The Cheerleader's Guide to Roller Derby

Chapter One: Smells Like Team Spirit

Author's Note: Three months ago I promised to start publishing a new story "in about a week". Ha! I've been a big chicken about it because this story is not finished yet, and it's not edited either. What if I don't get it done on schedule? What if you guys hate it? This morning I decided to pull on my big girl pants and just get started. For now, I'll be publishing on Wednesdays and Fridays. Maybe if I know you're watching I will follow my own advice: You write a novel the same way you eat an elephant ... one bite at a time! 

It is a truth universally acknowledged that a high school boy in possession of great athletic ability must be in want of ... oh, who cares? Let the rest of the silly girls at Prairie Stone High School go all death match over jocks like Jack Paulson and Rick Mangers; I had bigger problems to solve. Prom was exactly two months and two days away. In that time, I needed to:

A) Choose a suitable date. If the dance team's rose sale was any indication, that struggle that shouldn't be too epic. I had to borrow a bucket from Mr. What's His Name, the janitor, to haul all of my flowers home. Everyone from the captain of the football team to the editor of the school paper sent roses to me. Although why that nerd Todd Emerson thought he had a chance is beyond my imagination.

B) There was the matter of finding a dress too. I'd already picked out the shoes. The heels were high enough to kill me, for sure. And I might have to restrict my choice of prom dates to the tallest members of the basketball team. That is, if I didn't want to tower over the guy during the Royal Waltz. Otherwise, the shoes were perfect. Very Cinderella-esque in etched see-thru vinyl with rhinestone studs on those oh-so-high heels.

Still, all of that depended on:

C) Due to an unfortunate incident last summer, I was not only temporarily removed as co-captain of the Varsity cheer squad, I was no longer allowed to participate in certain other school events as well, prom being one of them.

But even our evil school board was not without mercy. If I could get through the next few sessions with my counselor (insert eye roll here) and complete the last hours of community service I'd been assigned, all would be forgiven.

That community service? It would be finished already if do-gooder types weren't so unfair.

How was I supposed to know one shouldn't steer the chubbier applicants at the food bank away from the pasta and free cheese? I was only offering advice.

Who knew that Brownie Scouts made a pledge to be "considerate and caring", and that those things might not be defined as discouraging the clumsiest of them from attempting a Ballet Arts badge? I mean, really, isn't it considerate to prevent a little kid from certain failure?

And seriously, what thinking person serves red punch to senior citizens at a nursing home? Yeah. RED. Punch. To old people who shuffle everywhere they go with walkers. Did no one have a clue what that could do to a pair of buff colored suede ankle booties? Besides, I apologized to Mrs. Winkler. She would have heard that part of the conversation too, if only she'd bothered to turn up her hearing aids.

I hoped my therapist, Ms. Hernandez of the ridiculously hooped earrings, would understand. For what my dad was paying her, she ought to be useful for something. I certainly couldn't count on her for fashion advice. The woman still wore Crocs.

It's not just her choice of footwear that was questionable either. For someone who is supposed to be wise, my counselor can be pretty clueless. Take the end of our last session, for example. All I asked for was a teeny tiny favor. My friend, Traci Olson, scored two tickets to the Payton Meeks concert in Minneapolis. It was quite a coup since they'd been sold out since, like, five minutes after they became available. Everyone who was anyone was jealous.