“Um, no, absolutely not,” I say, gazing toward our back door, longing to be on the other side of it.
But he just throws down his cigarette, smashing the smoldering tip under the sole of his old, beat-up Doc Marten. “I thought you were different from all those other spoiled brats,” he says, shaking his head at me. “But apparently you’re just like the rest of them.”
And as he shakes his head, mutters under his breath, and heads back down the alley, part of me feels kind of bad about all that. While the other part really hopes that he’s right.
When I go back inside, I wash my hands, then head straight for Mr. and Mrs. Strawberry Fields smoothie. “All done?” I ask, grabbing their sticky glasses, and wiping up the mess they made with an old, damp rag.
And then, for some inexplicable reason, like some kind of ESP moment or something, I happen to look up and gaze out the window, at the exact same moment that Jaci, Holly, Claire, and Sloane walk by.
Oh, my God! I think, as I stand there, staring at Sloane, waiting for her to peer inside and wave at me. I mean, she knows I work every Friday night, so why else would they be here?
But just as I’m wondering if my mom will let me leave early so I can go hang out with them, I watch in shock as she just breezes right by. With absolutely no intention of stopping, waving, or giving any indication that she’s in any way affiliated with New Day Organics, or me.
She just laughs at something Jaci said, tosses her hair behind her shoulder, and strolls right past, without so much as a single glance.
“Ahem, excuse me? Miss? I said we’d like two cups of the Let It Be green tea.”
I glance at the woman who is now rolling her eyes and shaking her head, then I gaze out the window again. Watching Sloane laugh and joke with her cool new friends with such comfort and ease, it’s like she’s been hanging with them forever.
Six
On Saturday morning I call Sloane. And when she doesn’t answer her cell, I call the house line.
“Yes?” the maid answers in tentative English.
“Hi, um, is Sloane there?” I ask, hoping she can understand me.
“Yes?” she says again, leaving me unsure if that’s “yes, she’s there,” or if we’re actually, like, starting this whole process all over again.
So this time I rephrase it. “Can I speak to Sloane, please?”
“No.” Of this, she sounds certain.
“Okay, but does that mean that she’s there but busy and therefore I can’t speak to her? Or that she’s not home so I can’t speak to her?” I ask, realizing that even I’m a little confused by all that.
But then she goes, “Sloane very busy. She studies. With coach.”
And while I’m trying to figure out what the heck that means, she hangs up.
And I just sit there, phone still in hand, thinking: Sloane is studying with a coach? Does that mean she has a tutor’? And why didn’t she mention this before? I mean, usually I’m the one who helps her with her homework.
And then like, the second I hang up, it rings. And since I know that it’s Sloane, I go, “Hey, so what’s with the coach? I mean, we’re supposed to be practicing our cheer.”
And then my dad goes, “Okay, but I lost my pom-poms so we’ll have to share.”
I roll my eyes, and laugh. “Very funny,” I say. “I thought you were Sloane.”
“Obviously. So what’s this about a cheer? You trying out for the squad?”
“Yup.” I plop down onto the couch, put my feet on the coffee table, and grab the remote.
“Does your mom know?”
“Affirmative.” I nod, even though he can’t exactly see me.
“Wow, how’d you get that past her?” He says that in a funny way, not a judgmental way. Like in a “you and I both know how she feels about the establishment and cheerleaders definitely fall into that disdainful group” kinda way.
But I just laugh. “Wouldn’t you like to know,” I say, channel-surfing past all kinds of shows I don’t really like.
“So, when are you and Autumn coming to visit?” he asks.
I drop the remote, even though its last stop was some over- the-top religious show, and wonder how I’m gonna answer this. I mean, I like my dad, don’t get me wrong, and he’s actually more like a friend than a dad. You know, kind of cute and irresponsible but highly likable, kind of like Rory Gilmore’s dad. And he’s cool too, with the whole rock star thing and all. But ever since he moved to New York, visiting him is like a total hassle, involving a long-ass flight, and sleeping in a cramped apartment, which can get more than a little awkward when one of his revolving girlfriends decides to drop in and pay him a visit.
But I don’t want to tell him all that and make him feel bad, so instead I just say, “I don’t know, I guess we’ll just see how it goes, you know.” Then I gawk at the screen showing the flamboyant preacher in the sparkly, yellow suit, standing next to his God-fearing wife with the lavender hair, dress, and shoes.
“Okay, but I’m warning you, I already bought two tickets, with open dates on each end, and I’ve mailed them out so they should be there by Monday. Tuesday at the latest,” he says.
I just mumble good-bye and close the phone, my eyes glued to the line of converts falling to the ground, writhing in ecstasy, as the preacher taps each of their foreheads, absolving them of sin and saving their souls, while his color-coordinated wife smiles beatifically beside him.
At four o’clock I go to Sloane’s. I mean, I’d wasted my entire day calling every two hours, and either listening to her cell go straight to voice mail, or getting the run-around from the maid. And the truth is, you just can’t practice a two-person cheer with only one person. Not to mention that she still has all the words, which left me in the very awkward position of winging it.
I stand at her front door, ringing the bell, and hoping, as usual, that her mom’s not home, while fully prepared to do battle with the maid. So when Sloane answers, I’m actually caught off-guard.
“Hey,” she says, all casual, like she was fully expecting me or something. “What’s up?” She takes a sip from her bottle of water, then wipes her hand on the side of her sky-blue, terry- cloth shorts.
“Well, I thought we were gonna practice our cheer, since we’re running out of time, and all,” I say, feeling pretty awkward to just be standing in the doorway, and wondering why she isn’t inviting me in.
She leans against the doorjamb (which pretty much prohibits any form of entry short of knocking her over), scrunches up her nose, and goes, “About that.”
And as I watch her expression change, my stomach fills with dread. But I don’t say anything. I just stand there and wait for what’s next.
She gazes down at the ground, and then back at me, and then she finally shrugs and says, “I think it’s probably better if we try out separately.”
“What?” I just stare at her, my mouth hanging wide-open, knowing there’s no way she can be serious. “But we’ve been planning this for months!” I say, hating the way my voice sounds all whiny and desperate, like I’m about to cry or something.
“Yeah, well, I just think it’s better if we each do our own thing,” she says, unwilling to look me in the eye.
I just stand there, gawking. I mean, I can’t freaking believe this. My best friend since third grade won’t even look me in the eye!
“Listen, practically everybody says it’s better that way, Jaci, Ginny, . . .” she trails off. “Anyway, just trust me, it’s all for the best.” She nods.
“But that’s so not true! You and I broke it down, remember? We studied all of the cheerleaders since junior high, and every single one of them tried out with a partner! The judges always fall for that phony, cutesy, buddy stuff,” I say, searching her face, and wondering why she’s decided to do this now. I mean, after all of our planning, all of our pie chart graphing.
But she just rolls her eyes and shakes her head, and when she finally looks at me, she sighs and says, “See, that’s exactly my point.
You think it’s all fake and phony, but I don’t. I really do think it’s cute. And that’s why I’m trying out with Jaci.”
“Omigod,” I say, taking a wobbly, unstable step back.
“I’m sorry, Winter. I didn’t want to tell you, but I figured you’d find out anyway. I just think you should maybe reconsider, you know? I mean, maybe you’re just not cut out to be a cheerleader. Did you ever think of that? It’s like, you spent that entire meeting rolling your eyes, and making fun of everyone, and don’t think they didn’t notice.” She narrows her eyes at me. “Look, this is just way too important to me, and I’ve worked way too hard to risk having you . . . well . . . whatever.” She shrugs, and looks down at the ground.
“Dragging you down?” I gasp. “Is that what you were gonna say? You can’t risk having me drag you down?” I stare at her, needing to hear her say it, yet fearing she will.
But she just looks at me and shrugs. And when my eyes meet hers, it’s obvious that she’s already moved on, that she’s totally over me, and that this is just the messy, yet obligatory, breakup scene.
So I take another step back. And then I turn away. And right before she closes the door, I turn back and say, “And the coach?” I look at her, waiting.
“My mom’s idea.” She shrugs.
And it’s not until I get home, and into my room, that I realize she still has my cheer.
Seven
That whole episode on Sloane’s porch seemed so surreal that on Monday morning I actually kept to my usual routine of stopping by Dietrich’s and buying two coffees and a chocolate chip scone. Can you even believe that? I guess that’s what people mean when they talk about denial.
And if that wasn’t bad enough, I then found myself hanging by my locker during the ten-minute break, waiting for my ex- best friend who (big surprise) never showed. And it wasn’t until lunch, when I realized that I was now officially the only remaining member of Table C, while Sloane was quickly working her way closer to not just the middle, but the actual pinnacle of Table A, that the enormity of the situation finally hit me.
And I just sat there, hunched over my cooler pack, taking tiny bites of the avocado organic sprout sandwich my mom had made, while sneaking peeks at Sloane who was tossing her hair and laughing, as though she was born right there on that very table. Then I gazed around at some of the lesser tables, wondering if I could maybe find solace in some other low-rent location. Though to be honest, it didn’t seem like any of them would have me either.
And when the bell finally rang at 3:35, well, I just grabbed my books and got the heck out. I mean, JV cheerleading try- outs would begin in just twenty-five minutes, and I planned to be as far away as possible when it all started.
But on my way home, I found myself stopping by the café, even though I wasn’t scheduled to work. I guess I just couldn’t face hanging in my room, all alone, with nothing but my sad, lonely, depressed thoughts to keep me company. I mean, I just wasn’t ready to face all that. And since I’d barely spoken a word all day, I was feeling more than desperate for a little company.
Heading into the back room, I drop into a chair, and toss my backpack onto the floor at my feet. And when my mom looks up from her calculator and pile of receipts she says, “Winter? I thought today was tryouts?” Then she glances at her watch and back at me.
And even though I originally thought I wanted to talk, I definitely don’t want to talk about this. So I close my eyes, shake my head, and say, “I really don’t feel like discussing this right now.” And when I hear my own voice, I feel kind of bad about sounding so tight and clipped and mean, but I’m also pretty hopeful she’ll get the hint and move on.
But my mom, totally blind to my plight, continues. “Is everything all right?” she asks, gazing at me with concern as she swivels her chair, ready to jump up and hug me if the situation should warrant.
And the fact that she doesn’t get how I’ve suddenly changed my mind, that I’m no longer in the market for company, and that my new goal is simply to be left alone, makes me so freaking annoyed that I grab my backpack and storm out the back door, cringing as it bangs hard against the frame.
And as I stomp past skinny smoker dude, I don’t acknowledge him, and he refuses to speak to me.
By the time I make it home, Autumn is already there, and she looks at me all excited and goes, “Hey, Dad sent us each a ticket to visit him.” She holds the envelope high in the air, waving it around like a starter flag.
But I just roll my eyes. “Duh,” I say, sticking my head in the fridge, even though I’m not at all hungry.
“What do you mean? It was just now delivered, so how could you possibly know?”
I slam the fridge shut and look at her. “He called Saturday and told me all about it,” I say.
“Oh.” She shrugs, dropping the envelope onto the table. “Well, when do you think we should go?” she asks, looking to me for guidance.
But I’m not up for guiding, leading, directing, or any other kind of big sister role-modeling, so I don’t even answer. I just go in our room, slam the door, and pretty much hide in there until morning.
Okay, if I thought Monday was bad, well, Tuesday? Tuesday was torture. I mean, it started out pretty much the same as any other day. I got up at my usual time, obsessed over my clothes, and stopped for coffee on my way to school. But this time I only bought one, and knowing that the usual chocolate chip scone held way too many memories, I skipped right over it and went for the snicker doodle cookie instead.
Then the second I stepped on campus, I saw them. All six of the brand-new, fairly chosen, legally vetted members of the junior varsity cheerleading squad, jumping around and acting all high on excitement, while still clad in their pajamas.
My stomach filled with dread as I watched Sloane smiling brightly and hugging everyone who mattered, all the while looking adorable in the brand-new, Victoria’s Secret pj’s she bought for this very occasion.
And I happen to know that for a fact, since I was standing right next to her at the register when she pulled out her mom’s black Amex, slapped it on the counter, and purchased her outfit for her date with destiny.
“Okay, so the varsity squad always, always kidnaps the JV squad and makes them go to school in their jammies, so we have to buy something super-cute, but not too obvious, you know?” she’d said, as I stood behind, watching as she trolled through the racks. “And it’s better to avoid anything too sexy, since it’s so much better to be considered adorable than slutty, right?”
I nodded in agreement, remembering the unfortunate incident just last year when one of Ocean High’s newly crowned frosh-soph goddesses was sent home in shame just seconds after Principal Meyer threw his navy blazer over her sheer, mesh, skimpy cami, matching boy shorts, and sky-blue Ugg boots ensemble.
We stood there, shoulder to shoulder, poring through mounds of possible contenders, until finally settling on a pair of pink cotton pajama pants (that could easily double as sweats) with the word Pink written right across the butt (I guess that’s for the color-impaired), and these matching, little white tank tops that said Love Pink down the back. Then we bought some pink bras (I know you don’t normally sleep in a bra, but the tank tops were white), matching pink Ugg slippers (well, Sloane’s were Uggs, mine were Target fakes), and then we vowed to wear our hair all pulled back in spunky, high pony- tails, and to go to bed with just the lightest layer of shiny pink lip gloss (so we’d look good, but not like we were trying to look good or expecting to be kidnapped or anything remotely like that), while forgoing the usual application of zit cream (because, obviously, that would be way too embarrassing for words). Though actually, the whole acne med ban was really more for me than Sloane, since her mom keeps a highly sought- after, well-paid dermatologist on permanent retainer, just so her daughter will never have to suffer the indignity of an adolescent facial eruption.
But now, as I watch her standing there, starring in her very own cheerleading debut, I suddenly remember how my own pair of
Love Pink pajamas are still all carefully folded in my bottom drawer, patiently awaiting an audience that will never show. And I wonder if it’s too late to return them.
For the rest of the day, I fully committed myself to avoiding Sloane, figuring I could accomplish this by frequenting places that cheerleaders rarely go, like, for instance, the library, and the immediate area surrounding my locker. Yet wouldn’t you know it, the more I went out of my way to evade her, the more it seemed like she’d multiplied. Seriously, I’m so not kidding. It was like she was everywhere.
Then, right before lunch, I’m in the bathroom washing my hands at the row of white porcelain sinks, when she walks in, looks right at me, and freezes like a statue.
“Congratulations,” I say, forcing my face to remain as neutral as my voice, as I turn away from the sink and reach for a handful of beige paper towels.
“Thanks.” She shrugs, gazing down at the ground, pressing her lips together like she always does when she’s nervous.
“So, I guess that’s it.” I stare at her, willing her to look at me.
But she just grabs the end of her ponytail, pulls it around to the front, and starts inspecting it for imaginary split ends that I know don’t exist. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she finally says, shrugging for emphasis.
“Our plan, Sloane. You know, the one we spent the entire summer working on? The one where we swore we were in it together? The one where we promised that whoever got there first, would keep the door wide-open for the other. The one where you actually had me draft out a contract so that neither of us could default. Does that ring any bells?” I ask, narrowing my eyes and waiting for a response.
She releases her ponytail, letting it swing back and forth before settling into place, then she takes a deep breath, and says, “Listen, Winter, I know you think-”
But before she can finish, Jaci walks in. And when she sees Sloane she breaks into a huge smile and goes, “Listen well, and listen good, we’re stormin’ through your neighborhood!”