Revenge of the Cheerleaders

  An hour later Adrian came home. By that time I was up in the bathroom brushing my teeth. I heard Mom's voice, low and angry, talking to my sister, and then Adrian's voice, louder and defensive, saying, "It's just a song. Besides, she insults him all the time."

  "That isn't the same," Mom said. "You know that isn't the same."

  Something slammed. Probably the coat closet. "How come you always take her side?"

  "And how come you never do?" Mom snapped back. "She's your sister. And until Rick apologizes to Chelsea and promises not to sing that song, you won't see him. Is that clear?"

  I heard footsteps storming down the hall then Adrian yelled, "You're trying to ruin my life!"

  As if she needed any help doing that.

  Adrian walked by the bathroom and saw me rinsing out my toothbrush. She paused by the doorway, her breath still coming out quickly. "So now you're taking Rick away from me."

  "I didn't make him sing that song."

  "But you told Mom about it. You blew it all out of proportion. It's not like he said anything that isn't true."

  I stared at her, then shook my head. How could she see things that way? How could she have so much hatred for me that she thought her boyfriend was justified in singing trash about me in front of everybody? At that moment I wanted to hurt her as badly as she hurt me. With an even voice I said, "Tell me, how many songs did Rick write about you on his new CD?"

  "What?" she asked.

  "Did he write any songs about what a wonderful girlfriend you are?"

  She let out an exasperated grunt, "The CD is called Cheerleaders in Action. I'm not a cheerleader."

  "Oh. Well doesn't it seem a little obsessive that your boyfriend wrote a bunch of songs about your sister? Maybe you should think about that."

  When her face flushed red I knew my words had hit their mark. Still, she wasn't going to let me have the last word in the argument. She took a step toward me. "Rick isn't interested in you. He wrote those songs about cheerleaders because he's sick of watching the way you and your friends walk over everyone else."

  As if. I would have loved to hear about just who she thought I'd been waltzing over, but I wasn't about to let myself get distracted. Instead I shrugged, "So you're saying he does think you're a wonderful girlfriend?"

  She lifted her chin as though daring me to contradict her. "Yes. He loves me."

  "Well, since he doesn't want to lose you, he shouldn't have a hard time apologizing to me and switching songs for the audition, should he?"

  She rolled her eyes. "You don't think he'll do it? You think you've gotten rid of him just because you told Mom about that song? Well, even though you've never apologized to him for the way you look down at him all the time, and even though 'Dangerously Blonde' is his best song, he'll do it if I ask him to."

  I smiled at her. "Mmm hmm. Why don't you go call him now?"

  Even though I didn't show any confidence in her assertion, I really did hope she was right. And I didn't even care about the apology. I just wanted him to never sing that song again. If he would promise not to sing it, that would mean I didn't have to shove myself into something tight and sparkly and sing "The Shoop Shoop Song" in front of heaven knew how many people.

  Adrian went into her room and shut the door. I leaned against her door frame and tried to hear as much of the conversation as I could. Was there a sparkly outfit in my future or not?

  Adrian, sniffling, told Rick about Mom's edict. She ended with, "It isn't fair to you. I know it isn't, but can you please tell them that you won't sing that song again?"

  There was a moment's silence then Adrian said, "But you have other songs—you have tons of other songs you can perform."

  A pause, then Adrian's voice grew louder. "Does your artistic freedom mean more to you than seeing me?"

  Another pause. "Well, it must if you're not willing to sing a different song."

  Now her voice grew choppy with anger. "I can't believe this. Chelsea told me you wouldn't change songs, but I didn't believe her. You don't love me at all, do you?"

  Hardly a pause. Whatever Rick said, she cut him off. "Fine, then I don't care if I never see you again. And another thing, Rick, how is it that you wrote a whole CD worth of songs about my sister and not a single one about me?"

  She didn't give him time to answer. Even from where I stood I could hear the phone slam against her desk.

  I turned and walked slowly back to my room. Funny how things turn out sometimes. Adrian finally was free from all Rick's bad influences, but me, well, I was going to have to face him head-on. I lay in bed, but didn't fall asleep for a long time. The words of "Dangerously Blonde" repeated over and over again in my mind.

  I spent most of Saturday at Rachel's house with my friends, practicing the song and combing through Internet sites trying to find outfits that were flashy but not slutty. As it turns out, those are very expensive. We found some dresses that would be perfect, and which could be mailed to us on time for a mere one hundred and eighty dollars apiece. I think they may have originally been figure skating outfits, but hey, they were sparkly and looked liked they'd stay put on your body even if you did leg kicks. Trust me, those are hard to find.

  At noon we went over to Mrs. Jones's house. Rachel had called her in the morning and she'd agreed to give us an hour of her time to help us do some choreography. The hour stretched into three hours, which was really nice of Mrs. Jones, since I'm sure she's very busy doing whatever it is that teachers do on the weekends.

  By the time I finally went home I felt confident. Confident about the routine, confident about the outfits, confident that my friends could pull off the backup part—the only thing I didn't feel confident about was my singing voice.

  "You have potential," Mr. Metzerol had told me back when I'd taken choir. "But potential must be shaped."

  Instead of shaping my potential by joining show choir, like he wanted, I'd dropped the class altogether this year. I knew he was disappointed in me. Whenever he passed me in the hallway his gaze revealed his sense of betrayal.

  If I asked him, would he agree to help me or would he just rub it in that my potential was still a massive unshaped blob?

  Monday at school things were worse than I expected. I'd known a lot of people had heard Rick's songs, but I hadn't expected so many people to be singing them in the hallway. Really. I caught snatches of it every time I switched classes. Naomi and her friends broke into, "She'll wink at you, but only if you're cool," whenever they saw me.

  I tried to laugh it off and tell them, "You notice I'm not winking at you. You obviously didn't make the cool list." But it still bothered me. I mean, how far could a person's social standing slide in one weekend? It was like anyone who I'd ever slighted, every guy I'd ever turned down, and all the girls who tried out but didn't make it on the cheerleading squad went out of the way to rub it in.

  From what I gathered—from those who were only too eager to tell me—Rick sang a couple more cheerleader songs after we left. There was "How to Feed Your Cheerleader (On Gossip and Lies)" and "This Skirt Means I'm Too Good for You." Apparently they were catchy tunes because several people had them almost memorized.

  The other girls in my squad weren't nearly as bothered by it as I was. Samantha had a lot of noncheerleading friends and a boyfriend. Every time Logan passed Rick in the hallway he called out, "Heck yeah, she's too good for you! That's why she's dating me."

  Rachel had come to school looking so forlorn that currently half a dozen guys from the football team trailed her around to cheer her up and snarl in Rick's direction.

  Aubrie, eternally optimistic, actually enjoyed the extra attention. "There is no bad press," she said. I didn't point out that this only applied to movie stars, not high school students. At high school—oh yeah, there's bad press.

  By lunchtime I knew I could no longer avoid it. I went to Mr. Mezterol's classroom to see if I could talk to him. He was there, standing by his filing cabinet going through sheet music. He wore a suit jacket and
tie—I'd never seen him in anything casual, and his mustache was neatly trimmed. I used to think his mustache was actually a word filter because he always spoke so slowly. He told his classes that when conversing, it was important to choose exactly the right word, and you did get the feeling that he ran through a mental thesaurus every time he spoke. He looked up when I walked in, but then went back to his filing.

  I stood before him, nervously clutching a CD of the song that I'd downloaded last night, and explained that I was trying out for the High School Idol auditions. I needed help with my voice. Did he have any time to offer me some pointers?

  He turned, slowly, and considered me with reproach. " I 'm not sure, Chelsea. Many of my choir students are trying out, and I need to help them. My time is very limited over the next two weeks. You understand that my choir students have first priority."

  I gulped, and grabbed my CD harder, but didn't leave. He had started his answer by saying, " I 'm not sure," which meant he could still be persuaded. "But it won't take long," I said. "And I used to be your student. How about I'll stay after school and help you grade papers so you'll have extra time. Or I could clean your classroom, or wash your car . . ." Or just grovel for a sufficient time for you to forgive me. "Please?"

  He looked at me for a long moment, tapping his fingers against the sheet music in his hand. "Perhaps we could work out a deal. After all, I shouldn't turn down someone who's . . ." His mustache twitched. "Inspired so much music lately."

  I blushed. "You heard about Rick's song?"

  He turned back to his filing cabinet and placed the last piece of sheet music in the drawer. "Some girls in my second period class sung several songs to me. That 'Dangerously Blonde' one has a good beat."

  I leaned against his desk. "Now you know why I've got to sing really well. I can't let Rick win a spot on High School Idol."

  "Mmm hmm." Mr. Metzerol shut the file then made his way around to the back of his desk. He sat down in his chair and clasped his hands in front of him. "It's a brutal thing to be on the wrong end of teasing, isn't it?"

  "Yes," I said, glad that he understood.

  "School should be a place of learning, of friendship, but words . . ." he shook his head sadly, "those take a toll on a person's self-esteem, wouldn't you agree?"

  "Yes," I said.

  The corners of his mouth lifted, as though winning an argument. "It's so important to feel accepted by one's peers."

  I'd already said as much, so I wasn't sure why he kept bringing it up. "You don't think I pick on people, do you?" I put my hand against my chest. "Because those things Rick said about me aren't true."

  He didn't look convinced. "You try to include your peers whenever you can?"

  "Yes." I should have seen it coming, really. I mean, I'd used the same put-your-money-where-your-mouth-is technique on Adrian.

  "Then you won't mind helping me with a project. You're the perfect one to do it, in fact, since you know how it feels to be on the wrong end of teasing." He leaned back in his chair and stroked the ends of his mustache. "You see, I'm worried about a couple of my students, Molly and Polly Patterson. You know them, yes?"

  Yes, I knew them. They were identical twin girls who'd moved into town this year and had the misfortune of being plain, frumpy, and on the overweight side. They'd immediately been dubbed Roly and Poly by some guys on the football team. "They're in my history class," I said.

  "That's right," Mr. Metzerol said. "They have choir first period. Superb voices. Excellent harmony. I can't get either one to sing a solo though. They're too self-conscious. Too worried about what others might say."

  "You want me to help them with singing?" I asked.

  Mr. Metzerol leaned forward. "I want you to help them with life at PHS. I want you to be their friend."

  "Oh." Adults love to say these kinds of things as though you could order friendship the same way you ordered a pizza. You didn't just decide to be friends with two people whom you'd hardly ever spoken to and probably had nothing in common with. Still, I couldn't explain this to Mr. Metzerol. Once people become adults they instantly forget what it's like to be a teenager.

  Mr. Metzerol nodded appraisingly. "If they hang out with you, people will stop making fun of them."

  Yeah, because they'd be too busy making fun of me. My popularity was already in a free fall. Thank you very much, Rick.

  Still I couldn't turn Mr. Metzerol down. I needed his help, and besides, he was right. I knew how it felt to be called names. "I'll try to get to know them. I'll say hi in class and everything if you want me to."

  "Yes, but we need . . ." He sat silently at his desk while I waited for him to finish his sentence. "Something . . . more." And then, as though it were already decided he added, "I'll take the liberty of asking Mrs. Addington to put the three of you together on your history project. That should give you an opportunity to become friends."

  We were just starting a unit on technology in world history class and had to come up with a report and presentation. "But Samantha and I already decided to do our project together . . . " I said.

  "Good, good," he said. "Samantha can help you befriend them. That will work out even better. I'll let Mrs. Addington know." He stood up as though the matter was closed. "Now then, you brought your music with you? Let's hear it."

  I didn't argue with him anymore. As far as I was concerned, if he made me befriend Molly and Polly he had better give me a lot of good coaching advice in return.

  I put my CD into the player that sat on his desk, took a deep breath, and belted out the song.

  Mr. Metzerol watched me, frowning the entire time. When I finished he shook his head like a doctor examining a dying patient. "Chelsea, you're not utilizing your diaphragm. You're letting notes fall off left and right." He held his fingers together as though grasping something. "You've got to hold onto those notes." Then he sung out the words to a couple of lines in a booming, almost operatic voice. He nodded at me. "Now try it again without the CD. I want to hear you, not the CD."

  I sang the song again, struggling to remember the words while concentrating on my diaphragm. Apparently I wasn't successful with that last goal because Mr. Metzerol kept yelling, "Hold onto it!" and "You're letting those notes fall!" and "God gave you a diaphragm, Chelsea! When are you going to use it?" He even took his conducting stick and held it to my stomach. "Here. Here is where you need to feel it. Stretch those notes out."

  Which made me remember why I didn't take choir this year. The man was not above walking by and smacking us in the back if we slouched during practice, and he had this Nazi-like obsession with making us use our diaphragm.

  After the fourth time through the song—both his fourth time and mine, because he had to keep showing me how it should be done—he finally said, "That's enough practice for today. You do your scales and your breathing exercises tonight, then come back in at lunchtime tomorrow and we'll see if it goes any better, all right?"

  "All right," I said.

  "And remember you're going to help Molly and Polly with . . ." Mr. Metzerol rolled his hand in the air, pumping his mental thesaurus. "Updating their look. Building their confidence."

  As though you could just walk up to near strangers and say, Hi, I noticed you're ugly. Would you like some help with that? Honestly, Mr. Metzerol must have skipped out on his teenage years. "I'll try," I said. "I can't promise anything."

  He sent me a calm smile. "Then neither can I."

  You wouldn't think a teacher would blackmail you like that.

  Chapter 8

  I met up with my friends on the main stairway, affectionately called Jock's Landing because all the jocks hang out there.

  "Where were you at lunch?" Aubrie asked.

  "I went to Mr. Metzerol's to get some voice coaching."

  She blinked in concern. "Do you think the rest of us should go in and see him too?"

  "Only if you want to subject yourself to an angry little man repeatedly poking you in the stomach."

  I leaned o
ver to Samantha, who wasn't paying attention to me because she was talking to Logan. "Hey, I hope you don't mind, but since Mr. Metzerol is helping me with my singing, he's arranging to have us do our history project with Molly and Polly Patterson." And then I added a little more tentatively, "Mr. Metzerol wants us to be friendly to them, you know, help them fit in at PHS."

  Samantha shrugged. "Okay." Then she went back to talking with Logan.

  At that moment I really respected Samantha. She wasn't at all concerned about having to hang out with Molly and Polly or how their lack of popularity would affect us. Which made me feel worse that my own first reaction had been different.

  She'll wink at you but only if you're cool . . .

  It wasn't true, was it?

  I took a deep breath. First reactions didn't define a person. It's what you did—how you acted around others—that was important, and I'd said I'd be friendly to Molly and Polly. So Rick wasn't right about me.

  In world history class Mrs. Addington called us up to her desk in groups. Earlier we'd submitted our report topics for her approval.

  She called Molly, Polly, Samantha, and me up to her desk last. "Now then," she said with a smile, "I know you didn't request to work together, but since Molly and Polly are still fairly new here, I thought it would be a good idea to put you all in a group together." She looked directly at me. "That's all right with you, isn't it?"

  I smiled back at her. "Sure."

  Samantha nodded. "That's fine."

  Molly and Polly glanced at each other and then suspiciously at us. "I guess that's okay," Molly said. At least I think it was Molly I couldn't really tell them apart. They both had mousy brown hair pulled back in ponytails and identical wire-rimmed glasses.

  Mrs. Addington said, "Great. I'll let you guys get to the library and decide whether you want to work on . . ." She peered down at a paper on her desk. "The history of space flight or inventions that spurred on the industrial revolution. They're both good topics."