Page 116 of The Cheerleader

“Good job, everyone,” Liz says.

“Does that happen every game?” I ask, breathless, as my heart slows down to near normal.

“No, only when they televise the games,” Liz says. “Pete told me their contract is up after this season.” She pulls a face of disappointment, but it’s short-lived.

After that experience, dancing and cheering courtside under the bright lights in front of the packed house of boisterous fans feels like no big deal.

At halftime, we take the court and do a cheer ending in a multilayered mount, and as we run off the court, we do flying cartwheels and flips, or in my case, wave my pom-poms because I haven’t perfected either of those stunts without falling on my butt.

As I return to my spot, I hear a horrible grunt and look over to see the husky dog mascot collapse in a heap at the edge of the court. A couple of us run over to him and try to help him up.

“I twisted my ankle. I can’t stand on it.”

“Shit,” Liz says, looking around. She has Nick and Keith help him out the doors to find first aid. None of us has any idea where it is or who to ask for help. Pete Chenerski is nowhere in sight.

Keith says, “We’ll find someone in the office area or the ticket office, and if worse comes to worst, I’ll drive him to the clinic.”

“Great,” Liz says, “but have him leave the costume with us.” She turns to Josh. “You can be the husky for the rest of the game.”

“I’m kind of excited to be the husky dog,” he says. We’re huddled on the end of the stands near the pep band, and the injured mascot hands him the husky dog head.

“This is only for tonight,” Liz says.

“I doubt I’ll be back,” the mascot, whose name I wish I could remember, says.

She nods, “That’s okay. Go take care of your ankle.”

She turns to Josh, “We need you in our cheers and our mounts. We’ll have to find someone else to be the husky dog before the next game.”

“Maybe whoever it is can also do the cheers with us,” I say as we rush back to our places courtside. The pep band has already started playing the UConn fight song to signal the start of the second half.

She says, “Brilliant idea.”

“If we do that,” Carol says, “let’s make sure we get someone really strong.”

We reach our places, and as I’m hurrying to catch up to the song, I turn to Liz. “Maybe we can get one of the football players to be the mascot now that their season is over?”

She reads my mind and flashes her teeth. “Yes. I’ll ask Bryan.”

Judy overhears her and laughs, and Carol rolls her eyes. “You’re not serious?”

A flush of embarrassment heats my face, acknowledging the futility because there’s no way in hell Bryan would be a cheerleader. It would be like asking a bird to become a fish. Liz holds onto her smile as we end the dance and wave our pom-poms.

The game is exhausting because we’re moving nonstop, cheering every basket, block, or steal, and dancing every time there’s a time-out and the pep band plays. We win and take the court to do the final dance routine to the Huskies fight song.

As people are filing out, I see Bryan standing at the end of the court like he’s waiting for us. When Liz reaches him, she stops and pulls him aside. I keep going past, heading to the ladies’ room to splash water on my face. I’m not the only one.

When I’m done, I wait for Liz in the lobby, which is almost empty by the time she walks through the doors from the court with Bryan, holding his arm. It’s hard to say whether he’s okay with her hanging on or not. His face is implacable, not happy, not annoyed, nothing, as if nothing matters to him.

“Let’s go to the Rathskeller,” Liz says.

Carol joins us. “I’m in.”

“I’m going home,” I say. “I mean back to the dorm.” I dart a glance at Bryan.

“I’m going home.” He doesn’t qualify his statement. His voice communicates an immovable edict, the kind that’s impenetrable to all attempts to challenge him.

No one tries, not even Liz.