Song of a Sophomore

CHAPTER 4 - I Like to Move It

Tryouts for the Meadow Wood High School cheerleading squad are nearly over. I pick up the crisp arm motions of the half-time cheer and dance, even if I was a little sore from falling off of my bike the day before while exploring with Ryan. My back handspring is rusty, but my toe touch and splits are decent. The last hurdle is performing in small groups in front of the coaches and the rest of the cheerleading hopefuls.

You've got this. The words fortify my soul.

"Last up, numbers 30 through 40," says Cora Roberts, the varsity cheerleading coach.

I stare down at the paper safety-pinned to my chest, number 33, and reach for my lucky necklace—my grandma's necklace—but my fingers grope bare skin.

Crap. I wonder if I took it off before my shower this morning. Was I wearing it when I went to bed last night? Maybe I took it off at the pool yesterday.

The pool!

I took it off after we parked our bikes and put it in the front pocket of Ryan's backpack.

The backpack!

The realization makes me weak in the knees. We left the backpack, and my necklace, at the house in the woods.

"I haven't got all day." Coach Roberts settles into a spread eagle position on the wooden bleachers of the auxiliary gym and clasps her hands. "Chop, chop."

I jump to my feet, fearing Coach Robert's wrath. Although she's barely over five feet tall, the grit in her voice puts me on edge and her commanding presence stirs up a fear of authority deep inside. No hint a smile crosses her russet brown, middle-aged face, and right now, it is focused on me.

Taking my place, front and center, on the sparkling floorboards of the basketball court, I stared back at Coach Roberts, blocking out the unfamiliar faces of my competition sitting on the bleachers. However, there is one face I do recognize: the redheaded lifeguard Ryan tried to sweet talk at the pool. She is sitting behind the coach and junior varsity coach.

"Ready?" Roberts asks.

"Okay!" We began the cheer. "Let me hear you say go. Go! Let me hear you say fight. Fight!"

I beam my brightest smile at the coaches, as if the pure energy of it is capable of crumbling her stone-faced façade. They stare back like a squad of prison guards stroking their wooden batons.

"Let me hear you say 'win.' Win!" I scream, bobbing my high ponytail to the beat of my clapping hands. "Go. Fight. Win. Again! Go. Fight. Win!"

I hit a high-V and hold my arms as I count in my head. One. Two. Then, on three, I slap my arms down at my sides and brought my legs together with a snap, just like we did in pompon class.

Coach Roberts' face cracks after all. She raises her eyebrows with the slightest smile and turns to the junior varsity coach to whispers in her ear. The other woman looks at me and nods.

That has to be good.

I cling to the hope that if I become a cheerleader, no one will dare to pick on me. Cheerleaders are at the top of the food chain at any high school. It's the law of natural selection, but for teenagers. I'm sure of it.

I smile, imagining Gloria's face when I tell her that I made the J.V. squad, her blue eyes twinkling with pride, hands clasped in thanks, and mouth drawn up like an angel on Christmas Day. Landing a spot on the Meadow Wood cheerleading squad is too good to pass up no matter how much I loath school spirit. Here is my chance, and, as a bonus, I will get to dance. Besides bike rides and old movies, dancing is my favorite escape from reality.