Backseat Serenade

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SEPTEMBER, CHEERLEADING TRYOUTS

BLAIRE

🫀

There's a wayward itch inside my skin this morning, this fire that I'd come to recognise as anticipation. Granted, that descriptor has always felt diminutive of the glittering tangle in me, hot and impatient. A bird poised to take flight; a new universe burning white-hot, coiled tight and compacted waiting to explode into being; the first suspended moments on the sprung floor in front of the screaming crowd, squad in opening positions right before the music starts, where you're waiting for something to begin, muscles wound up and your mind racing in the seconds of purgatory.

Tryouts day. Even though it's barely seven in the morning, my mind's cast forward in time, barrelling straight through the other duties of my daily routine. Which is to say that while I'm just barely cognisant of the change in songs through my headphones and my body growing more and more fatigued on the panting treadmill going 10mph, my legs pumping furiously, fleet on the spinning track, I'm thinking about tryouts this afternoon, where I'd get my cherry-pick of the flock.

It's the second week of the semester, where classes are only just beginning, rousing our summer-stagnated brains with a slow blend of introductions to our new courses. For the athletes, the intensity is nested in tryouts, which would be spread over the next fortnight or so. In the previous years, I'd been wracking myself with stress in the days leading up to this week, wondering if I would be good enough, wondering if, this time, I'd somehow fail, if I was prepared enough to make mat. Time and time again, I heard my father's voice echoing in my head: if you're not first place, you have no place. And while there wasn't such a thing as individual scoring within teams, I'd always strived to be the best, to be the leading example. Firstborn of a firstborn, first place trophies decorating the walls of my childhood bedroom, high distinctions in classes, first among my siblings to go anywhere, do anything, my image pared down to perfection.

Even now, even though I have absolutely nothing to worry about, considering I'm the one who gets to call the shots now, the first line of command, I still feel that same sharp pressure building in the point between my brows. An acute reminder that I still have something to prove.

When my long running playlist eventually tires itself out, I jog into a cooldown, suddenly aware of the heat gathering under my gym clothes and the sweat dripping from my hairline. I readjust my ponytail before dismounting the treadmill and collecting my scuffed-up water bottle and form-fitting zip-up hoodie off the floor. The muscles in my legs are singing as I leave the cardio room and navigate the winding corridors to the lifts.

The Grayson Complex was a newly furbished building wedged into the heart of the city. Despite it being a state-of-the-art, off-campus sports complex, fully furnished with a built-in gym, funded by a litany of generous donors, the building itself was nondescript and easy to miss unless you knew what you were looking for. The interior of the building, comprising of a winding labyrinth of corridors and staircases with glass barriers leading to different divisions allocated to different athletic purposes, was just as difficult to navigate as its exterior. Fortunately for me and the other student athletes of Hartell U, the university gym and its versatile range of equipment necessary for all levels of strength and conditioning—from cardio machines, plyometric exercises, callisthenics, weightlifting, powerlifting to a separate sector of the building that boasted an Olympic-sized swimming pool, an indoor sports hall, and an attached open stadium—it was practically a second home.

At seven in the morning, the gym is mostly empty, save for a few bleary-eyed people slogging away at their respective machines, the soft music playing from the overhead speakers just barely permeating the haze. Nobody sees me spill a quarter of my water down my front as I try to drink from my bottle while walking, coughing and swiping at my wet face with the back of my sweaty hand.