Part 3 (1/2)

Who knew becoming a cheerleader would be this much fun?

6

When I walk into school on Monday, the hallway is crowded with bouncy girls all scrambling to get a better glimpse at a certain piece of pink paper stuck up on the main office wall. Their desperation would make a less cynical girl imagine that the meaning of life itself is inscribed on that precious page. But I know better.

”Did I make it? Did I make it?” squeals one high-pitched voice amidst the mob.

Yep. Cheerleading picks.

I stand at the edge of the crowd, adopting a completely unconcerned expression as I patiently wait my turn. After all, I can't let anyone think I'm anxious to join the pod people. They'd never understand that, for me, making the squad is a matter of life or death, not some desperate stab at popularity. Well, technically it's a matter of undeath or death, seeing as I already abandoned the whole mortal coil thing when I became a vampire, but you know what I mean.

I squint, trying to make out the flowing, cursive handwriting from the back of the line. Did my plan work? Did my former friend Mandy sacrifice her standards to save her rep? Did the other lemmings go along with her recommendations without knowing why?

Did I, the worst cheerleading contestant in the entire country, actually make the Oakridge High squad?

Cait suddenly materializes in front of me, the tiny pixie having somehow managed to worm her way to the front of the mob and back again without suffering permanent bodily injury at the hands of the rah-rah wannabes.

Her eyes are bright and s.h.i.+ny and her face alive with excitement. ”We made it!” she cries, bouncing up and down like she's on an invisible Pogo stick. ”Oh, Rayne! We're cheerleaders!”

I smile and accept the hug she throws my way. She really loves the whole touchy-feely stuff. Still, her enthusiasm and pure, unadulterated happiness warms me. I'm so glad I included her in my blackmail cheer. ”Wow, that's great,” I exclaim, feigning surprise and delight. ”How lucky for us!”

”I know!” Cait says, releasing me from the hug. ”I never thought I'd make it. I mean, I've been practicing forever. But my mom ...” She stops bouncing for a moment, a sheen of embarra.s.sment coloring her cheeks. ”Well, she wanted me to dye my hair and start sucking up to the popular kids. I tried to tell her that being a cheerleader requires athletic talent, not social standing, but she refused to believe me.” The mousy girl pauses, a hurt look was.h.i.+ng over her face. Then she shakes her head and flashes me a bright smile. ”But this will show her! I did it all on my own. I made the squad 'cause I'm good, not because of who I'm friends with.”

”That's great!” I say, guilt gnawing at my stomach. Am I no better than her mom? Discounting her because of her shabby clothes and hairstyle? Believing there was no way she'd make it unless I ”helped?” Maybe if I'd just minded my own business . . .

I shake my head. It doesn't matter. Bottom line: She's made the squad and she deserves to be there, whether these morons needed help recognizing it or not. She's talented and enthusiastic and will be a great a.s.set to the team.

Unlike, let's say, for example, me.

Because, I suddenly realize, making the squad is only step number one. Now I actually have to perform. Cheer and dance and not topple off the tops of pyramids.

This should be interesting.

+++ So after school, instead of heading home to log in and edit my latest YouTube film or play video games with Spider, I in- stead trudge my way to the Oakridge High gymnasium. Ugh. I can't believe some people do this kind of thing willingly- stay at school longer than they're required to by Ma.s.sachusetts law. I mean, sure, I suppose some of them just want to come off as ”well- rounded” on their college apps, which I guess I understand. But evidently there's a certain contingency that joins clubs and teams and stuff because they actually think it's (shudder!) fun.

Once in the locker room, I change into the gym outfit Sunny loaned me. Black sports bra, blue tank top, and some dumb white shorts with SPIRIT written in big letters across the seat. I don't understand that fad at all. I mean, who in their right mind wants to willingly draw attention to their b.u.t.t?

”Let's go, girls!” Mandy commands, clapping her hands together. She looks like a skinny bottle of Pepto-Bismol in her pink Juicy sweat suit, size zero. Her long blond hair has been swept up in a neat ponytail and her makeup is heavy and flawless. Very JLO MTV Video Music Awards. ”Time's a-wasting.”

The other girls, in various states of undress, groan and hasten to slip on shorts and sneakers. I'm relieved to see most of them are just wearing normal raggedy gym clothes and aren't dolled up like our fearless leader. I'm not sure I could stomach being the sole ugly duckling in a chorus line of swans.

We head out into the gym and form two lines. I, unfortunately, am placed in the front row. So much for keeping a low profile. Mandy stands in front of us, like an aerobics instructor, and starts calling out the cheers.

I try to follow her movements without much luck. d.a.m.n it, I knew I should have watched that DVD they gave me to take home on Friday. You know, the one with the detailed cheering moves I was supposed to learn before the start of practice? I'd meant to watch it, of course, but then that night Spider had begged me to play video games with her for just ”five minutes.” Five hours later, when I finally logged off, it seemed too late to start bouncing up and down, waking the entire household with spirited yells of ”Go Team!” And then Sat.u.r.day was Get Your Blood On night at Club Fang. Like ladies' night, but for the undead-no cover for vamps! It seemed unwise to miss out on such a money-saving dancing opportunity. And then last night, well, last night I, um, was busy. Fine, okay, I just sat around and did nothing last night. In hindsight, I probably should have popped open the DVD instead of that pint of Ben & Jerry's Phish Food. (Especially since I threw it up a half hour later. Sometimes I hate being undead.) I guess I just figured that it wouldn't be all that bad to just show up and wing it. After all, these mentally challenged Airhead Barbies could do it-how hard could it be?

Very hard, turns out. Very, very hard.

I listen to the commands, watch the others, and try to mimic their movements. But for some unknown reason, I keep getting it all wrong. They turn left, I invariably turn right. They jump forward as I'm jumping back. They clap down when I'm clapping up.

I'm offbeat, uncoordinated, and clumsy.

For those of you who have never done it, I'll tell you right here and now: Cheerleading is not as easy as it looks.

Unless, of course, you're Cait. She looks like she was born with a megaphone in her hand. As if she's been on the squad her whole life. She's got all the right moves and is completely in sync with the others. So unfair.

”How do you know this stuff?” I hiss, after accidentally colliding with her.

She grins, obviously in her element. ”My mom taught me a lot of it when I was a kid,” she explains. ”And I go to all the football games. I guess I've just kind of picked it up. Plus, you know, the DVD they gave us. I've probably watched it fifty times since Friday.”

Oh. Yeah, that'll do it, I guess.

”Rayne, no! You're doing it all wrong!” Mandy screams, storming over to my spot in line. ”Go left. No, no! Your other left.

And put your hands up like this.” She grabs my arm and yanks it above my head. ”And your leg should be out like this.” She kicks the inside of my calf to widen my stance. Problem is, the sudden movement knocks me completely off balance and I stumble forward, instinctively grabbing onto her to break my fall. A moment later we're both tumbling to the ground.

”d.a.m.n it, Rayne!”

I roll off of her, red-faced. ”Sorry,” I mutter. This sucks. Totally sucks. I can't believe Teifert is making me do this. There has to be some Slayer Inc. rule banning the forced humiliation of its employees, no? If not, there should be. If ever there was cruel and unusual punishment, this would be it.

The other cheerleaders whisper amongst themselves, clearly annoyed that I'm wasting valuable practice time. I told Teifert this was a bad idea. I mean, sure, the blackmail worked like a charm to get me on the squad, but I'm never going to get them to like me enough to spill their growly little secrets in the locker room.

I pick myself up off the ground, trying to salvage what pride I have left. Nothing I can do about it now except try harder.

Show them they were wrong about me. h.e.l.l, if Airhead Barbies can do this cheering thing, so can Rayne McDonald. Right?

”Nancy, take Rayne over to the other end of the gym and show her some moves,” Mandy orders, scrambling to her feet and brus.h.i.+ng invisible dirt off her perfect sweat suit. She's probably furious that she's stuck with me for the season and p.i.s.sed off she can't tell her squad why.

”What good's that going to do?” Nancy, the pet.i.te blonde in the back row, whines. ”I mean, let's face it. She sucks. I don't get why you wanted her on the squad in the first place, Mandy. There were, like, fifteen other girls better than her.”

Murmurs of agreement run through the squad. Mandy looks like she's been force-fed a c.o.c.kroach. She opens her mouth to speak. Is she actually going to tell them what I did?

”Nancy, give her a break!” I whirl around, in shock. Holy c.r.a.p. It's Shantel. Shantel's actually speaking up in my defense.

”It's her first day.”

”I don't give a d.a.m.n if it's her first minute,” Nancy says. ”She sucks. Totally not cheerleader material.”

”Obviously you don't remember your first day.” Shantel sniffs. ”You were on your b.u.t.t so much we all thought you must own stock in BenGay.”

I stifle a giggle. Go, Shantel! You tell her.

Nancy squeezes her well-manicured hands into fists, her face bright red, but doesn't reply. Probably trying to fire up her brain for a really good comeback. Which, I realize, could take a while.