Page 4 of The Cheerleader

“Some things haven’t changed. You’re still as boy crazy as ever.” I feel lighter for no good reason.

When I’ve thought about Liz over the last six years, worry about her emotional welfare inevitably rose to the surface, followed quickly by guilt because I’d abandoned her to her tough circumstances. I would have felt guilty either way. My parents didn’t want me exposed to her father and his drinking problem.

But maybe it didn’t matter whether I was there or not because Liz seems to have thrived. She’s more poised, mature, and her energy is more controlled.

We walk up the worn granite steps to the heavy doors of the building, which turns out to be a gymnasium with creaky wooden floors.

“Welcome to the Hawley Armory,” Liz says, entering ahead of me.

I look around the large, almost empty space, fanning my face as the stuffy air and heat threaten to suffocate me. “What are we doing here?”

“Cheerleading tryouts.”

I give her a blank look, reflecting my blank mind. I have no idea what to make of her statement.

“Cheerleading tryouts?”

She takes my hand, her smile undiminished, and pulls me forward into the cavernous space.

It strikes me that there should be lots of eager girls jumping around with nervous energy if this is supposed to be cheerleading tryouts for a big university like UConn.

“Where’s everyone else?”

“Probably studying for finals next week. We’re early. I wanted to practice. Even though I was on the squad this year, I’m not taking any chances.” She sits on the floor and stretches her legs out like I used to do in dance class. I join her, folding my legs under me because I’m wearing a shortish dark blue skirt with my white polo shirt and espadrilles. It was mom’s idea for me to dress in UConn colors for my admissions appointment.

“You have to try out again even though you were already on the squad? There must be a lot of competition.” I look around again, waiting to see a line of girls rushing inside.

She shrugs. “Not really. We’ll probably get a couple dozen girls for tryouts, and they pick eight to ten.” She laughs. I must look confused because she goes on. “It’s a rule from the old days when cheerleading was more popular that you try out your first two years, and then your third—senior—year you’re on the squad automatically.”

She continues bending at the waist one way, then the other, while I’m trying to make sense of what she said. It doesn’t sound right, nothing like I would have expected. But then, what would I know? I’ve never been a cheerleader.

Finished with her stretching, Liz jumps to her feet. “Do the Huskies dance routine with me.” She takes a pose, standing sideways with her left foot extended and pointed and her right arm extended up, then starts dancing, humming what I assume is the school song. Laughing, I get up and stand behind her. I follow along, mimicking her moves.

It’s fun. I’d taken dance lessons for years when I was younger, and I always enjoyed it. But that was before I got serious about school.

“You keeping up?” she asks over her shoulder.

“Sure. It’s a basic routine. Is this what UConn cheerleaders do? What about jumping around and cartwheels and⁠—”

“We do all that too.” She turns to watch me, giving me one of those looks like she used to when she was cooking up trouble—like the time she stole some of her father’s cigars and we snuck out the back door of the gym to smoke them. We ended up getting sick and being sent home.

“What? What are you thinking?” I’m afraid to ask as I come to a stop on a high kick. At the same time, a jump of excitement pulses through me, that same ripple of anticipation I used to have when we were kids, the kind I used to get when we were headed for trouble.

“You should try out—you’re a natural. I’ll go over the routines with you now and⁠—”

I laugh, truly amused and amazed at the suggestion. “You’re crazy, Liz. That’s your wildest idea yet.”

“Wildly good!”

“I’ve barely been admitted—I’m not even an official student yet until next semester⁠—”

With undiminished enthusiasm, she takes my hand and turns me to stand next to her. “You’re officially enrolled. That’s good enough. I’m perfectly serious about this. It’s a brilliant idea.” Her expression is serious even as her enthusiasm turns feverish.

“I’m not dressed for this.” I look down at my outfit, which isn’t terrible, but the espadrilles⁠—

“You look fine. You can dance in those clothes. And the shoes. They’re almost flat and they’re flexible. We could be cheerleaders together. Think about the fun. Now follow my moves.”

She starts the dance over again, singing the UConn Huskies fight song in earnest now, and I automatically follow along, once again caught up in the wake of her energy. Except it’s more than that because I like dancing, and there’s something about the idea of being a cheerleader that intrigues me. Being out there in front of people is a little scary, yes, but I never minded dance recitals. Performing in a group was kind of fun.