Girls That Growl (3 page)

. . . er, undeath, I guess. I mean,the guy literally sacrificed everything he had—his job, hisvampire powers—all for me! How lucky am I to have a boyfriendlike that?

It's just that—well, between you and me, and you'd better not say anything!—lately, he's been . . .

different. More . . . cheerful, I guess you could say. Happy. Enjoying life. No more brooding. No more deep, dark secrets and heart-wrenching drama. Which is . . . good, right? I mean, it seems like it should be good. And it's not that I want him to live his life pent up, anguished, and miserable. Well, not exactly, anyway.

But you've got to understand, when I first met him he was so different. So much like me. The two of us were thrown to-gether and quickly bonded through our mutual unhappiness with the hard, cold world.

We came together as two lonely souls—desperate, tortured, filled with angst. We didn't trust. We didn't share. But there was a lot of dark, hot passion be-tween us.

Now, ever since he's gotten me as a girlfriend and has been able to worship the sun again, he's been so .

. . happy!

What's an Emo girl to do?

4

"Sunny, I need an extreme pep makeover."

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My twin, sprawled on her stomach on her bed, looks up from her math homework, eyebrow raised.

"Excuse me?" she asks. "I don't think I heard you right."

"Ineed you to turn me into a prep."

"Okay, now I know I didn't hear you right." She sits up. "What the heck are you talking about, Rayne?"

"Am I not speaking English here?" I ask, getting irritated. It's already embarrassing enough to be asking this to begin with. "I need you to turn me into a prep so that tomorrow afternoon I can try out for cheerleading."

Sunny bursts out laughing. She throws herself back on the bed, tears of mirth streaming down her cheeks as she hoots and cackles. I've obviously just said the funniest thing she's ever heard and it's going to take her a while to calm down.

"Urn, whenever you're done ..."

"Oh my God, Rayne," she says, shaking her head. "You're too funny. I just got this total image of you in a cheerleading uniform with fishnets and combat boots."

"Uh, yeah. Hence the makeover request."

"Wait, you're serious, aren't you? How can you be seri-ous?"

"Come on, Sun. I asked you for a favor. Do we have to play Twenty Questions?"

"My sister, lover of the night, vampire of the Blood Coven, never before seen in anything but the color black, wants to be a pom-pom waving, football field-dancing cheerleader? And I'm not allowed to ask why?" Sunny snorts. "Yeah, right, Rayne. I'm not helping 'til you come clean. So what's the deal? You planning to play some crazy trick on them? Make them look like fools in front of the whole school?

Come on, tell me. I promise not to squeal. I'm your twin, after all."

"Sunny, there's no plan. I've just got to make the squad."

Sunny stares at me, patiently.

"Okay, fine. I've been asked by Slayer Inc, to try out."

"Really? Are there evil vampires on the squad?"

"I don't. . . I don't think so," I say, "Though who knows?Mr. Teifert just said they thought something weird wasgoing on. And he believes it has to do with Mike Steven'sdisappearance."

"That's funny. I was thinking it was probably
you
who made Mike Stevens disappear. Met him in a dark alley one night this summer. Seduced him into your power, then BLAM!Bit him in the neck. Sucked every last drop of blood from that asshole's veins."

I cringe. "Uh, yeah. Right. Except I don't drink blood, re-member?"

"What? You're still on the synthetics?"

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My face heats. How embarrassing. I've been a vampire all summerand I've yet to pick out a pair of Donor Boys and start living like one. The idea of drinking blood from another human being just grosses me out and I can't help it. I figured onceI made the change I'd suddenly be ready to start sucking away.

But no. Just the thought of digging my tiny fangs into someone's neck gives me the willies.

After nearly dying of starvation my first week, they put me on synthetic blood. Sort of like soy milk instead of cows' milk. It doesn't taste all that good, but it's better than down-ing the real stuff.

The coven doctors believe it may have to do with the fact I had the virus. I'm not quite human, but not full-blooded vampire. So while I can't stomach solid food without throw-ing up, I still crave it with a vengeance. And while I can't sur-vive without human blood, I'm repulsed by the idea of drinking it.

I'm the coolest vampire ever. Not.

"Yes, I'm still on synthetics. So what?"

"Nothing. Just. . . it's weird."

"Not really. It's like . . . vegetarianism."

"A vegetarian vampire is weird."

"Wow. We've been here ten minutes and I'm not one bit prepped out yet."

"Fine, fine." Sunny groans, dragging herself off the bed. "Let's see what I can find." She walks over to her closet and starts rummaging through. "So Slayer Inc. thinks the cheer-leaders have something to do with Mike's disappearance?"

"Yup. And he says they've been heard growling."

"Oh-kaythen." Sunny laughs. "So you've got to secretly infiltrate their ranks and figure out where they stashed the quarterback."

"Something like that."

"What I want to know is how the heck you're going to make the squad."

"Extreme pep makeover, I told you."

"I hate to break it to you, Rayne, but it may not be that simple. One, they're going to see right through your pink clothes. Your tattoos won't be easy to cover up, just FYI. And two, regardless of whatever stereotype you have in your head, I gotta tell you, there are some minimum skill require-ments for cheerleaders."

"Please. They just jump around and wave pom-poms. How hard can it be?"

Sunny shakes her head. "Fine. You'll see. But I suggest you practice before your tryout. A lot." She hands me a pair of yoga capris and a tank top. "Seriously. And even then, you're not going to be able to master a round-off back-handspring by tomorrow evening. There's going to be lots of girls more qualified than you."

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"Yeah, yeah."

"Not to mention Mandy's the captain of the team. And we all know what Mandy thinks of you."

"Right," I say, suddenly inspired. Mandy Matterson. Captain of the squad. Former best friend. That gives me an idea.

"Sunny," I say. "Forget the makeover. I have a much bet-ter plan. One that will guarantee I make the squad, no ques-tions asked."

Oh yeah, baby. This is going to be fun.

5

"Okay, we're going to call you out by name, one at a time. You'll step out in front of us and perform your cheer. Then we may ask you some questions. We only need two girls to fill the squad, so obviously most of you won't make it. We're very selective here at Oakridge High. We have stan-dards. High standards."

After finishing her speech, Captain Mandy sits back down in her seat behind the row of tables, joining the seven senior squad members serving as judges today. She tosses her long blond hair behind her shoulders and clears her throat.

"Okay," she says, after a glance to her clipboard. "Up first, Britney Smith."

A giggling blond girl jumps up from the bench the rest of us wannabes are sitting on and cartwheels over to the center. Hmm, nice open.

"Hi!" she exclaims brightly. "I'm, like, Britney Smith. Thanks for having me!"

Do we get bonus points for over-the-top, air-headed be-havior? Something to consider. Not that I think for one mo-ment I'd be able to pull off that level of vapidness.

"I'm so nervous," squeaks a voice next to me. I turn to the girl in question. She's smaller than the rest of the hopefuls and really thin. The kind of girl who'd get to be top of the pyramid were she to make the squad. Still, she's not as . . . Barbie doll looking as the others. Her brown hair's a bit on the stringy side and her huge, unmade-up eyes are a muddy shade of brown. She's wearing a long-sleeved black shirt and baggy shorts that do nothing for her figure. I'd like to say those things don't matter and that it's all about talent, but I can't imagine that's a realistic assumption in this sce-nario.

"Meh, you'll be fine," I say, trying to calm her nerves. Not like I'm not a bundle of them myself.

"My mother was captain of the squad back in the 1970s when she went to Oakridge," the girl continues, her voice literally quaking with fear. "And she really wants me to fol-low in her footsteps. When I didn't make the team last year, she was so upset."

Wow. Talk about pressure. I hate parents like that. The ones who try to relive their own sad, pathetic youths by forc-ing their kids into activities they used to enjoy. Who knows, this mousy little girl could
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have been a terrific artist or track star. But she's going to waste all her effort in this air-headed, pseudosport because Mommy Dearest wants to be able to brag at bridge.

"Well, I'll keep my fingers crossed for you," I say. "I'm Rayne, by the way. What's your name?"

"I'm Caitlin. But everyone calls me Cait."

"Okay, Cait." I hold up my crossed fingers. "Good luck."

"Thanks, Rayne," she says, beaming back at me. She seems like a really nice kid. I hope that she gets picked. Me and her. That would be ideal.

"Up next, Cait Midwood." Mandy already sounds bored.

"Ooh!" Cait squeals, throwing herself at me for a hug. Did I mention I hate hugs? Or any kind of public displays of affection. After all, there's a three-foot bubble rule for a rea-son. But I endure it because I know she's so excited. "Here goes nothing! Wish me luck!"

"Luck!" I wish. And I mean it. Though I don't know how optimistic I am.

She bounces up from her seat and skips out into the center of the room. I watch as she starts in on a pretty elabo-rate cheer. Wow. Even I can tell that she's good. Really good. Almost as if her joints are made of springs, always bouncing from one trick or jump to the next. She ends the cheer with a round-off back-handspring, back-tuck, and then throws her arms up into aV,a huge smile on her face.

She knows she's nailed it.

I'm so excited for her, I break out in applause, then real-ize no one else is clapping and lower my hands, a bit embar-rassed. But whatever. She did an amazing job. Ten thousand times better than the girl before her. They'd be a fool not to accept her on the squad. Then again, they
are
fools, so really, all bets are off.

"Rayne McDonald."

Oh great. Here goes nothing.

I try to jump up from my seat as I saw the other girls do and bound across the gymnasium floor.

Problem is, I manage to trip on my untied sneaker and fall flat on my face, slam-ming my knees against the shiny floor. Ugh. A rippling of laughter comes from the stupid peanut gallery.

I try to look as dignified as possible as I pick myself up off the floor and brush the dust off the tight, sexy yoga capris and tank Sunny let me borrow. (So not me, but at least they're black.) Then I head to my position.

"Hang on a second!" cries Mandy. "Rayne McDonald?"

Eight pairs of eyes stare at me from behind the tables, utter disbelief written on every Kewpie-doll face.

"Uh, yeah?" I ask, feigning complete innocence. "That's me!"

"Um, yes, we can see that. It's just. . . well, why are . . .
you . . .
trying out for cheerleading?" sputters the girl to Mandy's right.

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I clear my throat. I've prepared for this very question. "Well, I just felt that lately Oakridge High has become a cesspool of dispirited youth and it would be irresponsible of me not to rise to the challenge of inspiriting our young peo-ple. To bring cheer to the uncheerable. Spirit to the spiritless. Joy to the unenjoyable."

Blank looks all around. Hmm.

I try again. "And I just, like, thought, like, it'd be really cool to be one of you guys?"

Ah, there are the head nods of understanding.

"I'm sorry," Mandy snorts. "But I really don't think you're cheerleader material."

"I see." I study her thoughtfully. "Yet, funny, I seem to re-call your flyer saying
everyone
is allowed to try out. I believe this rule is in response to some sort of Big Betty episode back in 2004?"

No one can say I didn't do my homework. A few years ago, the cheerleaders excluded some three-hundred-pound girl with facial acne from tryouts on the ruling that, well, she was fat and had zits.

Turns out, according to the school's pol-icy and procedures manual, that's not an acceptable reason to deny someone the opportunity to try out and her mother sued the school. Betty got enough money for plastic surgery and stomach stapling and last I heard she was living in Man-hattan, modeling for Calvin Klein.

The cheerleaders murmur to themselves. Obviously it takes eight brains to come to one decision in this crowd. Good thing they have one another. I can't believe Mr. Teifert thinks these chicks are a threat to the school. I doubt they'd be a threat to a paper bag. I am so wasting my time here.

"Okay, fine," Mandy says at last. "You can try out. But don't get your hopes up. I hardly think you have much of a chance."

"Like, thanks!" I cry, all school spirit. I clap my hands. "You guys are the best!"

Mandy rolls her eyes. "Just go."

I jump into position, wishing I were a real vampire with powers. Preferably the power to flip and kick.

Then this would be uber-easy.

Oh well. Here goes nothing.

"Wolves, let's hear you yell go-GO

Wolves, let's hear you yell fight-FIGHT

Wolves, let's hear you yell win-WIN

Wolves, all together yell go fight win-GO FIGHT WIN GO FIGHT WIN!"

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