Part 4 (1/2)

”Maybe,” he says, ”that's how cheerleading is for you.”

Then, he ripples his hands up and down me, gentle and with those great empty eyes of his shut tight, lashes long like a girl's. That funny way his nose bends slightly right, like a boxer's.

”Isn't she pretty, Jordy?” I hear Beth's rippling voice from somewhere, ”when she looks into your eyes?”

I rest my lips on his cheekbone, near the crook of his nose, and he shudders.

The way his eyelashes tickle, and his hard heavy boy hands, grave and turbulent, I can feel all kinds of wonder and surprises charging through him.

All of this moves me, powerfully, and the day feels rare, the dusk falling purple, and I must be drunk because I think I hear Beth's voice far away, saying crazy things, asking me if I feel different, and loved.

Jordy Brennan's name buzzes on my phone that night, a spare text with ”u”s and ”r”s and cautious wonderings. But the thing that was there, the feeling huddling in me at the gorge, is already gone.

His wanting, so easily won-well, it bores me. I know every flex and twist of it, because there are no flexes and twists to it.

And instead I want to see Coach again, and tell her about it. I wonder what she'll say.

Beth calls after, and we have a long-winding talk, the 40-ouncers still heavy on us both.

She is asking if I remember how we used to hang on the monkey bars, hooking our legs around each other, and how strong we got and how no one could ever beat us, and we could never beat each other, but we'd agree to each release our hands at the count of three, and that she always cheated, and I always let her, standing beneath, looking up at her and grinning my gap-toothed, pre-orthodontic grin.

Such reminiscence is unlike Beth, but she is drunk and I think she may still be drinking, her mother's V.S.O.P., and she sounds affected by our time at the gorge, and possibly by other things.

”I hate how everything changes, always,” she says. ”But you don't.”

In the parking lot the next day, Coach tilts her head and gives me a whisper of a smile.

Wanting to present this to her, I feel a funny kind of pride. Like she'd asked me to do a stunt for her, ”Give me that pop cradle, Addy. Straight up, straight up-” and there I am, legs arrow-piked, and the feeling when my feet land on that hard floor, the fearsome quake through my ankles, legs, hips.

So I tell her, my hand sweeping across my mouth, like I can barely say it. Just messed around a little. Just messed around a little. Jordy Brennan. Jordy Brennan. Just like you said. Jordy Brennan. Jordy Brennan. Just like you said.

”Which one is that?” she says.

I feel something slither a little loose in me. Which one?

”You see him on the track,” I insist. ”You were talking about him. You talked to me about him and his high-tops. The crick in his nose.”

She looks at me, quiet like.

”So was he a good kisser?” she asks, and I still don't know if she remembers him.

I don't say anything.

”Did he open his mouth right away?” she asks.

At first, I think I misheard her.

”Or did you make him work for it?” she continues, grinning slyly.

”It wasn't like that,” I say, and is she making fun of me?

”So,” she asks, her voice softer, straighter, ”what was it like?”

”I don't know,” I say, not meeting her eyes, my face burning. Somehow it feels like I'm talking to a boy, a guy, an older one, or from another school. ”I don't think I want it to go anywhere.”

She looks at me and then nods, like I've said something wise.

”You're a smart girl, Addy,” she says. She pauses, then adds, ”You can make a lot of mistakes, just wondering about boys.”

I nod back, thinking about the word she uses, about the word ”boys.” Because that's what Jordy Brennan is, a boy. A boy. Not even a guy.

Coach, after all, is married to a man. Coach, after all, has known the world of men. Who even knows how many or what kinds.

She jangles her car keys into her fingers, sliding into her car.

She looks at me through the window, a winking look, but it's between us. We've shared something.

And it brings her closer to me.

6

WEEK FOUR

”Where is she?” RiRi whispers, her honey curls whipping side to side. RiRi whispers, her honey curls whipping side to side.

Beth is late for practice, and I wonder if she's going to show at all.

Something's been s.h.i.+fting in her and I think it's sort of like she's still captaining with nothing to captain, scratching some phantom limb.

Twice last week she didn't call for our late-night recap, our laying forth of the maneuvers of the day, who humiliated herself, whose bra is tatty, and whose fat a.s.s is fatting up the whole squad. We've done these calls nightly since forever. But Tuesday I forgot to call and Thursday she didn't pick up. Still, I could feel her breathing somehow, could feel her watching her phone screen blinking Addy, Addy. Addy, Addy.

Coach rolls the media cart into the gym, fingers wrapped tight around the remote.

”Progress has been,” she says, ”not bad.”

We watch ourselves. That bouncing yellow frill on the screen. Malibu-tanned and jerking ponytails, as ever. But we are no longer hip-shaking, pop and locking. We are bounding in perfect time, marching into a three-rowed V, jumping into our toe touches with matching precision. When we do our transition, I can't even believe it, not quite, the way we seem like one long centipede snapping and unsnapping.

We are in sync. We are tight. We are martial and precise.

”Where's Ca.s.sidy?” Coach asks, and all our heads turn from the screen.