"One, two, three and four, five six, seven and eight! Point those toes ladies! Keep your muscles tight! Let's go!"
With a shake of my head I block out the words being spewed around me and keep my focus on my feet, which are currently cradled in Tanner's large hands. His deep skin is a stark contrast to my crisp white sneakers, and for a moment I'm distracted by how visually appealing it it. The moment doesn't last long though, before I'm thrust back into the here and now, before the orders being barked by coach are back ringing loud and clear.
I don't need direction. I can do this in my sleep. Some days I practically do depending on how long I had laid awake the night before.
I have no problems remembering choreography, I don't need help keeping rhythm. I certainly don't need someone to remind me to smile and point my toes. That's what makes me the best of the best, that's why I'm here in the first place.
The others, the majority of them anyway, are too emotionally invested. I, on the other hand, am the furthest thing from it. And no one will ever convince me that that isn't the reason why I am, by far, the most talented flyer on the squad. That's not me being cocky, just me reiterating a fact I've been told over and over since I arrived on campus two years ago.
The other girls have heart and soul—they eat, sleep, and breathe cheerleading—and that's where their downfall lies. They care too much, about what the coach thinks, about what their teammates think, about what their friends and loved ones think. And when you care too much—well, that's when things fall apart. I've learned that the hard way.
To me, this is all just a means to an end, a way for me to pursue my true passions. I stopped caring about all of this—about most things, actually—a long time ago. I used to love cheerleading, I was right there with the rest of them, the thought of every game and every competition sending my heart into a tizzy. But, like with everything I've ever loved in my twenty years of life, that love eventually faded into nothingness.
So now I just pretend. I show everyone the girl they want to see, and I keep the real me—the me that this horrible life turned me in to—hidden away in a neat little box.
Does it get exhausting having to wear a mask and play a role day in and day out? Sure it does. But is it worth it?
Abso-fucking-lutely.
