Bianca exhales a short breath but for once is at a loss for words.
Which is perfect, because Carmen doesn’t wait for her response. Foul mood forgotten, she turns on a high-wattage smile and spins to face the rest of the squad, striding in front of us with her hands clasped behind her back. “Well, don’t you girls look gorge.”
She launches into an inspirational pregame speech about precious high school memories and the importance of showing off our hot bods while we still have them, before spotting a friend and sprinting off toward the bleachers.
The outdoor speakers crackle.
“Thank you all for coming out to support the Fairfield High Renegades,” Mrs. Malone announces, her normally stern voice brimming over with excitement.
Loud hoots and hollers ring out through the twilight.
“Game time is just five short minutes away. Until then, would everyone please give a warm round of applause to Fairfield High’s varsity cheerleading team!”
“Great,” Bianca says. “We didn’t get to practice the basket toss again. Thanks, Blackwood.” She trots off toward the center of the field, waving her silver pom-poms high in the air.
“Way to go, loser,” Julia says over her shoulder before following Bianca. The rest of the girls trip over each other to catch up.
No one’s looking, so I slip my bestie and her little sidekick the finger before getting into formation in the center of the field.
“Are you ready?” Bianca yells to the crowd. We clap.
“We are the mighty Renegades,
And we came here to win
The other team don’t stand a chance
It’s time to pack it in
’Cause we got the moves [cue suggestive writhing]
And we came here to fight
And everyone from east to west knows
Renegades go all night! Renegades go all night!”
The crowd jumps to its feet and roars. We run to the sidelines, a springing mass of hair ribbons and silver pom-poms, as Mrs. Malone takes to the speakers again.
“And now, introducing the pride of our school, ranked eighth in the state and soon to be number one, the Fairfield High Renegades, led by captain Devon Mills!”
Devon sprints out and runs backward to face the bleachers, giving a two-fingered wave to the audience. The spectators yell and whistle and jump and generally make big fools of themselves, Coach Carmen being no exception. I feel a tug of pride in my chest and shake my pom-poms extra hard for my boyfriend while the rest of the team runs in behind Devon to a slightly subdued but still crazy reception.
I take this opportunity to hazard another glance at the bleachers to look for Mom, but something unusual catches my eye. While everyone else is on their feet cheering, there’s one guy sitting—slouching would actually be a better word for it—at the end of the first row. And he’s wearing leather. In seventy-five-degree weather!
He yawns, checks his watch, then starts scraping something from the bottom of his boot heel. Whoever it is he’s here to watch is lucky to have such enthusiastic support.
The guy catches me staring. He raises a balled fist in a lame-cheerleader impression and yells, “Go, team!”
My mouth drops open. Is this guy serious?
A whistle blows. I reluctantly join in as Bianca leads another cheer.
“Defense, get physical
Get down, get hard, get mean
Defense, get physical
And block that other team!”
When I glance back at the guy, he’s laughing. Laughing! I want to bash the jerk over the head with my pom-poms. If high school football’s not your thing—and everything from his stupid leather jacket to his messy black hair and tattoos tells me that it isn’t—then why come at all? It’s not like he goes to Fairfield; I’d recognize a douche like him from around the halls.
The crowd leaps to its feet.
A touchdown.
Teammates slap Devon on the back, and he sends me a little wave from the end zone.
“Go, number nine!” I shout, and shake my pom-poms in his direction.
A hoot of laughter from the bleachers rises above the cacophony of yelling and cheering, and I glance in that direction. At first the guy looks like he’s trying to hold back, but then he bursts into laughter again—a full-bellied, brace-your-stomach fit—and I get the distinct impression he’s laughing at me.
“Get out there, girls!” Carmen shouts, shooing us onto the field. “Cheer sixteen.”
I swallow my irritation with our heckler as Bianca leads our first touchdown cheer.
“The best at kicks
The best at passes
The other team
Can kiss our … !”
As the crowd shouts “asses,” we turn around, bend over, and lift up our pleated skirts.
It’s not like I particularly enjoy flashing my butt to half the school, but I’ve never really paid too much mind to it before. Now my face burns, and I won’t look at the guy no matter how obvious and annoying his chortling is.
Carmen does excited little claps and jumps as we trot back to the sidelines. “Great job, Bianca.”