Ay, cabrón.
A memory from freshman year resurfaces as the band begins to play an upbeat, celebratory tune and I step onto the board. The guys lift it into the air and once it’s raised, I wave my paw, extending my pointer finger to signify the number one. The crowd goes nuts and I drop into pushup position, supporting myself with only one arm as I fold the other behind my back. I bang out seven one-armed push-ups to match the number on the scoreboard—because that’s the tradition—and the cheerleaders lower my platform to the ground.
The game continues on like this, with me muddling through my duties and feeling like a complete fool, and when the student section chants “We want the Wildcat,” I’m forced to turn to the same guy who tipped me off about the pushups and cock my head in silent question.
His smile falters, but eventually he takes pity on me and shouts, “They want you to crowd-surf.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
This has to be a joke.
Coach Sharpe can’t really expect me to put myself in the hands of thousands of strangers. What if they drop me?
One glance in his direction dispels any doubts I have.
He cuts his eyes at the student section and points subtly.
Fifteen years of gymnastics training and I’m reduced to crowd-surfing in a fur suit.
Fan-freaking-tastic.
Resigned to my fate, I climb the steps to the student section and throw myself at their mercy. A couple of guys in the first row with too much body paint and not enough brain cells hoist me into the air and I stare up at the sky as my peers pass me to the top of the stadium and back down again. It’s not as bad as I’d expected, but it’s definitely a bizarre experience. Especially since I have to hang onto my tail so it doesn’t get caught up on anything.
When halftime rolls around, the Wildcats are trailing by three and I’m dying of thirst. I follow the cheerleaders off the field, fantasizing about a bottle of water.
Coach Sharpe falls in step with me as we enter the tunnel.
“What the hell was that?” he demands.
I turn to him, at a loss for words. I waved, clapped, and did the pushups. What else does the guy want from me?
“That was the saddest damn mascot performance I’ve seen in thirty years of cheer.” He shakes his head. “Have you ever even attended a Wildcat football game?”
I nod and the utter disbelief on his face is almost comical.
“You’d better get your act together before next week, or you can expect to face the disciplinary hearing.”
“You can’t do that,” I say, no longer worried about staying in character. “We had a deal. I fill in for the Wildcat and nobody finds out about the locker room prank.”
“Yes, and today’s performance hardly meets the terms of our agreement.” He stops walking and I do the same as he turns to face me. “So far, your performance is uninspired, sloppy, and shows a total lack of school spirit.”
Ouch. Surely it wasn’t that bad.
“I’m doing my best.”
After all, I’m a gymnast, not a show cat.
He frowns, and I swear there’s genuine disappointment in his eyes. “I sincerely hope that’s not true, because if that was your best, it wasn’t good enough. Wildcat Nation deserves better.”
14
PARKER
Damn.Coach wasn’t playing. Idaho’s improved significantly since we last faced them two years ago. They’re making us work today and the heat sure as hell isn’t helping. Sweat drips from my hair and slides down my temple, but I don’t bother wiping it away. There’s more where that came from.
We started the second half trailing by three, and though Carter tied up the score with a field goal, it’s anyone’s game because while our offense is killing it, the defense has been spotty.
Fucking Langley.
