I Was a Non-Blonde Cheerleader (8 page)

I had just reached our mailbox and was already dreaming of a nice hot bath when I heard Daniel calling my name. Or, more precisely, my nickname.

“Hey, Jersey! Wait up!”

I almost ran directly into the house. When I cry, I get all blotchy and my eyes turn this psychedelic blue-green color and I was in desperate need of a tissue. But it was too late. He had seen me and if I bolted now, he would see that too. I wiped both hands across my face, sniffled hard and turned around.

Daniel was wearing a pair of football pants and a white SDH T-shirt that was hugging his body so tight, it showed the outline of every last muscle. His hair was darkened with sweat, his face was red from exertion and there was a streak of dirt across his right cheek.

“Hey!” His smile quickly faded when he saw my face. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” I said, trying not to stare at his chest. “I just . . . had an allergic reaction.”

“To what?” Daniel asked.

Your girlfriend and her idiot squad
, I thought.

“I’m not really sure,” I said, inching toward my house.
Daniel was very, well, perfect, but I really just wanted to be alone.

“Oh. So I hear you’re going out for the cheerleading squad,” he said, smiling again.

“Um . . . yeah . . . well . . .”

“That’s so cool! You’re gonna love it.”

He must have been sucking down the same psychedelic soda Mr. Cuccinello was drinking. Didn’t he see there was no way I was ever going to fit in with those people?

“We do so much cool stuff with the cheerleaders,” Daniel said. “The parties, the away games, the pep rallies, the team dinners, the kidnap breakfasts. You should have seen the getup Tara Timothy was wearing last year when we kidnapped her. She looked like a wannabe porn star or something.”

Suddenly Daniel seemed to realize he was babbling and he snapped his mouth shut and grinned sheepishly. Meanwhile, I found myself practically salivating for the life he had described. Well, except the Tara Timothy as sex goddess part. It all sounded like so much
fun.
And added bonus? Daniel would be there for all of it.

“Anyway, it’s gonna be great,” he said. And I believed him.

A car horn honked and I looked up to find a convertible full of kids barreling toward us. I jumped up onto the curb, yanking Daniel with me.

“Sand Dune High
sucks
!” the driver shouted.

A bunch of green-and-white pom-poms shook out the window as everyone in the car screamed and jeered and shouted insults before they peeled away. So obnoxious.

“Freakin’ West Wind,” Daniel said, staring after them.

“Wow. I can see why you guys hate them so much,” I said.

He shrugged. “We’ll show them on the field,” he said.
Then he knocked my arm with his shoulder, which pretty much sent a shiver all over my body. Twice. “And you guys will show them at regionals, right?”

“I’m not exactly on the squad,” I said, looking down at my feet.

“Oh, you’ll make it. I can tell,” Daniel said.

“How?” I asked.

“There’s just something about you, Jersey,” he said.

Omigod. Was he
flirting
with me?

“I don’t know. I don’t think that Tara Timothy and those girls really like me that much,” I said. The understatement of the year.

Daniel laughed. “Please. They’re just trying to intimidate you. It’s like hazing. They want to see if you can handle it.”

Well, I hadn’t exactly passed that test, considering I had been blubbering about two minutes ago. But Tara and her friends didn’t know that. And actually, I was feeling a little better now. A lot better. See what some cute-boy interaction can do?

“So, can you?” Daniel asked.

“Can I what?” I asked back, hoping I hadn’t spaced out and missed yet another direct question.

“Can you handle it?” he asked. His blue eyes were so full of confidence and ease I suddenly felt as if I was reflecting it all back at him.

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah, I think I can.”

“Cool,” he said. “Well, I’ll see you tomorrow. Same time, same mailbox?” he said, patting the flamingo on the head.

“Sure,” I told him.

I turned and walked into my house, feeling more and more confident by the second. If I could survive pre-tryout
hell, why not go back for tryouts? Coach Holmes had said that a panel of teachers would be the judges, not the squad. So unless they did, in fact, pants me, what could they do? If I could just wow the judges, I could have the life Daniel had described and everything that went with it.

Including more time with Daniel.

“So . . . I don’t think I’m going to try out,” I told my mom, trying to sound upbeat about the decision.

We were shopping for Sand Dune-appropriate clothes, but I was too busy trying to sort my thoughts to pay attention to the splashes of color all around me. One minute I was totally confident and could imagine myself walking into that gym and blowing the competition away. The next minute I felt terrified and couldn’t remember what the point was supposed to be. Even if I triumphed and made the squad, I was going to have to hang out with fifteen me-haters every day. Where was the fun in that?

“I thought you missed being on a team,” my mother said. Her eyes were focused as she studied top after brightly colored top.

“Yeah, but they all hate me already. What’s the point?” I asked.

Instantly the hangers stopped scraping and my mother looked up. “Who are you and what have you done with my daughter?” she asked.

“Mom—”

“Don’t ‘Mom’ me. You are not Annisa Gobrowski,” she said, coming around the clothing rack. She put her hands on the side of my face and studied me with a mock-serious expression. “The resemblance is remarkable, though. How do you pod people do it?”

I laughed and pulled away. “Enough already. I get it.”

My mom smiled and gave me a hug. “Look, the Annisa I know would never let a bunch of petty girls stop her from cheerleading.” She pulled back and looked me in the eye. “The Annisa I know would never let
anything
stop her from getting something she wanted.”

It never ceased to amaze me how totally deep and beautiful my mother’s eyes were. They made you believe pretty much anything she said. Usually.

I mean, in theory, my mother was right. I’d never backed down from a challenge before. But I’d also never felt like this before—so alone and totally ostracized. I’d never had so many people not like me—and they didn’t even know me yet. The whole thing was just too overwhelming. I was having trouble working up that go-getter excitement, and I hated myself for it. What the heck was wrong with me?

I had a feeling the Annisa my mother knew had left the car somewhere back on the New Jersey Turnpike. And it looked like the Florida Annisa was going to be an utter outcast.

“Tell me it isn’t true,” Bethany said, grabbing me in front of our homeroom the next morning. She dragged me inside and straight to the back. “Tell me you didn’t actually go over to the dark side. I let you out of my sight for five seconds—”

“Okay, ow,” I said, sitting down and extracting my arm from her grip. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on? What’s going on, you ask? Only the total readjustment of my entire personal peer-assessment process!” Bethany ranted. “I thought I knew you! I thought we were simpatico! And then I find out that you’re going to be a cheerleader!” She brought her hand to her head and
swooned. “One day without me and this is what happens to you. I think I need to sit down.”

I swallowed against a dry throat. “Yeah, about that. Where were you yesterday?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

“I ditch every once in a while. Keeps the teachers guessing. And don’t try to change the subject.
Cheerleading?
” She said it like it was another word for “roadkill.”

“Look, I’m not trying out,” I told her. “And how did you know I went to the meeting, anyway?”

“Because my dear brother Bobby, king of all that is evil in this place, is dating Tara Timothy, queen of all that is evil in this place,” Bethany whispered hoarsely. “She came over to my house last night ranting about the brunette überklutz that broke her nose and is obviously trying to ruin her,” Bethany said. “Wait a minute!” Her dark-rimmed eyes brightened slightly. “Is that why you’re doing this? To ruin her? Because then I might be able to get behind it.”

“Um . . . no. Not really,” I said.

“Then I just don’t get it. You’re so not a rah-rah,” Bethany said, studying me.

“Why? Why is it so impossible to see me as a cheerleader?” I asked.

“You met them! Do
you
think you belong there?”

Frustration started to mount in my chest. I just wanted someone to give me a straight answer. Something to make me certain I was making the right decision.

“Not necessarily, but why? Because they’re blonde? In case you haven’t noticed, so is this entire school.”

Bethany turned in her seat to face me and lowered her voice. “They’re not just blonde. They’re mega-popular. And psycho-bitchy. They look down their noses at anyone in this place who tries to be just a little different.”

“You mean like you,” I said.

“Please. I don’t care what those people think of me,” she said, turning to face forward again and picking up a pen to doodle along her desk. Body language, anyone? She obviously did care. Or at least had at some point in her life.

“Okay, so I’m not a bitch and I’m not blonde, but who’s to say I can’t be popular?” I said.

“You’re not getting it. You’re not blonde, you’re not a bitch, so therefore you will never be popular,” Bethany said, dead serious. “At least not around here.”

Wow. Was it really possible that the social lines could be that straight and narrow at this place? And if so, who was I to try to change them? I mean, normally I’m up for a challenge, but to strive against adversity just so I could be on a squad of people who hated me anyway? It hardly seemed worth it.

Apparently my gut instinct was right. I was going to stay as far away from tryouts as possible.

“Me. Friends with a cheerleader,” Bethany said under her breath. “I gotta say, I just don’t think it’s possible.”

“Well, don’t worry about it,” I said grumpily, trying to ignore the closed-mindedness of her statement. “It’s not gonna happen.”

Sage flounced right over to my desk before English class.

“So, you’re not coming today, right?” she said. “Because you seem like a smart girl, so you know enough not to come.”

I wondered if I could rip those eyelashes off in one strip—quick and painful, like a Band-Aid. Not that I would ever try something like that, of course. I swallowed my pride and looked her in the eye.

“No,” I said. “I’m not coming.”

“Good.”

My hands curled into fists and my nails dug into the fleshy part of my palm as she walked to her desk. I so wanted to go over there and tell her exactly where she could shove her pom-poms.

“You’re kidding, right?” Mindy said, slipping into the next desk. “You’re not coming?”

I was saved from answering by the proverbial bell. Mrs. O’Donaghue started class, but we were only a few minutes in when a note landed square in the middle of my desk. I opened it, my hands shaking.