The Cheerleaders(72)

“Stop,” I say. “It’s the least I can do.”

“I’m seriously not mad about detention.” She thrusts her hands into the front pocket of her hoodie as we pick our way up the bleachers in search of a free spot. We settle into a row three-quarters of the way up the first level. As soon as we sit down, Ginny produces a steel thermos from her bag and hands it to me. “Hot chocolate.”

The thought of hot chocolate, and Ginny pouring two packets into the thermos, warms me before I even take a sip. I peel off my gloves so I can unscrew the top of the thermos. The last time I was here was for a NHSE vs. Sunnybrook game freshman year, with Rachel and Alexa and Matt. One of Matt’s friends had smuggled in a flask of rum, which we mixed with hot apple cider from the concession stand. It was only the first weekend of November, but the forecast said there was a chance of snow flurries. Under the blanket we brought, Matt traced a finger up the inside of my thigh and I shivered, thinking, If I weren’t me, I would kill to be me.

“Are you okay?” Ginny asks.

“I’m good,” I say, and in spite of everything, I mean it.

“Look.” Ginny points across the field, where a bunch of girls in navy-and-white skirts are huddled. Someone shouts, and they break apart, staggering into groups of three. Ginny and I watch them bend, pop the fliers up into formation. The fliers pull their legs up into scorpion positions. They hold them while someone shouts a count to three before the bases drop them back down. The girls march into a pyramid formation.

The counter—a slender and tall black woman—is off to the side, admiring the pyramid as if it were a piece of art. Her hair is in a high bun, and she’s wearing a navy-and-white warm-up jacket to match the girls’ uniforms.

“That’s Patrice,” I say.

I keep my eyes on her through the anthem, the home team’s ceremonial entrance set to an AC/DC song, and through kickoff.

“Have you figured out what you’re going to say to her?” Ginny asks.

Shrewsbury picks up a first down, and the crowd boos. Below us, at the bottom of the bleachers, a line of cheerleaders in green and white attempts to lead our side of the stadium in a cheer, waving their pom-poms.

“Not exactly,” I say. “But Patrice isn’t Facebook friends with Carly. I’m not that worried about it getting back to her.”

At halftime, the score is 21 to 14, Shrewsbury. The field clears so the NHSE cheerleaders can perform their routine; a techno remix of this summer’s most played-out pop song blares from the speakers. The girls are out of sync in a way that would make Coach claw her eyes out, but the crowd goes wild for their tumbling passes.

Shrewsbury winds up winning 34 to 27. Ginny and I stay seated while the bleachers around us clear out. I say a silent prayer that no one from Shrewsbury gets the shit kicked out of them on the way back to the parking lot.

Down on the field, Patrice is giving the cheerleaders a pep talk. They raise their pom-poms in a cheer of solidarity before breaking apart and heading through the locker room entrance below the box. Patrice hangs behind, collecting pom-poms.

“Let’s go,” I say.

Ginny is at my heels as we hurry down the bleachers. Patrice looks up. Looks through us and goes back to packing up the pom-poms.

“Patrice?” I say.

Her back tenses as she takes Ginny and me in. “Yeah?”

“Do you have a minute?”

Patrice studies my face. “Where do I know you from?”

“I’m Jennifer Rayburn’s sister.”

Patrice’s onyx eyes soften. “Monica, right?”

I nod. “This is Ginny. We’re both on the dance team.”

Patrice’s mouth tightens in a polite smile. “I’m glad you came and said hi.” No doubt wondering what the hell this is all about.

I swallow to clear the nerves from my throat. “I wanted to ask you—were you friends with Carly Amato in high school?”

Patrice blinks. “Carly? I knew her. I wouldn’t call her a friend.”

“I was just wondering, because I saw a picture of you guys together at prom.”

Patrice’s forehead wrinkles. “Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. I mean, we were friendly, kind of, but I only took that picture at prom because she asked.”

“But you were on cheerleading together,” I press.

“For a little while.” Patrice closes the top of the pom-pom box and pauses. “Why do you guys care about Carly? That girl was bad news.”

I glance over at Ginny; I can tell she picked up the ominous note in Patrice’s voice too. Somehow, I don’t think Patrice said Carly was bad news because she snuck cigarettes in the school parking lot.

“Bad news how?” I ask.

Patrice straightens and brushes a stray pom-pom string from her palm. “I mean, I didn’t know her that well. She only went to Sunnybrook her senior year. She got kicked out of Catholic school for fighting. She ripped out a chunk of this girl’s hair and bit her so hard she needed stitches,” Patrice says. “At least, that’s what people said.”

“That’s horrible,” I say. When I met Carly, I’d gotten the vibe that she was scrappy. But Patrice is describing someone who is downright vicious.

Patrice shrugs. “She got into a couple fights at Sunnybrook, but she was mostly talk. She was kind of desperate, like always hanging around me and my friends as if it would give her street cred or whatever. I don’t know, everyone called her a skank or wannabe ghetto but I just felt bad for her. She didn’t have any friends.”