I Was a Non-Blonde Cheerleader Read online

  “I told you last night,” I said, my heart feeling sick. “I’m quitting.”

  “You’re sure?” she said.

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I replied.

  “Okay, then. I support you,” Jordan said. “I wish I was there with you. You know I’d be kicking some blonde butt by now. I’ve been practicing my kar-a-tay.”

  I smiled sadly. “I know. Thanks for calling, Jor.”

  “Anytime. Let me know what happens.”

  I clicked off and took a deep breath. Jordan had no idea how much that phone call had meant to me. With her behind me, even from miles away, I could face pretty much anything. I opened the back door and found Bethany waiting for me.

  “Nice outfit,” she said.

  “Thanks,” I replied. I was back in black. Black T-shirt, gray-and-black plaid skirt, black sneakers. If the people in this school didn’t like the way I dressed, they could kiss my unbronzed butt.

  “So, what happened?” she asked as we headed down the hall. “Are you the enemy?”

  I sighed. “Yep, but it’s only a temporary condition,” I told her. “I’m on my way to the athletic office to officially quit.”

  Bethany’s entire face lit up, but then she rearranged it into a concerned frown. “Oh. That’s too bad.”

  I laughed and rolled my eyes at her. “I’ll see ya later,” I said, picking up the pace. I could hear her Pumas squeaking against the floor and her bracelets rattling as she jumped up and down with joy.

  “No! I’m coming with you!” she said, jogging to catch up. “Just in case they try to brainwash you.”

  “Anyone ever tell you you’re insane?” I asked.

  “Not since breakfast,” Bethany replied.

  We headed into the gym lobby and I paused. Whitney Barnard was standing outside the door to the athletic office. When she saw us, she pushed herself away from the wall and walked over to me.

  “I figured I’d find you here,” she said.

  “Don’t bother,” I told her, gripping my backpack strap. “I’m gonna go in there and quit, so you can save your breath.”

  “Don’t quit,” Whitney said. “You can’t quit.”

  My mouth dropped open slightly and Bethany’s jaw practically hit the floor.

  “Look, Tara would kill me if she knew I was here, but I don’t really care,” Whitney said. “I wanted to tell you that I thought it was pretty cool that you even tried out after everything we put you through. Most people wouldn’t have had the guts to show.”

  I felt like knocking the side of my head to make sure my ears were working.

  “And yesterday? When you freaked out on Tara like that?” Whitney shook her head and looked at the floor. “No one on record has ever talked to Tara Timothy that way. Well, except me. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever seen.”

  Bethany and I exchanged a look. There was no finding my tongue.

  “Look, Tara . . . she’s really not that bad,” Whitney said. “She’s just a little . . . on edge right now because she really wants to win at regionals. She’s basically obsessed, and this whole thing with Kristen and Danielle . . . it’s giving her permanent PMS. But she’ll calm down as soon as she realizes that you’re exactly what this team needs.”

  “I am?”

  “I think so. And some of the other girls do too,” Whitney continued. “If we’re gonna beat West Wind at regionals, we’re gonna need the best cheerleaders we can get, and you and Mindy were the best. Besides, Danielle and Kristen were bad for our image. Personally, I’m glad you got them booted.”

  “But I didn’t—”

  Whitney held up her hand to stop me. “So are you in or are you out, Gobrowski?”

  A little fire of hope came to life in my chest. Maybe I could get along with this team. At least I now knew that some of them actually wanted me there. I looked at Bethany. Her expression fell somewhere between baffled and impressed.

  “Hey, if you really wanna do this, I’m behind you one hundred percent,” she said.

  I smiled. It was exactly what Jordan would have said.

  “Okay, maybe more like ten percent,” Bethany amended.

  I laughed, took a deep breath and hoped I wasn’t making the stupidest mistake of my life (and I’ve made some stupid ones—just take a look at my sixth-grade class picture).

  “Okay, Barnard,” I said. “I’m in.”

  And then, just when I thought the morning couldn’t get any weirder, Whitney hugged me.

  “You are not going to regret this,” she said. She started to walk away, but then stopped and spun on her heel to face me. “Oh, and if my sister tries to make your life miserable, just ignore her. The girl still sleeps with a night-light.” Then she winked and sauntered off.

  After that, Bethany and I laughed for about an hour.

  When I first walked into practice that day, I was even more nervous that I’d been before tryouts. There were at least three internal organs jockeying for position to be the first one out of my body. It didn’t help matters when, the moment I entered the room, Tara stormed up to me. Her face was now a highly unattractive goldenrod-type color.

  “I thought you quit,” she said loudly.

  “You thought wrong,” I replied, somehow.

  Then I walked past Whitney—who smiled covertly—and over to Mindy, who grinned unabashedly. These were my allies. Everyone else in the room might as well have been shooting me with subzero freeze rays. Where were these other girls Whitney had told me about? The ones who supposedly wanted me there?

  I didn’t have long to think about it. Coach Holmes came in, and if she was surprised to see me there, she didn’t show it. She warmed us up with twenty laps around the gym, a hundred jumping jacks, and as many push-ups as we could do in one minute. I checked in with a pathetic five. “Unprecedentedly sorry” was the phrase Coach used. She was wearing a tank top and had a set of Serena Williams arms. I had a feeling it was time to hit the gym.

  “All right, here’s what we’re gonna do,” Coach called out after warm-ups. “This team isn’t just about regionals. We have a pep rally this Friday and a game this Saturday and our two new members need to be prepared for both.”

  Tara opened her mouth to protest, and it was like Coach Holmes’ eyes were hooked into Tara’s jaw. The second Holmes looked at Tara, her mouth snapped shut.

  “I’d like a volunteer to work with Mindy and Annisa while the rest of the team practices the routine for regionals,” Coach Holmes said. “A flyer would be best so that we can keep most of the formations intact. Anyone?”

  I was so relieved when Whitney stepped forward, I could have kissed her. Tara did a classic soap opera betrayed look-chin pulled back, mouth open. Whitney didn’t appear to notice.

  “Okay, girls,” Whitney said, leading us into a corner. “We’ve got a lot to learn, so pay attention. This is our hello cheer.”

  Then she launched into the most intricate cheer I’d ever seen. There was this one clap sequence where her hands were just a blur. Mindy and I looked at each other. This was not going to be a cakewalk.

  For two hours we practiced with Whitney while the rest of the squad danced and cheered behind us to a tight mix of songs. Whenever we took a break, I couldn’t help staring at the squad. The routine was intense. Intensely amazing. It looked just like something out of Bring It On. Suddenly, I had stars in my eyes. I remembered why I was here in the first place. Competition. The thrill of victory. The agony of defeat. Getting to strut my stuff on ESPN in front of thousands of crazed cheerleaders.

  As a couple of girls launched into perfect scorpions, my skin felt all tingly. It was going to happen. I could feel it.

  “All right, girls, take five,” Coach Holmes called out at the end of one of their run-throughs. “Mindy, Annisa, can I see you?”

  The rest of the team collapsed on the bleachers—everyone except Tara, Whitney and Coach Holmes. Mindy and I stood in front of them, sweaty and tired. My head was full of a zillion cheer catchphrases. “Go! Fight! Win!” �
�Here we go, Sand Dune, here we go!” “V-I-C-T-O-R-Y!” I could barely hear myself think with all the shouting going on in my gray matter.

  “What do you think, girls?” Coach Holmes asked Tara and Whitney. She looked Mindy and me up and down. “I think Gobrowski’s the flyer.”

  The flyer? I was going to be a flyer? My heart jumped excitedly. We barely ever got a basket toss off the ground back home, but on this squad I’d be catching more wind than a 747.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Tara said. “Kristen was a base and Danielle was a flyer,” she explained, looking exclusively at Mindy. “Can you handle basing?”

  “No problem,” Mindy said.

  “She did, like, thirty push-ups,” I put in.

  Tara looked at me like I’d just put a hex on her. “Come on,” she said. “We’ll throw you.”

  So not the words you want to hear from the mouth of your mortal enemy.

  “Autumn? Chandra? I need you at the mats,” Tara said.

  A couple of sturdy-looking girls roused themselves from the bleachers and walked with us to a set of mats in the center of the room.

  “Autumn Ross, Chandra Albohm, meet Mindy McMahon and Annisa Goborkowski,” Tara said in a bored tone.

  “Gobrowski,” I corrected.

  “Hey,” Chandra said, lifting her chin slightly. She had a gravelly voice like that curly-haired chick from American Pie. And similar hair, actually.

  “Hiya!” Autumn chirped. White-blonde ponytail. So much energy, she must’ve been mainlining Red Bull.

  “Okay, we need to teach Mindy to base and Annisa’s gonna be our flyer,” Coach Holmes said. “You ever done this before, Gobrowski?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “A few times. Just regular basket tosses, though.”

  “Okay, well, we won’t try anything fancy the first time. Show her the count,” Coach instructed.

  Autumn and Chandra locked arms in front of me. “It’s one,” Chandra said. “Then two and you prep to jump with your hands on our shoulders.”

  I put my hands on their shoulders and bent my knees.

  “Then three, your feet hit our arms,” Autumn said.

  I jumped up and landed awkwardly on their interlocked arms. My foot slipped off Chandra’s knuckles and I lost my balance and fell. Oddly, Tara caught me before I could hit the ground.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “I have to do that,” she told me.

  “Ow! Dammit!” Chandra said, shaking out her hand.

  “Toughen up, Albohm,” Coach scolded her. “How many times a day did you do this with Danielle?”

  “Danielle knew what she was doing,” Chandra whined.

  My face turned ten shades of red. I looked at Mindy and she bit her lip. This was not good.

  “Is this going to be our attitude?” Coach Holmes asked. I looked at the floor guiltily. Then she turned to the bleachers and shouted. “Is this gonna be our attitude? ’Cause if it is, we should stop right now.”

  Everyone shifted in their seats, looking at one another to see if anyone would be brave enough to answer.

  “I can’t hear you, people!” Coach shouted, causing my heart to slam into my ribs.

  “No, Coach!” they all said in unison.

  “Oh, this is pathetic!” Coach Holmes shouted. The tendons in her neck practically exploded through her skin. “I said, Is this going to be our attitude!?”

  “No, Coach!” they all shouted at the top of their lungs.

  “That’s better.” Coach Holmes turned back to us, her nostrils flaring. “Now you all need to wake up and realize that Kristen and Danielle are not coming back. They screwed up and they’re gone. You’ve got new teammates now. Stop acting like a bunch of whiners and start acting like a team.”

  Mental note: Never get on Coach Holmes’ bad side.

  After that, the stunting session went pretty smoothly. I even managed a basket toss with a flip by the end of the hour, and Mindy was basing by that point. I only hit the ground three times and I’m pretty sure they didn’t miss their spots on purpose. My butt, of course, had other theories.

  Then it was time to show the rest of the squad what Whitney had taught us. Of course by that point I had completely spaced on half of it. I forgot the words to the Sand Dune spirit cheer, messed up the clap sequence in the hello cheer and fumbled my way through the rest of it. Still, Coach Holmes applauded for us when we were done, so everyone else did too. I guess they didn’t want to make her mad again.

  “Good first day, girls. Good first day,” Coach said as practice broke up. “Just practice tonight and you’ll be fine. Now come with me and we’ll get you some uniforms.”

  Uniforms! I had almost forgotten about uniforms in all the bruising and battering. Mindy and I grabbed our stuff and followed after Coach. She led us up to her office above the gym. It was a tiny stucco room with bad lighting and an old metal desk, but the walls were peppered with framed photographs of smiling squads, dozens of award ribbons and a few gleaming plaques. As Coach unlocked the closet behind her desk, I walked along the wall. Coach Holmes was front and center in almost all the team photos, wearing a red-and-white uniform with a huge grin on her face and her finger held up in triumph—We’re number one. There were trophies in almost all the photos.

  “Wow,” I said. “You’ve won a lot of competitions.”

  Coach Holmes looked over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah, I guess. But I’ve lost as many as I’ve won.”

  “It doesn’t look like it,” Mindy said.

  “Take a closer look,” Coach Holmes said as she came out with a few skirts and tops. “Those pictures in the middle, there’s no trophy. We still had fun, though.”

  I smiled. It was nice to know our coach wasn’t just about winning. Especially since it seemed that was all that mattered to our captain.

  “Here. These should work,” Coach Holmes told us, handing each of us a uniform. She added a white SDH Cheerleader T-shirt and a pair of blue shorts with a little white megaphone on the leg to each pile. “Don’t drive yourselves nuts with those cheers tonight. I’m sure you’ll be fine tomorrow.”

  “Thanks, Coach,” Mindy and I said in unison.

  “So wear your uniforms to school with white ankle socks. You both have white cheerleading sneakers, right?” she asked.

  “I have Sage’s extra pair,” Mindy said.

  “Mine have red and black stripes,” I said.

  “Well, they’ll have to do for now, but I’ll order you both some new ones tonight,” she said. “What size?”

  “Oh . . . uh . . . five and a half,” I said, surprised. “How much are they?”

  “They’re considered part of the uniform, so the school foots the bill,” she said. “But you two are going to have to buy competition uniforms, ribbons, practice uniforms and sweats.”

  Holy shopping spree, Batman. Number signs floated through my head like I was some crazed Scrooge McDuck cartoon.

  “Don’t worry,” Coach said with a laugh when she saw our faces. “We’ll figure it all out over the next couple of days. Now, when you’re in uniform, it’s no nail polish, no jewelry, and hair goes up.” She paused and looked at my forehead. “Got any good, soft headbands?” she asked.

  “I’ll get some,” I told her.

  “Good. Make sure they’re light blue, white or yellow. Ask Whitney where she gets hers. She’s been wearing them ever since she chopped her hair off last year.”

  “Okay,” I said. At least the only other short-haired-girl on the team was the only other girl on the team who was talking to me. Maybe it was short-haired-girl solidarity.

  “See you tomorrow,” Coach said, dismissing us.

  Mindy and I turned and headed for the door, clutching our uniforms to our chests. My head felt like it was bursting with information. It was exhausting. And I still had to go home and practice for hours. What was I thinking?

  “Oh, and ladies?” Coach Holmes called out, for the first time showing the infectious smile that I’d seen in all her pictures. “Welcome to
the squad.”

  “We are the Crabs! The Mighty Sand Dune Crabs! Stand up and shout for the Mighty Sand Dune Crabs!”

  You know, the more times you say the word crabs the weirder the word starts to sound.

  “Crabs,” I said to myself, staring into my full-length mirror, which I had been practicing in front of for an hour. “Crabscrabscrabscrabscrabs.”

  My bedroom door, which was already ajar, creaked all the way open. My father stood in the hall, eyeing me warily.

  “Michella!” he called. “I think all the cheerleading has finally gotten to her brain.”

  “Say crabs, like, ten times and you’ll understand,” I said.

  “Twenty-five cents, please,” he said, holding out his hand and smirking.

  I tipped my head back. “Oh . . . crabs.” I shook a quarter from the South Park bank where I keep my like-quarter stash and handed it to him. Sometimes I think if I could just stop saying like, I could have a wardrobe that rivaled Gwyneth Paltrow’s.

  “So listen, UNLV called and asked me to come out and give a guest lecture,” my father said as he pocketed my cash. “Your mom and I are going to Vegas!”

  “Vegas, Baby! Vegas!”

  My dad looked at me blankly, like he always did when I made any kind of pop-culture reference. Mom, Gabe and I had given him a DVD player last Christmas and so far all he’d watched on it were IMAX movies.

  “When?” I asked.

  “Sunday. We’ll be gone for a little over a week,” he said. “They wanted us to leave on Saturday and attend a reception, but I said no way. I was not going to miss my daughter’s first game as a Fighting Crab.”

  “Thanks, Dad,” I said with a grin.

  His brow furrowed. “Crab,” he said. “Crabcrabcrabcrab. . . . You’re right. That’s an odd word.” Then he turned and walked down the hall. I heard him muttering the crab mantra until his office door closed behind him.

  I returned to my reflection. Those pink walls were still glaring at me, stark and cotton candy–esque. With my parents leaving, I was going to have to put off the paint job a little while longer. Unless, of course, I did it myself. But my mother would kill me if I robbed her of the bonding artistic experience and the obligatory paint fight. I sighed. This place was never going to feel like home.