P.S. I Loathe You (11 page)

• Pat dry.

• Moisturize.

WEDNESDAY

Time:
7:00 a.m.–8:10 a.m.

Place:
BOCD

• Mellow rehearsal on the field. Avoid sweating because we won’t have time to shower until after third-period pilates.

Time:
4:00 p.m.–7:30 p.m.

Place:
THE Block Estate

• Walk the grounds practicing step-clapping and speaking in clear, distinct syllables.

** Example: (clap) This (clap-clap) sounds (clap-clap clap-clap) ea- (clap) si- (clap) er (clap-clap) than it is (clap-clap clap-clap CLAP!)

THURSDAY

Time:
7:00 a.m.–8:10 a.m.

Place:
BOCD Pool

• Aqua rehearsal to loosen muscles and test acoustics in echo-y pool.

Time:
4:00 p.m.–5:00 p.m.

Place:
Longshadows Nursing Home

• Dress rehearsal for super-old people.

** Remember to smile and e-nun-ci-ate.

Time:
5:15 p.m.–5:30 p.m.

Place:
THE Block Estate

• Massie meets publicist Antonia Coburn at the Block estate to get Captain photo taken for local papers.

Time:
5:30 p.m.–7:30 p.m.

• Review feedBACK from Longshadows. Fine-tune.

FRIDAY

Time:
6:30 a.m.–8:00 a.m.

Place:
The Block Estate

• Uniform fittings by Inez, the Blocks’ housekeeper, as some outfits may need to be taken in due to an increase in burned calories. (Fingers crossed!)

** If an outfit needs to be let out, you will be off the team. I can easily replace you. Hair and makeup by Jakkob. Try not to move or eat for the rest of the day.

Time:
4:15 p.m.

Place:
Sirens-Tomahawks field

• Massie gives out special pom-poms. Manicures, please.

Time:
4:30 p.m.

• Kickoff! Tomahawks vs. Groundhogs. Goooooo Socc-Hers!

Time:
5:30 p.m.

• Greet the fans. Smile and pack Purell. They can be dirty.

It had been a hectic week, filled with Socc-Her boot camp and staccato clapping. But nawt a single glorious detention. Sadly, Dylan’s flirt time with Derrick had dropped to a record low. And so had Dylan. Communication had been limited to passing hallway smiles, which ultimately needed to be dissected and analyzed, robbing Dylan of her much-needed beauty sleep.

Their text life had suffered too. He’d sent one message that said: “Sister loved the b-day presents. Thx.” To which Dylan had replied “Yay!” and then hated herself for not writing something more conversational like, “What did she say?” or “Which gift was her fave?” or “Wanna lip-kiss?” Every time she passed the parking lot pigeons—
their
parking lot pigeons—a little piece of her died.

More than anything, Dylan wanted to ask Massie for advice.
Should she text him?
Search for a “lost contact lens” by his trailer when class let out? Was he just not that into her?
But more than anything, she knew she couldn’t. The whole predicament weighed heavier than the mandatory hair extension clipped to her naturally thick ponytail.

The stands were filling up with families, teachers, and students, each clamoring to get a good view of the field and a better view of the cheerleaders.

Clap-clap!

“Huddle!” Massie called extra loud, obviously playing to the ogling fans.

The Socc-Hers padded toward her, sounding more like Santa’s helpers than spirit providers, thanks to the fringe-bells on their gold moccasins.

Lucky Kristen!
Dylan thought as her mom-benched friend lifted Derrick’s propped leg like a drawbridge and took the seat beside him.

“Team,” Massie began sternly, “you have worked long and hard this week. And to show you how proud I am, I replaced your regular pom-poms with . . . ” She dumped her Juicy “Nice Girls” tote in the center of their huddle. A stack of fourteen iridescent plume–covered bags landed in a luxurious heap. “Peacock feather–covered clutches!”

“You each get two,” Massie announced with pride. “And when cheerleading season is over you can totally use them for black-tie occasions.”

Everyone squealed with joy, except Twizzler, who blushed. And Layne, who sneezed.

“I have given you the best outfits. The best hair and makeup. The best pom-poms. The best cheers. The best choreography and—”

Echu-echu.
Alicia fake-coughed.

Massie responded with an amber-colored death glare.

“—Aaaand,” she continued, “the best of myself. The rest is up to you. So let’s
(clap)
give
(clap)
these
(clap-clap)
Socc-
(clap)
Her
(clap)
fans
(clap-clap)
something
(clap-clap-clap-clap-clap)
to cheeeeeer about!
WE’RE. SOCC-HER! WE’RE, WE’RE. SOCC-HER. . . .”
She began cheering, and the squad joined in with explosive team spirit, punching the crisp fall air with their peacock-feather bags and circulating it with swings of their ponytails.

“WE’RE. SOCC-HER!

WE’RE, WE’RE. SOCC-HER!

IF YOU’RE COLD SAY BURRRR.

IF YOU’RE A CAT SAY PURRR.

PARDONNEZ-MOI, MONSIEUR—

JE M’APPELLE
SOCC-HER!

YAYYYY!”

The crowd cheered. Massie bowed. Derrington hopped up on one leg and wiggled his butt. Dylan melted.

The players began taking the field. Claire and Alicia cheered wildly when Cam and Josh ran out.

“It’s go time, team.” Massie took a hearty swig of Evian and swallowed with an Olympic-size “Ahhhhhhh.” Rejuvenated, she smacked the cap back on the bottle and got serious. “McNugget, move your hips. Twizzler, less arm-swing. Layne, get a tissue. Kuh-laire, more pop. Dylan, sharper head snaps. Alicia, stop counting us in. That’s my job.” She took another sip. Waves of imported springwater glistened inside the blue-tinted bottle as it slanted toward her glossy lips.

Gawd! What a waste of power,
Dylan thought.
She’s drinking my future. Swallowing my crush!

If only Massie would have the decency to dump the refreshing taste of the French Alps on Derrington. Splash him with liberty and douse him with desire. He’d be free! . . . Free to limp-run onto the field . . . free to profess his Dylan-love . . . free to lip-kiss her in front of—

The crunch of an empty water bottle slapped her back to reality.

“Missing something?” Massie held a thick red horsetail under Dylan’s chin.

“Oops.” Dylan took the two-pound extension. “It must have fallen off,” she sighed, reluctantly clipping it back into place.

“You know, Dylan”—Alicia stretched her hammy, launching the jingle of a hundred little bells—“you should really be more careful. And Massie, as captain, you should be more strict.”

“Seriously?”
Dylan laughed the word out of her mouth, covering it in utter disbelief. It was one thing to be treated like a child by her best friend. But it was
two
things to be standing near a new crush while she was doing it.

“Yeah,
seriously
.” Alicia stretched her other leg. “We’re seconds away from curtain. Massie, you need to feel confident that your dancers are ready to take the stage. I advise you not to rescue them anymore. If they mess up, they pack up.”

Massie put her hands on her hips and thrust her neck like a chicken mid-peck. “And I advise
you
nawt to advise
me.
Ever.
Ah
-gain!”

“Funny
you
should talk about rescuing, Leesh,” Dylan blurted.

“Whaddaya mean?” Alicia’s heavily lined eyes narrowed. She rested her arm on the metal frame of the Tomahawks’ goalie net, or whatever that thing was called.

“I
mean
”—she cranked up the volume—“weren’t you telling everyone in French that you
rescued
Massie? And that without your
input
these
routines
would be sixth-grade level?”

“Opposite of true!” Alicia stomped her moccasin, a jingle punctuating her rage. “You know I don’t speak French.”

Despite the weight of her ponytail, Dylan cocked her head. “French
class
.” She paused. “You know the one with Josh and Cam and Derrington, and—”

“—and taking the place of our injured captain,” bellowed the student sportscaster, “our newest player, Dempsey Solomon!”

“Moving awn!” Massie shouted at her friends, then lifted her peacock feather–covered clutches. “We’ve got a job to do, girls.”

“Hey!”

“And Twizzler.” She drew back her lips and forced a big, toothy smile, looking more like a dentist’s mold than a cheerleader. “Ready? And!”

The Socc-Hers scurried into position.

“Ah five, ah six, ah five, six, sev-uhn, eight!”

“DEMPSEY LEARNED SOCCER IN AFRICA,

HE’S KING OF THE FIELD, RAAAA RAAA RAAA!

DEMPSEY LEARNED SOCCER IN AFRICA,

HE’S KING OF THE FIELD, RAAAA RAAA RAAA!

DEMPSEY LEARNED SOCC—”

Layne waved her clutches with such excitement they hit Massie on the cheek.

“—ER IN AFRICA,

HE’S KING OF THE FIELD, RAAAA RAAA RAAA.”

Massie responded by hip-bumping Layne into Twizzler, then jamming her clutches in Layne’s nostrils. Layne triple-sneezed in her face.

“DEMPSEY LEARNED SOCCER IN AFRICA,

HE’S KING OF THE FIELD, RAAAA RAAA RAAA!”

“Ew! Stop!” Massie squealed, unintentionally ending the cheer.

“I think I’m allergic.” Layne sniffled.

“Really?” The corners of Massie’s lips curled in serendipitous delight. “How lucky.”

MSG had taken the field, and suddenly twenty-two hawt boys were chasing a ball.

“Go, Dempsey!” Layne shrieked, wiping her nose.

“Formation steamroller!” Massie called, mashing her feathers in Layne’s face like it was on fire.

“Aaahhh-chhhooo!” Layne sneezed with the force of a Mega Power 4000 hair dryer. Her ponytail cast forward like a fishing reel and wrapped around the goalie’s net. “Ow, my head!”

Twizzler, McNugget, and Claire worked quickly to release her. Once Layne was free, Nurse Adele held an ice pack to her scalp and guided her off the field.

Twizzler followed dutifully, carrying Layne’s clutches.

“Stay with the team,” Layne strained like someone who’d been lost in the desert.

“But—”

“They
need
you,” she choked.

Twizzler looked at the squad, then back at Layne, clearly questioning his priorities, evaluating his usefulness, and consulting his moral compass. Then, with a soldier’s sense of duty, he blew Layne a two-fingered kiss and jogged off to complete his mission.

“Steeeeeam
roller
!” Massie called with renewed energy.

Twizzler dropped down on all fours and looked up at Massie. “We need someone to be Layne.”

“What about Dylan?” Alicia offered.

“Why
me
?” she asked, pulling a tube of clear Lancôme gloss from her feather clutch pom-pom.

“Your back is pretty, you know . . .
wide
.”

Dylan’s fingers began to throb. Was this how the Incredible Hulk felt before his shirt ripped open?

“And if we’re gonna steamroll over someone I think it should be—”

“Why don’t you lie on your back in case someone falls?” Dylan blurted. “We can use your boobs as cushions.”

Dempsey ran by kicking the ball.

“New cheer!” Massie called with fake enthusiasm. “Designer Girls! And . . . ”

They lifted their clutches, matched her fake smile, and began.

“
ADIDAS, FILA, NIKE TOO:

WHAT’S A SOCC-HER GIRL TO DO?

WE GOTTA LOOK HAWT FOR THE FELLAS—

THAT’S WHY WE’RE ALL WEARING STELLAS!”

Sensing Derrick was watching, Dylan swung her head like a Garnier Fructis model, reminding him that, with or without the heavy extension, she still had the thickest hair in the eighth grade.

The louder he cheered, the harder she swung. Until, suddenly, her head felt lighter. Like she had been transported into a real commercial where hair moved like it was submerged in water and felt luxuriously weightless.

“Ahhhhh,” Alicia shouted, tripping on a chunk of red hair. She caught herself before falling but still, everyone in the first row was laughing.

“Hey!” Dylan shout-pointed at the ground. “That’s mine!”

“You’re
dead
,” Alicia hissed, rotating her almost-sprained ankle.

Tired of fighting, Dylan burped “Deeeeadddddd” right in Alicia’s face.

Not that it helped. Alicia gasped in disgust, then turned sharply, whipping Dylan’s jaw with the bottom of her- ponytail.

Despite the sudden sting, Dylan laughed. But only because Derrick was waving.

Dylan smile-waved back, noticing only after fifteen solid seconds of nonstop waving that Derrick was looking slightly past her. Like a blind man on a date.

Amid the explosive cheers of a very excited crowd—had someone scored?—Dylan tracked Derrick’s warped gaze to a slightly older blonde with a pixie haircut, a flirty off-the-shoulder mint green top, two striped scarves tied around her graceful neck, and gray matchstick jeans so skinny they could have picked spinach from a tooth. She had looks, style, and enough confidence for short hair—the girl was a perfect storm.

Pulling the leather short shorts out of her butt crack, Dylan spent what seemed like the next half hour wondering how much better her life would be if she had the face for pixie cuts and the legs for stovepipes. After a blur of soulless cheering and extreme self-loathing, the game was finally over.

Judging by the high-fiving Tomahawks, Briarwood won. Reporters from BOCD’s school paper, website, blog, and weekly sports newsletter surrounded the players, while the cameramen lined up to photograph the cheerleaders.

“You guys were ah-mazing!” Kristen appeared, throwing her arms around Massie with genuine sincerity.