The Cheerleader's Guide to Roller Derby

Chapter Twelve: Alien Belly Button Lint

I was still basking in the glow of success when lunch period arrived and, along with it, a fresh challenge. "Strategy meeting. Tomorrow. After school. At McDougal's," Cassidy Anderson was saying. I hadn't been paying enough attention to know what we were strategizing about, but it didn't matter. I had roller derby practice again on Wednesday. There was no way I could meet with Cassidy and the rest of the girls on the cheer squad.

"Could we make it later?" I asked. If I could get them to postpone it until six-thirty, I could almost get back from Mankato in time. All eyes turned to me, and Traci shook her head. "Um, " I started. "I've got this thing ..."

"Another thing?" Traci said. "What is it this time?"

"It's ..."

"Because I can't believe it could be any more important than what we have to discuss."

My brain scrambled to come up with something quick. "It's ..."

"Oh wait," Cassidy interrupted. "You weren't at the party Saturday night." She frowned and turned to the rest of the girls. "She probably doesn't even know."

"Know what?" I said. From the commiserating looks I was getting from around the table, what I probably didn't know was most definitely bad news.

Traci sighed. "It's the School Board. There's a new member or something and they are ruining everything."

"And by everything, you mean?"

"Prom."

Cassidy joined in. "They have this idea that the prom court should be, like, a competition."

Wasn't it always? I thought, but, while I was right about that, I was wrong about what kind of competition.

"They want it to be about 'Who Best Represents the Student Body' or something like that," Cassidy went on, supplementing her words with air quotes. "They're going to figure in stuff like school spirit and being involved in lots of different junk and ... and ..."

"Grades," Traci said when Cassidy dissolved into tears.

With that, Cassidy fled for the girls' room and the rest of the current cheerleaders followed. "You'll watch our stuff, right?" One of them called to Traci and me before gearing up for full drama mode.

"Sure," we both said. And of course we would stay behind to protect their books and designer handbags but, when Traci sighed again, I could tell she was thinking the same thing I was: This was another reminder that we were no longer members of the inner sanctum.

"Cassidy's screwed," I said. She'd been the front-runner for prom queen since, well, since forever, but if grades were going to be a consideration ...

"Totally," Traci said. We all knew it took every ounce of brains in Cassidy's pretty head just to maintain the minimum C- average that was required to stay on the cheer squad. "But Cassidy's not the one I'm worried about," she continued.

"What do you mean? I thought your grades were good. I know mine are. Plus, due to the 'you know' we both have plenty of community involvement."

"Speak for yourself."

It had been a couple of months since Traci had excused herself from any social events because she had to "you know", which was code for meeting with our probation officers or completing our community service hours. I swear, she'd looked straight at me once and told me she was done with it. How could it be a problem for her now?

"It's just," she started. "I didn't think anyone would look at it too closely. Plus, my aunt has a friend in the probation department so -- "

"What are you saying?"

"You know how every summer we have to do that dumb cheerleading camp for the little kids as a fundraiser?"

"Yeah," I said.

"Well, I kind of, sort of, added a few hours on to that."

"But, Traci, the cheer camp was before the --" It was still hard to say. "Before the accident even happened. You can't use that."

"I sort of changed the dates too."

"You cheated?"

"Shhh. Not cheated exactly. I mean, we did do the work, and it was community service. Why shouldn't that count? Besides, I did other stuff too. It's just, now that the school board is involved, someone might figure it out."

"How many camp hours did you put on the form?"

She hunched her shoulders. "Sixty? Sixty-five?"

I had to fight back a smile when I felt something wicked rise up in me. It was that word we learned in German class, schadenfreude, where you feel pleasure when someone else screws up. And, jeeze, Traci had sure screwed things up.

But part of me felt bad right along with her. I mean, it's not like Traci and I had ever been true besties; we'd always had more of a frenemy relationship. But lately, she was the closest thing to a real best friend that I had. I'd looked forward to sharing all the prom court activities with her. Who else would appreciate the finer points of dissecting everyone else's inferior choice of dress or unfortunate choice of date?

"There's still time to make the hours up," I said.

"Are you kidding me? Prom is only, like, a few weeks away. Where am I going to get in that many hours so fast?"

"Soup kitchen?"

"I don't cook."

"Blanket Brigade?"

"I don't sew either."

"Humane Society?"

She rolled her eyes at that one.

"Food pantry? Brownie Scouts?"

"Didn't work out."

"What about the nursing home? My grandfather lives there and they are always looking for people to read to the residents or play cards."

"I tried that too but ..." Her face folded into a scowl. "Did you know they give those old geezers purple punch? I mean, seriously, PURPLE. PUNCH. To people who totter around with walkers. They totally ruined a pair of leggings that cost me sixty dollars. And when I said one little thing about it, one teeny tiny little complaint, boom, they asked me to leave and said I couldn't come back."

Traci pushed her salad aside and laid her head on the table. "I'm screwed."

Ms. Hernandez, my counselor, was always talking about empathy. It's something like feeling sorry for someone but, according to her, it's not the same as pity. She says it's better than that; it's 'evolving', and getting in touch with your 'higher self'. At our last visit she'd given me a homework assignment. I was supposed to practice trying to feel empathy for others and then report back to her.

I wasn't sure what I felt for Traci was empathy. After all, she'd been going around pretending to be done with her community service and rubbing it in for months. Still, I knew what it felt like when those do-gooder types looked down on you like you were some kind of alien belly button lint. And, cheater or not, no one should have to put up with that crap. It hurts.

Which is why, I suppose, I lost complete control of my senses and reached into my messenger bag to pull out a certain bright orange form.