On the TV in the kitchen, Sloane reports that a judge officially released Dooney, Deacon, Randy, and Greg late last night. Mom hands me a mug of coffee and we lean against the counter, taking in the news that Dooney and Deacon both plead “not guilty” to all charges, and posted bail. Randy and Greg were released to their parents while the judge decides whether they’ll be tried as adults, or remanded to the juvenile court.
The hallway at school before first period is full of unofficial reports that Greg and his family were seen at Sizzler for burgers just before closing last night; that members of the school board are fighting over whether to suspend the guys or not; Dooney’s dad is representing Deacon, Greg, and Randy free of charge; that all of their phones have been retained by the police as evidence; that they’ll all be back in school after lunch.
As first period begins, I notice the cheerleaders in their uniforms, and after the tone sounds, Principal Hargrove announces a pep rally for this afternoon. The state tournament isn’t until next weekend, but the sophomores are decorating the gym for Spring Fling after the guys practice tonight, and Grease! opens Saturday and runs for a week. The Buccs will practice during last period next week, then the tarps get rolled out to cover the hardwood, and folding chairs are set up for the audience.
Ben says he hasn’t heard from Dooney. Nobody has. And when none of the four guys shows up after lunch, the unofficial reports change: Dooney’s dad has recommended that they should all “lay low until this blows over.”
Something about that phrase blows over gives me a strange feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s the sense that this is a situation we can’t fix with a pep rally.
The pyramid holds strong as it materializes three people high, on exactly the right beat of the driving dance tune that pounds from the gymnasium speakers. Then, an explosion happens in the music, and Phoebe Crane catapults over our heads. She does a full layout as she flies toward the metal rafters, her body arching and flipping almost in slow motion. She pops her arms up and out as she reaches the apex of her flight, an award-winning smile on her face that elicits a roar from the bleachers. Every single body in the gym rises with her. We are all on our feet now, whistling and screaming.
Christy and Rachel are standing up on our bench, whooping and shrieking, respectively. Lindsey is jumping up and down in time to the music. As quickly as it appeared, the pyramid disintegrates into a formation on the floor as the cheer squad back-handsprings out of the way. Most of them grab metallic pom-poms; two of them pick up a giant paper banner of a Buccaneer wielding a sword stretched across a large wooden frame.
A new song begins as the cheerleaders form a tunnel for the players in front of the banner with their glistening poufs of blue and gold. Wyatt’s voice booms over the speakers announcing the numbers and names of “Your Coral Sands Buccaneers!” Usually Dooney and Deacon are called first, but today it’s Ben who comes tearing through the paper, running the cheerleaders’ gauntlet. He is wearing his warm-up pants and his jersey. He bounces a ball between his legs, then pops it up behind his back. It flies in an arc over his broad shoulders. He catches it, then points out at us.
At me.
The crowd goes wild.
“Oh my god!” Rachel yells. “That’s your boyfriend!” She jumps up and down, her enthusiasm making me blush and smile. I don’t care who sees. That is my boyfriend. He pointed right at me. He wants everyone to know.
Wyatt announces Kyle, the center, who makes a run at Ben. They jump into each other and bump chests in midair, then high-five as the role call continues.
The drill team floods in as the players are announced, arranging themselves on either side of the shredded banner and cheerleader welcome line. They are all sequins and glitz, one arm and the opposite leg missing from their spangled unitards, but there’s something off about the lineup. There’s an odd number. Usually, there are six girls on both sides, but today, the right side only has five.
Deacon and Dooney aren’t the only ones missing.
I stare at the space where Stacey should be standing, pulsing along with the rest of the drill team, all of them flashy and fun and moving to the music. Down at the corner of the bleachers, next to the door, someone else is watching the drill team, too.
Stacey isn’t here today, but Sloane Keating is. I nudge Lindsey, who stops bouncing up and down next to me, and glances over when I point at the journalist. She’s standing in the far corner near the doors by the main entrance. Mr. Johnston, our geology teacher, is smiling and clapping along with the beat of the crowd, oblivious to the reporter taking it all in over his shoulder.
Lindsey looks back at me with her eyebrows raised, and at that moment, Coach Sanders emerges from the cheerleader tunnel and joins the team. They stack their hands, plunging them down and up again to a shout of “GO, BIG BLUE.” Ben leads the guys into a lineup behind Coach, where they take a knee as he grabs the mic.