She Drives Me Crazy(68)
But then she laughs. The crowd is roaring around her, I’m dancing like a complete buffoon to the Dirty Dancing song, and Irene Abraham is losing her shit laughing in the most unabashed, luminous way.
I grin and lose myself in the routine, concentrating on the steps Honey-Belle taught us. We mix the dance steps from the movie with some of the squad’s best cheer routines, an homage tailored exactly to Irene’s passions. My adrenaline has completely taken over, my cheeks are on fire, my heart is burning in my throat. I’m terrible, but I’m moving in sync with the squad, and they’re all grinning like they’re having an absolute blast. The whole crowd seems to be having the time of their lives. They’re screaming their applause, all of them on their feet, even some of the Candlehawkians.
The Fighting Reindeer, a.k.a. Gunther, runs up to join us for the iconic movie moment. I take a deep breath and line up across from him, and the crowd’s noise is thunderous. They know what’s coming.
At that one, perfect moment of the song—the part where Jennifer Grey launches herself into Patrick Swayze’s arms so he can lift her high above everyone—I run straight at Gunther and leap into his fuzzy mascot arms. We completely butcher it, of course: He lifts me in a kind of half pirouette as I scream with laughter, and we twirl around to make the most of it, and all I can hear is Honey-Belle shrieking with glee while the saxophone solo echoes in my head.
When Gunther sets me down, I straighten my skirt and turn to face the crowd. In a sudden rush, I understand exactly what Irene meant the day she told me cheerleaders regulate a crowd’s emotion. I can feel their elation, their euphoria, their absolute delight. The song softens into the bridge, and I coax the audience down to a quieter decibel. I tap the lapel mic on my uniform and wait for Kevin to turn it on.
“Thank you for coming out to cheer on our Fighting Reindeer,” I say, my voice booming around the gym. “I’m out here doing this cheesy dance because I have some cheesy things to say.” I swallow and say the next part like I’m shooting a prayer of a three-pointer. “Irene Abraham, I wanna take you on a date.”
The stands go haywire. People are literally jumping in their seats. Irene looks ready to pass out.
“I’ve been falling for you since the second you hit my car,” I tell her, my voice shaking. “You are the most brilliant, passionate, infuriating person I’ve ever met. You make me feel seen.”
I address the next part to the crowd. “And I’ve learned from doing this”—I gesture to the cheerleaders behind me—“that Irene is every bit as athletic as I suspected. So I don’t care whether or not you vote for her for Student Athlete of the Year. I just want you to know she’s worthy of it.”
The applause is deafening. I swallow and look directly at Irene. She’s wearing an expression I’m not sure I’ll ever see again: completely dazed, like she’s been caught off guard for the first time ever. But when I extend my hand toward her, something in her shakes awake. She springs up from the bleachers and dashes toward me with the whole school cheering behind her.
And suddenly she’s in front of me, and her eyes are sparkling in that blazing, commanding way she has, and before I can catch my breath, she grabs my face and kisses me.
I’m vaguely aware of the crowd losing their minds, of Gunther whooping somewhere behind me, of Kevin looping the track so this moment can last forever, but the only thing truly registering is the feel of Irene’s mouth on mine. She kisses me hard, and when she lets go, I literally have to blink to set my head straight.
“Let me show you how it’s actually done!” she shouts, and before I can say anything, she’s picking up the routine like she’s been doing it all along. Of-fucking-course she knows the steps to the Dirty Dancing song. I can only stand there, laughing in shock, as Irene and her squad finish out the routine to the delight of the thunderous crowd. And when the song finally ends, Irene leans into my lapel mic and says, “Now can we give y’all some real Fighting Reindeer routines?”
Irene and her squad seamlessly transition into their normal halftime show, riding the wave of the crowd’s energy. Their routines are killing it. The crowd is loving it. I scan hundreds of faces and see joy and belonging and community.
One face sticks out to me: Dr. Abraham, standing next to Irene’s dad with Mathew on her other side. She’s beaming with pride, with a mother’s love, clapping along to her daughter’s perfectly orchestrated cheer routines. My throat is suddenly thick.
When halftime is over, Irene takes my hand and leads me toward the locker room. She pushes me toward the door and says, “Get your uniform on. You are not sitting out for the second half of this game.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice.
* * *
It really doesn’t matter to me how this game ends. I’m so euphoric that I’m playing like a little kid, purely for the fun of it, practically oblivious to the competition. I assist Danielle with three different jump shots; she assists me with a steal that turns into a layup. It’s easily the best time we’ve ever had playing together. Even when I shoot an air ball in the third quarter, I merely laugh and keep playing.
One moment stands out to me: Tally getting fouled in the fourth quarter. She trips over Googy in the midst of a desperate drive to the basket. When she hits the floor and begins to cry, I don’t hesitate to run over to her. I crouch next to her, offering my hand. She refuses to take it.