The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading (9 page)

If I’d heard about Moni’s New Year’s plans a dozen times, I’d heard about the rest of the squad’s plans one dozen times infinity. Not that anyone had told me about them directly.

“What are you wearing to Rick’s?” Cassidy asked Kaleigh.

“I wanted to wear the patent leather ankle boots I got for Christmas, but Chantal has a pair of those. You know how she gets about people wearing
her
shoes.”

“Wear them,” said Cassidy. “Chantal went to Aspen for break.” Only the way she said “Aspen,” it was a lot more
ass
and not so much
pen
. “I can’t believe she’s missing the party, though. It’s almost like—” Cassidy glanced toward us and pulled Kaleigh another ten steps away.

Moni made a face. “Could they make it more obvious we’re not invited?”

“Probably not,” I whispered. “I bet they’ve even got a cheer about it. You know, like:

Moni snorted so loudly that everyone in the lobby looked at us, including Sheila. Moni and I cringed, expecting Sheila to make us run laps or knock out a few push-ups as punishment for disrupting practice. She didn’t. Instead she clapped her hands together and said, “Okay, girls, once more through the routine and we’ll call it a night.”

On the way out, Sheila handed everyone a card. They were handmade, with edging and lace and a personal message. Moni’s said:
Add it up for a terrific New Year
, and mine:
Reading, Writing, and a Righteous New Year
.

Not much got past Sheila.

And while she wished everyone a Happy New Year, she made a deliberate stop by Moni and me. “You probably don’t believe it now,” Sheila said, “but those kinds of parties are never as fun as everyone makes them sound.” With a cheery wave, she wished everyone, once more, a Happy New Year, then walked toward the back entrance and staff parking lot.

The lobby doors opened and closed as, one by one, members of the squad left, until it was just Moni and me. The bleak cold of January—already in the air—puckered the skin on my legs beneath my thin yoga pants. All I could think was,
The only way cheerleading is paying off right now is with frostbite.

Moni stared at the trophy cases and sighed. “I guess we’ll have to take Sheila’s word for it. But a party at Rick’s—” She broke off, that faraway look in her eyes again.

Then, from the gym, came the
thump
,
thump
,
thump
of a basketball.

“Oh…my…God,” said Moni in barely a whisper. “It’s
Jack
. You got the list?”

I unbuttoned my winter coat and pulled the folded piece of paper from my pocket. “Always,” I said. “But I don’t know. It seems kind of—”

I was about to say
hopeless
before Moni interrupted.

“Just talk to him,” she said. We heard a car horn, and she peered through the windows at the parking lot. “Oops, Dad’s here.” She gave me a shove toward the gym and swung open the doors. “You said you wanted a second chance. Well, here it is.”

I did say that, didn’t I? Maybe not in so many words, but the whole reason the list of “Witty Things to Say” existed was because I couldn’t quite give up the idea of Jack. And it wasn’t his hot jockness or how popular he was, but what he was doing right now: practicing late on the night before a holiday, after everyone else had left. That sort of thing said a lot about a person.

I took a deep breath, unfolded the paper, and scanned the list. This wouldn’t be easy. Many of the things on there were designed for Jack to overhear. Who was I supposed to say these things to now that Moni had left? While I stood pondering, the
thump
,
thump
,
thump
from the gym stopped. A second later Jack peeked through the open double doorway.

“Hey,” he said. “You still here?”

I was speechless. So much for the list. I must have given Jack a strange look, because he added, “Uh, yeah, I guess you are.” Then I could’ve sworn he muttered, “Smooth, Paulson,
real
smooth.”

“You too,” I said.

“My layups need some work.”

“Oh, they so do not.”

Then he did the most amazing thing. Jack Paulson,
the
Jack Paulson, actually blushed. “You’re looking pretty good,” he said, and the flush on his cheeks deepened. “I mean, well, everyone on the squad, that new dance. The guys, uh, they really like it.” He looked away from me and concentrated on the hallway that led to the locker rooms. “Hang on a sec.” With that, he vanished into the gym.

He returned, letter jacket slung over one arm. With the lobby so quiet, I could hear the scrape and clink of quarters in his palm. “All right,” he said. “Got enough. Want something to drink?”

“Um,” I said. “Sure.” So much for witty. I started to cram the list back into my pocket but stopped. I knew it didn’t contain any soda-machine-specific advice, but maybe there were a few all-occasion phrases that might work. I had the list poised for a quick glance. Then Jack leaned forward in a crouch.

“Race ya,” he said.

And before I could argue he was off, tearing down the hall. I had zero chance of catching up, but I ran after him anyway. Jack tagged the soda machine, and the noise echoed against the walls—too loud in a too quiet school. I skidded to a halt, the note slipping from my hand. It floated to the floor, landing words up. Between the time I’d written the list and now, I’d shadowed all the letters in the title with Day-Glo Sharpies. It didn’t take superhuman vision to read “Witty Things to Say When Jack Paulson Is Nearby.” Ditto the magenta heart I’d drawn next to his name.

Jack crouched again, poised to scoop up the note. Jock versus geek girl? No contest. He had the skill, the speed, not to mention the whole hand-eye coordination thing in his favor.

But I did have one thing: pride.

I dove for the list.

Jack’s fingers skimmed the paper but didn’t quite connect. I launched myself forward, slid on my knees, passed the note, then whirled. It wouldn’t have surprised me if goofy slo-mo music started playing in the background.

I reached. Jack reached. I tugged. He tugged.

The paper ripped.

Jack came away with a corner, but I had all the words. We sat on the cold tile, each of us panting. “That must be some note,” he said at last.

“It’s—” It was what? I searched my brain for a way to explain and came up empty.
So long, second chance.
“It’s not something a guy like you would understand.” I kept my eyes on the floor and tried to will myself into invisibility.

Jack nudged my foot with his and said, “Oh, you mean
smart kid
stuff?” He was being nice. Even if he hadn’t read the list, he couldn’t have missed his name. Or the heart. But when I looked at him, he just smiled and offered me a hand up.

“So,” he said, pulling me to my feet. “Are you a Diet Coke kind of girl?”

I pointed to the Dr Pepper.

“Really?”

“Yeah. Diet gives me a headache.”

“Cool,” he said. “I mean, not about the headache, but you know.”

I did. At least, I thought I knew what he meant. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was standing there, while Jack Paulson bought each of us a can of Dr Pepper.

I held on to that can all the way home, long after I finished the last delectable drops. I didn’t even let go when Mom and I walked into the house—or when I saw Todd and my father conferring over the innards of Dad’s computer.

“It’s just some dust,” Todd said. “Makes the whole thing heat up.”

Dad nodded sagely—no small feat for an old guy who had just been schooled by a seventeen-year-old.

“Todd, you’ve been so helpful,” said Mom. “Stay for dinner? And afterward, we’re having family fun night.”

Shelby pulled the pom-poms from my hands and launched into a cheer. “Two, four, six, eight, family fun night is really great!”

“It’s Scrabble,” Mom added, like this was an added enticement. Actually, for Todd, it was.

“Sure, Mrs. Reynolds.” Todd glanced at me, then shrugged, as if to say,
If you want me to
.

My body started to make its conditioned response, a nod, a smile. Over the past couple of years, Todd at dinner, Todd playing Scrabble, Todd geeking out with my parents when I wasn’t even there, had become normal. Dad hadn’t actually said anything, but Moni and I had a bet for when he would pronounce Todd “the son he never had.”

I stopped myself mid-nod. Nothing was normal these days, certainly not between me and Todd. I wasn’t sure if things ever would be again. Considering the way he’d treated me lately, I wasn’t sure I wanted them to be.

Still, when Dad clapped Todd on the shoulder and said, “On to the biscuits!” I smiled. A little dose of normal might be good for all of us.

Dad and Todd continued the computer discussion all through dinner, lapsing into the never-ending debate of PC versus Mac versus Linux. I still wore my practice clothes, still had the “Witty Things” list in my pocket, and still had my eye on the Dr Pepper can. I wanted to make sure Mom didn’t toss it in the recycling bin. First chance I got, I was sneaking it up to my room.

After dinner, Shelby set up the Super Scrabble Deluxe Edition she’d gotten for Christmas.
More spaces! More tiles! More points!
The board even rotated so you could view every angle of play. It was a geek’s dream come true.

Dad sent me to my room for my functioning laptop, so we could have the Scrabble website and special online dictionary up while we played. I wanted to suggest we simply crack open Todd’s skull and use the Oxford English Dictionary he kept in there. Instead I used the opportunity to spirit that empty can of Dr Pepper to my bedroom. No one noticed, except Todd. He gave me a look that said,
I know what you’re doing, and why you’re doing it, and I think you’re totally pathetic
.

I didn’t care.

Mom and Shelby played as a team, like they always did. Todd dominated the board, like he always did. We were several plays into the game before I started to pick up on a theme.

I couldn’t remember who put down SUPER (seven points), but Todd trumped it by adding FLUOUS (sixteen points and pretty much how I was feeling). Mom and Shelby cheered over the fourteen points they won for DITZ. Todd used the O from SUPERFLUOUS for SELLOUT (seven points), and on his next turn added TRAITOR (fourteen with a double-word score). But when Dad put down AIRHEAD (an extra four points for a double-letter score), I almost left the table. I expected something like this from Todd, sure. My parents, though?

But then Todd surprised me by building onto the D in DITZ, placing each tile on the board with a flourish. He spelled out DARING (eight points), then looked right at me and raised an eyebrow.

I had nothing. No decent letters and no idea what Todd was getting at. I traded three of my tiles, then shuffled the new and the old together on my holder. That G in DARING gave me an idea. With as much fanfare as Todd, I eased each tile onto the board, spelling out my nine-point masterpiece.

G

E

E

K

Trump that, Einstein
.

Todd tipped his chair back, crossed his arms over his chest, and shot me a look as cryptic as the ones Jack Paulson gave me. Totally unreadable. Genius or jock, it didn’t seem to matter. Boys were born with a gene that kept girls, no matter how smart they might be, from understanding them.

It should have been easy. “Life at Prairie Stone: New Year’s Resolutions” was one of those columns that practically wrote itself. I’d collected quotes at school before winter break, but I waited for New Year’s Eve to type the actual copy. I’d planned to enter the last word at 11:59 p.m. It was one of those nerdy touches Todd usually drooled over.

But it was already eleven thirty. So far I’d managed the title and the phrase, “This past year at Prairie Stone” and nothing else.

It wasn’t like I didn’t have material to work with. Even Mr. Carlson, the journalism teacher, was impressed when he listened to the quotes I’d collected on my digital recorder. “Those are outstanding, Bethany,” he’d said. “Excellent cross section of the student body. You’re really putting yourself out there this year.”

I didn’t think I was putting myself “out there.” Not really. But instead of the usual collection of lines from my “go to” kids—the debate dorks, the band geeks, and the clueless freshmen who still thought being in the newspaper = instant popularity, I had quotations from, well, everyone.

It was weird. And so totally unlike ninth grade. Back then I’d interviewed a senior, who later claimed I’d made up the whole story. Somewhere in between “I have no recollection of talking to you” and “Please, oh please, can I give you a quote for your column?” my social status had apparently shifted. It was as if a pair of pom-poms made people want to talk to you, even when you weren’t lugging them around. I found the whole situation bizarre, but—if I were honest with myself—also kind of awesome.

I clicked on the recorder and listened. I had funny quotes, I had heartfelt ones. I had honest, crude, and every other kind of New Year’s resolution you could think of.