Boycotting Blue

11/Lou

Lou

 

I would not quit cheer.

   Finally, I had found something that I was talented in. So what I had to put up with some stuck-up bitches that loved to remind me that my mom slept around for money and other people’s pleasure? That was okay. I had Taylor, and she was nice enough. At least, she was when the other girls weren’t around. I wasn’t about to let a group of snobby girls push me from something that I enjoyed. It had happened with gymnastics. It was not about to happen with cheer, too.

   And Blue was in basketball, enjoying it. He had seemed to make a new friend in Dylan. Although, I wasn’t sure how long he was going to keep so said friend if he kept grabbing Dylan’s shirt. I had to stay in cheer for myself, and for Blue. He was having fun, coming home sweaty and worn out, wearing basketball jerseys and stuff. He would quit basketball if I quit cheer. And I couldn’t do that to him. I wouldn’t let him suffer because I was a wimp.

   So I stayed in my little corner as we stretched, away from the girls laughing and gossiping. Admittedly, I was slightly jealous. I had been in desperate need of a girl friend. Blue was amazing, but there were certain things he couldn’t understand—like, for example, that I didn’t have PMS during that one week a month, I was just grumpy because cramps made me stay up all night and I lost sleep. And he didn’t understand having boobs. No, I couldn’t just go for a run with him. Not without a sports bra. I was sporting two watermelons on my chest, and they did not like to go “still into the night.”

   I grabbed my toes, pressing my chest against the floor. Thanks to gymnastics, I had learned the arts of flexibility, tumbles, cartwheels, and all that nonsense. I hadn’t done the splits in months, but once I had to do them again, I was quite proud to learn I could still twist my body into whatever contortion I wanted it. It usually simultaneously impressed and disgusted my cheer “family.”

   I eased myself up as Coach came into the room. She was a small, feisty woman with cropped, black hair and piercing green eyes that made you feel like she was staring into your soul. I liked talking to her well enough, and she always seemed impressed by me. She was in her mid-thirties, had married once and divorced, and had a cute seven year old son that doted on me.

   We all jumped up as she placed the radio down and plugged it up, We lined up quickly, ready to dance. We learned cheers on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Mondays and Wednesdays were dance days. Fridays were break days, just come in, stretch, leave if you don’t have any questions. But there would be games on Fridays, so it wasn’t actually a break after all.

   I was positioned front and center. I felt good, confident. I performed in front of hundreds of people back when I did gymnastics. This was nothing for me. No more than about two hundred, three hundred that would actually attend the pep rally. And about just as many at the game.

   The opening lines to our dance mix started. “One big room, full of bad—“

   As we watched ourselves in the mirror across the room, we were all aware of how sexy we looked. Short shorts, dance tanks, and that light sheen of sweat that covered her faces. We moved freely, inhibited, and, at the same time, perfect. Our motions were in sync. Every arm was straight, every move on beat. We switched, twirled, shook, and wriggled like we had been born to do it.

   “Yo, DJ, crank this party!”

   This was the trickiest part. Lightening quick moves made me want to throw the towel in, especially coupled with the tricky foot work. More than once, one of us had failed, trying too hard—or not trying enough—and getting twisted up.