by ALSON NOËL
Yet I also realize that up until now I’ve never actually lied to her before (well, at least not about anything important like this). But I really can’t see another choice. I mean, there’s no way I can risk having her know just how big of a social liability I really am. Not to mention how I can’t bear for her to think that maybe her mom is right, that maybe I really am holding her back, and keeping her from realizing her full social potential.
So I just take a deep breath, avoid her eyes, and shrug like it was no big deal. “Oh, that? He just ran right into me.” I laugh, hoping I sound both carefree and convincing, which would be the exact opposite of how I really do feel.
“But what did he say?” she asks, still gripping my arm, still gaping at me.
“Well, he said he was sorry, then he tried to help me pick up the books I dropped.” I bite down on my lower lip and look away. Man, I totally suck at this.
“Okay, but you have to tell me everything!” she says, steering me toward the parking lot. “Starting from the very, very beginning, leave nothing out.”
And when I look at her, I see so much admiration and excitement in her eyes that it makes me feel horrible. But that doesn’t mean I confess. “Well, I was turning the corner and he just smacked right into me,” I say, gazing down at the ground as we head toward home.
Three
“And while we totally wish that each and every one of you could make it, the sad fact is, there’s only room for six,” Ginny says, gazing out at her audience and bestowing us with her adorable, sad kitten look, which only results in me elbowing Sloane, as I roll my eyes and laugh under my breath.
But Sloane just sits there, doing her best to ignore me while smiling and nodding at everything Ginny says, like she’s a true believer or something.
So I turn and gaze around the room, wondering if I’m the only one who sees through all this phony-baloney nonsense. But when I notice how they too are all caught up in the rapture of Ginny, it’s clear that I am.
“Pay attention, this is important,” Sloane hisses, glancing at me just long enough to show some major disapproval.
So I face back toward the front, focusing all of my attention on Heidi, Ginny, Krystal, Shelby, Tatiana, and Lori, who are not only famous for being the six hottest seniors who rule the school, but also for making up the entire varsity cheerleading squad. Then I smile wide and nod like I mean it, trying my best to imitate Sloane, and act like I too am just another member of the recently converted. Like I too am someone who truly believes that these six girls really want nothing more in this entire world than to exalt us all to their rarified status.
Only, the thing is, those plastic smiles that are currently plastered across their perfect photogenic faces really don’t match the cold, judgmental gleam in their eyes. And it’s almost like, if you just look and listen closely enough, you’ll actually start to wonder if maybe, what they really wish is the exact opposite.
But it’s not like I share any of that with Sloane. Instead, I just continue to nod and smile and laugh when I know I’m supposed to, partly because I don’t want to annoy her any more than I already have, and partly because it’s good practice for when we both make the junior varsity cheerleading squad.
Sloane and I are pretty excited about these upcoming try- outs, as we both agree it’s the ultimate shortcut, the quickest, most direct route we could think of to Table A status.
I mean, drill team? Dog squad.
Class president? Nice on a college application, but not exactly hot.
But a girl in a short skirt with pom-poms? Show me the guy who can resist.
And since Sloane has been taking dance classes practically since she took her first step, she’s like a complete natural at performing, choreography, jumping around, and stuff. And since I like to write songs and sing, I’m in charge of the lyrics. We even worked on a few potential moves over the summer, in anticipation of this exact moment. So I guess we’re both feeling pretty confident about our odds of making it.
Besides, it’s not often that you get a second chance like this. I mean, last year, during J.V. tryouts, we were feeling so low and down on ourselves that we didn’t even go to the meeting, much less make up a cheer. But after that nasty judging scandal forced school administrators to revise the entire voting process, making it less political, and more fair (kind of like they had to do with Olympic figure skating), people who don’t normally get a fair shot at these things, people like Sloane and I, will now, under the protective umbrella of the threat of legal action, actually stand a chance.
“So, tryouts are Monday at four. That gives you just five days to practice your cheers,” Tatiana says, tossing her long, dark hair over her shoulder and dazzling us with her perfect, Crest Whitestrips smile. “So, everyone, just try to work hard but have fun!”
That last “have fun” part was said by all of them. And I watch in amazement as they all just sort of naturally lean in, heads close together, like they’re posing for the world’s cutest group photo.
I look over at Sloane, who is gazing at them in awe, watching as a swarm of girls rush them, like orphans to Angelina Jolie, and I go, “So, you wanna go back to your house and practice?”
But she just shakes her head, gets up, and heads straight for the receiving line. And I, unable to see any other option, just stand up and follow.
When it’s finally her turn to speak, Sloane smiles and says, “Omigod!” And then tentatively reaches out to touch Ginny’s hand. “I just love your ring! Where’d you get that?”
And since up until this exact moment I hadn’t even noticed she was wearing a ring, I scoot in even closer, peeking over Sloane’s shoulder and peering at Ginny’s bejeweled finger. But still, all I can see is just a thick, silver band with three small purple stones across the front, and as I stand there and stare at it, I can’t help but wonder what all the fuss is about.
But Ginny raises her hand up high, gazing at it with unabashed admiration, then she looks at Sloane and smiles and goes, “Thanks, Spence just gave it to me.”
That would be Andy Spence. The Lincoln Navigator- driving, USC-bound, varsity-footballing best friend of Cash Davis, who for some inexplicable reason, goes by his last name.
I just stand there and watch as Sloane leans even closer to the ring, making me wonder if she’s gonna get down on her knees and kiss it, like you do with the pope. And then I look at Ginny, and the way she’s gazing at Sloane reminds me of how I sometimes look at Autumn (when we’re not fighting). You know, that kind of adoring, protective, big sister look. And as I’m watching this unfold, I suddenly realize how even though it all seems kind of comical and phony to me, it’s also pretty obvious that something very important is happening here. That this is actually a very critical moment in our social strategy. That with one, well-timed, perfectly delivered, halfhearted compliment, Sloane has managed to take one giant leap forward for both of us.
And then Ginny’s eyes meet mine, giving me this expectant look, and knowing I have to say something, too, or risk looking like a lame retard mute, I lean in and go, “Oh, yeah. It’s so cool! Really, totally cool.” And even though I nod vigorously and smile with all my might, I can tell she’s not buying it.
“Okay, well, good luck,” she says, turning away dismissively, focusing her attention on the fans waiting impatiently behind us.
“So,” I say, grabbing my backpack and following Sloane outside. “What do you think? My house or yours?”
But Sloane just storms ahead without answering. And just as I’m thinking she didn’t hear, and I’m about to repeat the question, she turns on her heel and shakes her head. “Winter, I can’t even believe you,” she says. “That sounded so fake just now.” She looks at me with her lips all grim and her eyes all judgmental and harsh.
But I just shrug. “Please. You wanna hear fake? How about ‘and while we totally wish we could choose each and every one of you’!” I mimic, shaking my head and laughing out loud.
”Shhh!” She glances aroun
d frantically, then looks at me and rolls her eyes. “Omigod, just tell me, once and for all, do you want to move forward with this or not? Because to be honest, it’s starting to seem like you don’t.” She folds her arms across her chest, in a perfect example of defensive body language 101.
“Of course I do! But come on, you gotta admit, a lot of this stuff is just so fake!” I laugh. “I mean, be honest, you didn’t really like that ring, did you?” But when she looks at me, shaking her head and narrowing her eyes, I know I may have gone just a teensy bit too far.
“I’m totally serious,” she says. “You so don’t get it. If you want to be in with these people then you have to like what they like. And I don’t mean to be a bitch, Winter, but no one is going to appreciate your little sarcastic comments. So you need to decide, right now, what it is you want to do. Because I’m getting in, no matter what! I’ve worked way too hard, and this is way too important to just give it all up because you’ve suddenly decided that everything is just some big, phony joke. So tell me, what’s it gonna be? Are you in, or are you out?”
She’s standing there, arms still folded, and I know that she’s totally serious. Which, I admit, kind of makes me feel a little sick. I mean, Sloane has been my best friend forever, so not only is this ultimatum more than a little surprising, but it’s also knocked me totally off-guard. And, the worst part is I’m starting to wonder if maybe she’s right. I mean, maybe my sarcasm really is holding me (us) back. Maybe I am just this awful person who’s always looking for the punch line, and who gets her jollies by mocking this wonderful group of optimistic, well-meaning girls who truly do love this school and every single person in it, and who are just naturally happy and high on nothing more than unmitigated school spirit and goodwill toward all.
Not to mention that Sloane is right. If I’m sick of being a nobody, if I truly want to move forward with our plan, then I need to learn to relax and just go with their flow.
So I look at her, feeling a little shaky and nauseous inside, but grateful that there’s still enough time to save my sorry self (from myself). “I’m in,” I say, in a small, tight voice, nodding so she’ll know just how serious I am. “Totally, completely in.”
“Good,” she says, just as her mom pulls up in her silver Lexus SUV. “Now, let’s go practice at my house.”
“Where were you?” my mom asks, as I toss my backpack onto the kitchen table, and head for the fridge.
“Sloane’s,” I say, ducking my head inside, trying to locate something to eat that’s not good for my heart, won’t aid my digestion, and will do absolutely nothing to stop the onset of osteoporosis.
“Dinner will be ready soon, so don’t fill up on junk,” she warns.
I roll my eyes and close the fridge. As if filling up on junk was even an option in this place. I mean getting crazy around here means biting into a conventionally grown apple.
“So how’s school going?” she asks, turning away from the stove so she can look at me.
“Day two, and nothing to report.” I shrug, watching as she stirs something thick and red that I vote “most likely to end up on a heaping plate of gluten-free, soy pasta.” Then I unzip my backpack and sort through my papers, until finding the one that I need. The one that requests her signed consent so I can dash her dreams, break her heart, and totally let her down by trying out for cheerleader.
But now that I’m holding it in my hand, I just stand there, staring at it, thinking that maybe I should just bypass her completely, smuggle it into my room, and attempt to forge her signature or something since I know damn well that there’s no way I’ll ever get her to agree to this. I mean, the only organized activities she ever approves of are either political or environmental. And let’s face it, making the squad certainly won’t benefit anyone other than me.
And just as I’m about to shove it back in my bag, she looks at me and goes, “What’s that?” And then she squints at it from across the room, like she can actually read the small print from all the way over there.
“Um, well, I just need you to sign this. Just right on that line there. It’s no big deal, so you don’t even have to bother with reading it or anything,” I say, knowing I’m completely blowing it by acting all nervous, and overexplaining, because, let’s face it, that’s pretty much always a dead giveaway.
“Well, what is it?” she asks, rubbing her hands on her jeans and reaching for her reading glasses.
I just stand there, anxiously watching her face as she reads it over, trying to gauge what her response will be. And with her lips pressed all firmly together, her eyes all narrowed, and her jaw gone all tense, I know it’s not gonna be good.
“Oh, Winter, are you sure you want to do this?” she asks, gazing at me with a whole lotta concern and more than a little disappointment.
But feeling surprised by her question, and fearing it’s a trap, I just nod without blinking.
She looks at me for a moment, and then lets out a sigh that’s thick with resignation. “Okay,” she says, voice full of defeat. “Just get me a pen.”
So I reach into my backpack and hand her a pen. And as I watch her sign on the dotted line, I know that this was just way too easy, and I’m braced for the inevitable lecture, the oft- repeated “free to be you and me, evils of conformity, corporate America is trying to homogenize us but we won’t let ‘em” speech. But surprisingly, it never comes.
She just hands me the paper and goes, “Can you set the table for dinner? It’ll be just the two of us tonight, your sister has art class.”
And as I head for the drawer where we keep all the natural fiber, vegetable-dyed placemats, I peek at my mom, waiting for something more. But she’s back to stirring the sauce, adding a pinch more thyme, and humming “Scarborough Fair” under her breath.
The next day, I’m hanging out at my locker during the ten- minute break, eager to show Sloane the words to our cheer, which I finally finished during a Catcher in the Rye discussion in AP English. And I start to feel kind of anxious when I realize that break is almost half over and yet there’s still no sign of her. And after shaking my head and rolling my eyes, and basically just showboating my annoyance for the whole school to see, I suddenly remember that if I want people to like me, then I need to clean up my act, and suppress any and all emotions that don’t convey extreme happiness, wholesome sexiness, and out- of-control school spirit.
So I make my posture a little straighter, smooth the wrinkles from my white Mossimo T-shirt, and tug on the waistband of my two-hundred-dollar Rock & Republic jeans that I totally splurged on even though I definitely couldn’t afford to. Then I concentrate on looking super, deliriously happy, which only results in me feeling like an idiot, standing around and smiling like that for no apparent reason.
And just as I shut my locker and decide to go find Sloane, I see her approaching me. But it’s not until after I call her name and wave that I realize she’s not actually heading for me at all. In fact, she doesn’t even seem to be looking for me. She’s just walking along, taking her time, while all of her attention is focused on Ginny.
“Hey, you guys!” I say, smiling and rushing toward them, wondering if this moment requires one of those big fake hugs, or if it’s better to just hang back and let one of them make the first move.
But Sloane and Ginny just keep talking, as if I’m not even there. So I search Ginny’s outfit, quickly scanning it, looking for something to compliment since I saw firsthand just how well that strategy worked for Sloane. But since she’s dressed in her cheerleading sweater and skirt and those white, extrasupport tennis shoes (the same kind you see on nurses and the elderly), I know it won’t seem authentic. And since the last time I attempted this I totally failed, I’m really feeling the pressure to get it right this time, or not do it at all. And after looking her over a second time and realizing there’s nothing for me to compliment that won’t come off as either totally dumb or completely creepy, I settle for just standing there, like a total retard, waiting for one of them to n
otice me.
So then finally Sloane gazes up at me and goes, “Oh, Ginny, this is my friend Winter.”
And after barely acknowledging me, Ginny turns back to Sloane, gives her a meaningful look, and says, “So, remember. Okay?”
And Sloane nods, her eyes locked on Ginny as though some very serious information has just been exchanged.
I watch as Ginny turns to leave, and I know I need to contribute something quick, so I cup my hands around my mouth and go, “Bye, Ginny!” And I sound really animated when I say that, just like Sloane and I practiced all last summer.
But Ginny just totally ignores me and disappears around the corner. While Sloane shakes her head and says, “Omigod, why’d you just do that?” Then she glares at me, complete and total scorn plastered right across her face.
“Do what?” I ask, feeling really confused. I mean, jeez, why is she so upset? I was only trying to be polite.
But Sloane just grits her teeth, and whispers, “Yell goodbye like that.”
“Um, because she was leaving and that’s what people do when someone takes off.” I shrug, wishing we could just move past this so that I can show her our final cheer.
But Sloane just looks at me and rolls her eyes again. “Ugh, this is so impossible!” she says, turning to walk away.
“Sloane! Wait! Where you going?” I chase after her. “Listen, I finished our cheer and I want you to see it.”
But she just hurries away from me as fast as she can. “I’m going to class. I’ll see you at lunch,” she says, without once looking back.
By lunch, everything’s normal again. We’re sitting at Table C, I’m eating a healthy sandwich that my mom made especially for me, and Sloane is sipping a Diet Coke (or “liquid candy, don’t kid yourself” as my mom refers to it), while she reads the cheer.