The Cheerleaders(70)

A chorus of hollers greets me when I step into the classroom. In the row of desks by the window sit the usual suspects—the class-cutters, the big mouths, and the guys who will fight anyone who looks at them. One of them is in my grade: Chris Tavares, a wiry kid with pants that sag low on his hips. Boxers printed with red peppers stick out over his waistline.

He cups his hands over his mouth to mime a megaphone. “RayBURN! Oh, shit!”

The teacher at the desk in the front of the room—a sub, no doubt—sets down his copy of the New York Post. “Tavares. You want to sit next to me for the next two hours?”

“No, sir.” Chris slumps back in his seat. But it’s too late; every pair of eyes in the room is now focused on me. I keep my head down as I check in with the teacher at his desk. He crosses my name off a list and tells me to sit anywhere.

I spot Ginny toward the back of the room, face buried in The Grapes of Wrath. I slide into the seat next to her and whisper her name.

She sets her book down. “Hey.”

The teacher snaps his fingers twice to get our attention. “No talking. You may do homework, read, sleep, or silently stare into the void.”

I glance over at the guys by the window. Most of them have nailed the last two options. One of them has his hands stuffed in the front pocket of his sweatshirt. I hope he’s secretly texting and not doing something else.

When the teacher turns back to his newspaper, Ginny reaches into her messenger bag. She produces two pieces of paper, stapled together, and sets them on my desk.

It’s a printed page from the Internet. The header says The Pioneer; it’s the online edition of Newton High School East’s newspaper.

Back when our football team still won, NHSE was our biggest rival. The year after all the girls were killed, before the first game of the season, some kids from NHSE snuck into our parking lot and hung a bloody cheerleading uniform from the flagpole.

I shoot Ginny a confused look. She points to the bottom of the page.


PIONEER CHEER NABS GOLD AT ULSTER COUNTY REGIONALS



There’s a brief paragraph about the cheerleading squad’s path to victory, complete with a quote from Coach Patrice Johnson. Ginny moves her finger to the team photo accompanying the article, resting on a gorgeous black woman in a coach’s warm-up jacket. Patrice looks familiar.

“She was in Carly’s prom photo,” Ginny whispers.

The sub locks eyes with Ginny and me. “I said silently.”

As if on cue, someone shouts in the hallway. There’s an explosion of laughter. When it doesn’t die down, the teacher sighs and gets up. “I’ll be back in one minute,” he says as he steps out of the classroom.

As soon as he’s gone, Ginny leans over and whispers, “Newton East has a football game tomorrow. Patrice should be there.”

Before I can answer, Chris Tavares shouts in our direction. “Yo, Rayburn, what are you doing here?”

“Yeah, what’re you in for?” One of the guys by the window, an enormous senior, stares at Ginny and me. His friend—a guy with a patchy beard—pipes up: “Why don’t you come sit by me? This is where the party’s at.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I say.

Chris and the other guy howl with laughter as the huge kid tells me he’ll give me a tip any time I want. Ginny stares at her fingers, her face scarlet.

“Yo, you’re making the other one blush,” the guy with the beard says.

“I’d take her, too. She’s got no tits. But that ass, though.”

“I seen her on the school website,” Beard says. “In one of those gymnastics leotards. Gimme your phone, I’ll show you.”

The big kid hands over an iPhone, and Chris Tavares turns in his seat. Lemmings gathering to leer at Ginny’s body.

I stand, the sound of my chair legs squealing against the floor startling the guys. They’re taken so off guard that Beard doesn’t even fight when I snatch the phone from his hand.

“Put this away, or I will shove it so far up your ass a doctor won’t be able to find it.” I slam the phone on the desk and walk back to my seat, Beard’s friends howling with laughter.

“Man, she is savage.” Chris Tavares lets out a whistle of admiration, while the substitute teacher wanders back into the room, shouting for us to settle down unless we want to join him again for detention on Monday.

“Thanks,” Ginny whispers as I sit down. The guys by the window don’t say another word, or even look at us, until the teacher tells us we can leave.



* * *



—

Detention and dance team practice both end at five, so I can still grab a ride home with Rachel and Alexa. I wait for them outside instead of meeting them by the gym, because I am a coward and can’t face Coach right now.

Regionals are in two weeks, and I missed practice. I’m well aware that, when she gets here, Rachel might have to relay the message that Coach has thrown me off the team. And I can’t even blame her for it.

“Was she mad?” I ask. We’re at Rach’s car; she’s digging at the bottom of her bag for her keys.

“I don’t know,” Alexa says, glancing at Rachel nervously.

But Rach is watching me over the roof of the car. “Why did you get detention?”

“Mrs. Coughlin,” I mutter. “I don’t want to talk about it.”