Part 23 (1/2)

”Four days, b.i.t.c.hes!!” shouts Mindy. shouts Mindy.

RiRi is doing waist bends, flas.h.i.+ng her panties, this time lined with sparkles.

The JV is clicking through YouTube on her laptop for the Celts squad's stunts.

Paige Shepherd is tw.a.n.ging-”Ima go for the gold, heart is in control, I'm a go, I'm a go I'm a go getta”-lifting one long leg into a Bow 'n' Arrow.

Cori Brisky shushes her hair up into her trademark extra-long white-blond pony whip, famous across three school districts.

Everything is as it ever was.

Still ground-bound since her spectacular fall, gimpy Emily is pa.s.sing around the temporary tattoos she ordered for the squad. She has one on the apple of either cheek and she's dotted her knee brace with them. Which all seems sad to me, like she's our mascot. No one respects a mascot.

We all feel sorry for her. She can't even hall-stalk with us, can't keep up with that club boot, and has already become a recruiting target of lacrosse players and the golf team, which could not be sadder, and of the predatory courts.h.i.+p of the field hockey furies, promising to get her knees skinned.

I remember, sort of, being friends with her. Holding her hair back while she gagged herself pea-shoot thin. Even calling her at night instead of Beth, confiding things. But now I don't know what we'd talk about.

At three twenty Coach, chin high, strolls through the doors to the gym.

Beth, standing in front of the mirror, doesn't even look up, too busy oil-slicking her lashes with a mascara brush, no cares furrowing her face.

”I have some news, guys,” she says.

I reach out to hold onto my locker door.

”I heard from my source at State Quals. There's gonna be a scout at Monday's game. We rock them, we're rocking Regionals next year.”

Everyone whoops and woo-hoos, jumping on the bleachers, grabbing each other around the necks like the ball-ers do.

Poor boot-braced Emily bursts into tears.

”By next year you'll be flying again,” RiRi says, hand to her shoulder.

”But not on Monday,” she whimpers. ”That won't be mine.”

”Let's focus,” Coach says, clapping her hands sharply.

We snap front.

Looking at her, I can't fathom it. I'd never guess anything else was going on at all. She is ready to ride us. She is sweatless and bolt-straight.

”We need to think about the Celts,” Mindy says.

The Celts squad has serious game, famous for their facial expressions, head bobs and tongues stuck out and dropped jaws and wide eyes when their Flyers. .h.i.t, when they spring back, the crowd gasping ah, ah, ah.

”They do two-girl Awesomes,” Brinnie c.o.x says with a sigh, which is how she says everything. ”A girl my size can catch both the Flyer's feet in one palm.”

”Their facials are hot,” RiRi admits.

”I don't care about their wiggling tongues or bouncing ponytails,” says Coach. ”I don't care about the Celts at all. All I care about is that Regionals scout. The scout's gotta see our star power.”

We all look uneasily at Tacy.

”Your Flyer isn't your key to the castle,” Coach says. ”It's about the squad. You gotta show you're the posse straight from h.e.l.l. And there's only one way to do it. We're going to give that scout something that will guarantee our slot. We're going to show her a two-two-one.”

The two-two-one.

It will be our s.h.i.+ning achievement, if we nail it.

Three stories high of golden girls, two Bottom Bases holding up two Middle Bases in shoulder stands, the Flyer tossed through the center, Bottom Bases platforming her feet, the Middle Bases' arms lifted to hold her arms outstretched, crucifixion style. Spotters standing behind, waiting for the Flyer's death-defying Deadman fall.

It's illegal in compet.i.tion, but not at a game.

And it's the kind of stunt you need to nail to make it to Regionals. To a tourney.

”Cap'n,” Coach says, looking up at Beth, halfway up the bleachers again, her hovering black presence. ”All yours today. Drill them hard.”

She tosses Beth the whistle.

Beth, one eyebrow raised, catches it.

In an instant, a flare of energy seems to shoot up her body, that sullen slouch uncoiling for the first time in months, since...I can't even remember.

Coach has just handed her the Big Stick, and thank G.o.d she still seems to think it worth taking.

”Gimme some handsprings, b.i.t.c.hes,” Beth says, making her slow, willowy way down the stands, arms dangling, snapping her fingers low.

”Don't f.u.c.k with me, RiRi,” she says. ”Loose limbs may fly for your Sat.u.r.day night specials, but I need you tight as a cherry. Time-travel me back.”

So Beth wrangles us for a while, and it does feel good. And Beth is so on, so animated.

She is enthroned and magnificent.

At some point, I see Coach slink into her office.

Later, while Beth's busy trash-talking Tacy for a weak back tuck, calling her a sad little p.u.s.s.y, I slip over and peer in, see Coach on the phone, her hand over her eyes.

I think: it's the cops. It's the cops. What now?

An hour in, we're ready to run the two-two-one pyramid.

Because I'm not too big and not too small, I'm a Middle Base, one of the two shoulder stands in the middle.

Beneath me stands eagle-shouldered Mindy Coughlin, my feet curled around her collarbone, her body bracing.