair hangs down unhappy faces and a few boys engage in an umbrella duel. I used to beg for rain to get out of work, but now that I’m a cheerleader, I can get out of it rain or shine. I’ll have practice after school three times a week!
I pop open my locker, throw my umbrella up top, and grab the wad of Silly Putty I keep on the upper shelf. I tear off a small chunk and paste it to a funny picture my momma printed from the cookout. It’s me and my whole family doing cheerleading poses, the highlights being Clark Winstead in a stunning lunge and his wife a vision in a standing liberty. Luke and Bandit didn’t participate, but they’re both smiling at the camera. I laugh, pressing the photo onto the inside of my locker door.
And then someone slams the door shut. Guess who.
“I’m not talking to you,” I say, picking up my backpack and walking away, my stomach flutters multiplying exponentially.
“It was just a joke!” Wolf calls as I head over to Mackenzie. I see Sarah occasionally nodding along while Kimi waxes philosophical about some “cheerleading hierarchy”—bo-ring—but I don’t feel safe at my own locker. Wolf is wearing a white button-up, looking like he stepped right out of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalog, and I forgive too easily.
“I mean, yeah, I only made Girls’ Varsity, which means I’ll totally have to work harder next year. But I’m super glad you guys made it,” Kimi lies, bobbing her head vigorously, as if she is convincing herself.
“Hey, girls. Congratulations!” I say, being ultra-cute.
“
Thanks!” Mackenzie says and hugs me. “You, too!”
“Well, I mean, yeah, but it’s only JV,” Kimi says. Mackenzie looks as if she can’t believe what Kimi just said. I feel my own smile, and confidence, falter.
“Kimi!” she scolds. Laura walks up and puts an arm around my shoulders.
“What?” Kimi asks innocently. “I mean, it’s a great starting point, ’cause you’re new to cheering, right?”
I gulp and nod.
“Okay,” she continues. “So your squad will cheer for boys who are new to sports. Freshmen, or just kids who aren’t good enough for Varsity. And it won’t matter that you kind of suck ’cause nobody goes to those games, anyway.”
“Kimi!” Laura and Mackenzie say together.
“What?” she asks, exasperated. “This is exactly what I was talking about. PCHS has a cheerleading hierarchy. Junior Varsity is bush league.”
“Let’s get to homeroom, Ericka,” Mackenzie says, trying to lead me away.
“Wait,” I say weakly. “So, there are levels?”
“Totally,” Kimi explains dramatically. “Now, Sarah and Mackenzie are Boys’ Varsity—as freshmen. Freaking awesome. They get to cheer at the big football and basketball games. You know, the ones the whole town cares about.” She looks for a way to explain it better. “Oh! It’s like they’re in the upper class. And, like, Laura and me, we’re Girls’ Varsity, so we get to cheer for soccer and girls’ basketball. And soccer is totally getting big in the U.S. now with, like, David Beckham on the scene. So it’s not the best, but still cool.”
“Middle class,” I state.
“Exactly.” She beams, and then adds, “Well, more like upper middle class.”
“And so JV,” I say, dreading the answer I already know.
The bell rings and students start heading into classrooms, thinning the hallway traffic. Kimi gives me a thumbs-down and shrugs her shoulders. “No offense, Ericka.”
“And now, for your starting lineup!” a booming announcer voice comes from behind us. “A six foot freshman, number twenty-three, at point guard… David Wolfenbaker!” The girls all laugh, which just eggs him on. He brushes his shoulders off and does the John Wall dance, holding the pose and kissing his biceps. I would usually think this is funny, but not today. I look away and remind myself how much I hate him right now. “That’s right. Starting freshman. Who’s the man? Who’s the man?”
Kimi is in fits. “You’re the man, Wolf!”
“That’s right. That’s right,” he says, as the girls clap for him.
After the mood-shattering conversation I’ve just had with Kimi, the last person I want to talk to is Wolf. I slip between Mackenzie and Laura, eager just to get to homeroom, but he pushes Laura to the side and grabs my wrist.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he says, turning me back around toward the group and draping his arm across my shoulders. “My best new girl hasn’t even said congratulations.”
I flush a deep red, anger and hurt pride and teenage hormones all fighting inside. I roll my eyes and look away, completely aware of the swoon-inducing cologne he’s wearing. Then a perfect finger touches my cheek, where he draws an imaginary twenty-three. I shiver at his touch.
“Paint that on before every game, you little vixen cheerleader,” he says. I finally cave, grinning and giving him my best ha, ha look. And then he says, “Oooh! That’s right. You’re JV.”
Kimi and Sarah burst out laughing and I look down at my shoes. Wolf leans close to my ear and whispers, “Maybe marching band was a good idea after all.” I shrug him off, move to the other side of the hallway, and hate that I tingled at the sensation of his breath in my ear.
Mackenzie follows me and says, “Forget them.”
“Who am I?” Wolf shouts and does a cartwheel in the hallway, nearly kicking Mrs. Wilkes in the process.
“Homeroom, people. Now,” she grumbles.
Kimi is hysterical at this point. “Oh my god! You’re Ericka! Except your cartwheel is actually better!” Sarah giggles and then they follow Wolf into homeroom, Kimi winking back at me as if I’m in on the joke and not the actual joke itself. Yeah, right.
Tears make their way to my eyes, again. Mackenzie fishes in her purse for a tissue while the last few stragglers give me weird looks.
“Don’t let them get to you,” she says. “Wolf’s probably just flirting, anyway. Guys always act so weird around girls they like.”
I think her theory has more than a few flaws, but I sniff and nod, appreciative of her support. I wipe my cheeks and blow my nose, trying to take deep breaths. She fluffs my hair, then hands me her lip gloss.
“There, that’s better,” she says. “You want to look good for school pictures, right?”
I nod, dab my eyes one last time, and give her a shaky smile. Even though I almost missed the bus this morning trying to find the perfect outfit for school-picture day, I’d already forgotten that I had to take them first period.
High school is actually turning out to be a total nightmare.
With each day, I meet more people. The problem is, most of them already have best friends. A lot of my classmates are really nice, but I still feel lonely. No one to confide in, pass notes to, or talk about boys with. Mackenzie is probably my closest friend, since she’s new, too, but we don’t have any of the same classes. Plus, she’s made friends with the upperclassmen girls on her squad. Our friendship basically revolves around homeroom and time spent together in the hall between classes.
“Ericka!” she says as Wolf approaches his locker. I’m putting my umbrella away for the third time this week and feeling like I’m over the rain already. “You’re so lucky to have naturally wavy hair. Mine goes to pieces in this weather.”
In truth, her hair is flawless as always, but I still love the compliment. More than that, I appreciate what she’s been doing for me. Whenever I’m at my locker and she sees Wolf, she comes over to run interference. “He’s a scumbag,” she says, which always makes me laugh ’cause it sounds so funny in her Yankee accent.
“Yeah, your hair really is pretty, Ericka,” Wolf agrees, leaning around her.
I check his eyes, his mouth. He seems sincere. Whatever.
“Gonna be late,” I hear from behind me. I know that voice without turning around.
“Hey, Luke,” I hear Laura say, her voice going up an octave. Looking over, I see her grinning from ear to ear and standing on her tiptoes, her legs crossed like she has to pee.
“Hey,” he replies, then leans over my shoulder to get a look at the cookout picture. He chuckles.
“I love that picture,” Laura says, with a touch of desperation in her voice. “You guys are, like, best friends, right?”
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
“One big happy family, huh, Luke?” Wolf says.
Luke gives Wolf a nod and says, “Let’s go, Rick—uh, Ericka.”
I slam my locker and we head down the hallway.
“Real smooth, Don Juan,” I say sarcastically, looking up to see if his face will give anything away. “I think Laura likes you—no, it’s obvious that she likes you—and you say, ‘Hey.’ ”
“Don’t question my skills, RJ. It’s called playing hard to get.”
“Laura Wagner Foster,” I tease. “You like the sound of that?”
“Shut up, Ricki Jo,” he says and nudges me into the oncoming foot traffic so that I bump into a really big-chested senior girl.
“Watch it, jerk,” she says.
Nice.
“That’s one I owe ya,” I tell Luke, stepping on his foot as we head into Earth Science.
The after-school routine is just another way to divide the popular from the less than. Behind the gym is the student parking lot, where freshman girls like Sarah saunter out with their older boyfriends for a ride home. Anyone lucky enough to have a sibling who’s an upperclassman, like Wolf, can also be found heading in that direction. These lovely people delight in the acts of honking and hollering out their windows at us as they pass.
I see Candace waiting for her bus and walk over to join her conversation.
“Hey, what’s up?” I say.
She looks at me in surprise, like I’m some kind of alien, and then narrows her eyes. “You sure you wanna be seen talking to band geeks?”
I shake my head, caught off guard by her attitude. “Huh?”
“Forget it,” she says. “There’s our bus.” Her friends roll their eyes and smirk in my general direction as they follow Candace toward the sea of school-bus yellow. I’ve seen this persona of hers before. She calls it “trailer park proud.” It’s this attitude she gets with people who cross her, and although I’ve seen it, I never expected to be on the receiving end.
“Candace, wait a sec,” I say and run to catch up. “Are you mad at me for something? ’Cause I didn’t try out for band?”
We walk toward her bus and she shrugs. “Let’s see, you’ve played piano since you were little and never cheered a day in your life. I tell you about band tryouts and you look at me like I’ve got cooties, and then run for the nearest set of pom-poms.”
“It’s not you, Candace!” I say. “Or the band,” I add for the benefit of her scowling entourage. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I just wanted to try something new.”
She softens a little and lets the other kids board ahead of her. “Listen, I’m sorry to be nasty. It’s like this automatic defense or, I don’t know, wall or something I put up when I’m hurt.” She sighs loudly.
The Queen of Kentucky Page 5