likely. A weak attempt at flattery, she
assumed. Stacey rotated to face Malia, her foot conveniently
crushing a cluster of cookies in the process. The doughy pieces
blended with the wet grass, dying the creamy chunks an unappetizing
shade of green.
“Malia,” she smiled, revealing a set of
artificially whitened teeth. The loose strands of her blonde hair
were tucked daintily behind her ears, from which a pair of crystal
chandeliers dangled with the soft breeze. The sun struck the
crystals and changed their tint from a snowy white to a pale pink
and then to a sky blue. Malia breathed. “So glad you could make
it.”
She opened her mouth to speak but never got
the chance.
“Okay, girls,” Stacey tactfully turned away.
“Cheerleading isn’t just about encouraging our school’s team during
game time. No, it is something much greater,” she paused,
intensifying the suspense. “It’s an athletic sport in itself. It’s
about gymnastics, dance, and endurance. So,” she lowered her voice,
twitching her eyes. “Can you all endure it?” she looked at Malia,
and twirled towards the bleachers. Every girl gazed at Stacey,
their mouths awkwardly open, their nerves accelerating. “I guess
we’ll just have to find out.”
Gymnastics? Malia’s legs trembled. Dance? Her mind spiraled. Endurance? Could she
endure it? Would she have the strength? Her senses told her to run,
to sprint to the safety of her dorm. Why was she trying to be
someone she wasn’t? It was a mistake. A horrible mistake.
Come on, Malia, a voice echoed in her
mind. This girl is no good. Trust me, I know. It was a
familiar voice. A male voice. This isn’t you, and you know it.
Just go try out for Mathletes or something, the voice laughed. That’s more your style.
Malia grinded her teeth in frustration and
pranced to the join the bundle of girls who worshipped Stacey Gross
as their queen, repeating each cheer with a forced smile. The
chirpy chants resounded eerily in her mind. A useless attempt at
enthusiasm.
She lightly closed her lids, inhaling the
invigorating scent of white paint and wet leaves. A man wearing a
pair of denim pants cut into shorts, evidently with scissors,
cheerfully whistled as he painted the vivid white lines onto the
field. The pungent odor caused her head to spin, and her mouth went
dry.
Malia opened her eyes to a young,
dark-skinned girl. Her slick black hair was parted artistically in
the center of her scalp and she sported a red and white
cheerleading uniform that exposed her smooth shoulders and bare
arms and legs. “Malia?” The girl was talking to her now. The voice
was deep and rich; the tone sounded familiar. And the eyes, they
sparkled with the sunlight of dawn. The rays bounced off of her
white leather sneakers and reflected onto her auburn cheeks. Then
the girl did something strange. She smiled.
Safiah.
– Chapter 9 –
“Oh my goodness. Safiah, what have you done
to yourself?” Malia breathed, gaping in astonishment at Safiah’s
radically altered appearance. She nearly mistook her for a
cheerleader. Another symbol of conformity. Just another soul within
the crowd.
Safiah looked down, analyzing her attire.
Her smooth hands, her freshly polished fingernails, and her shiny
leather shoes. Then she looked up at Malia and smiled again.
“Malia, I told you I was going to come to the cheerleading
practice,” she innocently explained.
Meghan and Julie, two inseparable girls with
identical hair styles – layered black strands with red highlights –
grinned and nodded at Safiah, chatting about nail salons and
high-end fashion. Malia heard the words Gucci and Louis
Vuitton.
Only several days prior, Malia had observed
Meghan and Julie buried in the corner of the freshman party; she
had recognized them as the odd girls from her creative writing
course with Ms Lany – untamed blonde hair, neon green glasses, and
wildly passionate about poetry. But neither of them seemed to
recall that Safiah was
assumed. Stacey rotated to face Malia, her foot conveniently
crushing a cluster of cookies in the process. The doughy pieces
blended with the wet grass, dying the creamy chunks an unappetizing
shade of green.
“Malia,” she smiled, revealing a set of
artificially whitened teeth. The loose strands of her blonde hair
were tucked daintily behind her ears, from which a pair of crystal
chandeliers dangled with the soft breeze. The sun struck the
crystals and changed their tint from a snowy white to a pale pink
and then to a sky blue. Malia breathed. “So glad you could make
it.”
She opened her mouth to speak but never got
the chance.
“Okay, girls,” Stacey tactfully turned away.
“Cheerleading isn’t just about encouraging our school’s team during
game time. No, it is something much greater,” she paused,
intensifying the suspense. “It’s an athletic sport in itself. It’s
about gymnastics, dance, and endurance. So,” she lowered her voice,
twitching her eyes. “Can you all endure it?” she looked at Malia,
and twirled towards the bleachers. Every girl gazed at Stacey,
their mouths awkwardly open, their nerves accelerating. “I guess
we’ll just have to find out.”
Gymnastics? Malia’s legs trembled. Dance? Her mind spiraled. Endurance? Could she
endure it? Would she have the strength? Her senses told her to run,
to sprint to the safety of her dorm. Why was she trying to be
someone she wasn’t? It was a mistake. A horrible mistake.
Come on, Malia, a voice echoed in her
mind. This girl is no good. Trust me, I know. It was a
familiar voice. A male voice. This isn’t you, and you know it.
Just go try out for Mathletes or something, the voice laughed. That’s more your style.
Malia grinded her teeth in frustration and
pranced to the join the bundle of girls who worshipped Stacey Gross
as their queen, repeating each cheer with a forced smile. The
chirpy chants resounded eerily in her mind. A useless attempt at
enthusiasm.
She lightly closed her lids, inhaling the
invigorating scent of white paint and wet leaves. A man wearing a
pair of denim pants cut into shorts, evidently with scissors,
cheerfully whistled as he painted the vivid white lines onto the
field. The pungent odor caused her head to spin, and her mouth went
dry.
Malia opened her eyes to a young,
dark-skinned girl. Her slick black hair was parted artistically in
the center of her scalp and she sported a red and white
cheerleading uniform that exposed her smooth shoulders and bare
arms and legs. “Malia?” The girl was talking to her now. The voice
was deep and rich; the tone sounded familiar. And the eyes, they
sparkled with the sunlight of dawn. The rays bounced off of her
white leather sneakers and reflected onto her auburn cheeks. Then
the girl did something strange. She smiled.
Safiah.
– Chapter 9 –
“Oh my goodness. Safiah, what have you done
to yourself?” Malia breathed, gaping in astonishment at Safiah’s
radically altered appearance. She nearly mistook her for a
cheerleader. Another symbol of conformity. Just another soul within
the crowd.
Safiah looked down, analyzing her attire.
Her smooth hands, her freshly polished fingernails, and her shiny
leather shoes. Then she looked up at Malia and smiled again.
“Malia, I told you I was going to come to the cheerleading
practice,” she innocently explained.
Meghan and Julie, two inseparable girls with
identical hair styles – layered black strands with red highlights –
grinned and nodded at Safiah, chatting about nail salons and
high-end fashion. Malia heard the words Gucci and Louis
Vuitton.
Only several days prior, Malia had observed
Meghan and Julie buried in the corner of the freshman party; she
had recognized them as the odd girls from her creative writing
course with Ms Lany – untamed blonde hair, neon green glasses, and
wildly passionate about poetry. But neither of them seemed to
recall that Safiah was
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