The Geek Girl's Guide to Cheerleading by Charity Tahmaseb, Darcy Vance Page A

to see the lucky recipient and found Chantal. Her manicured hand lifted, but she stopped halfway.
    “Hey! Hey, Bethany?” Jack said. I’d never heard him say my name before, and the deliciousness of it made my knees threaten to wobble.
    “Sorry about yesterday,” he called, and then he was beside me. “I don’t play video games much, so it took me a while to get it.” He tapped his head. “I’ve seen the movie. Angelina Jolie, right?”
    I nodded.
    “What would Lara Croft do,” he added. “Good one.”
    Only if good had the alternate meaning of “lame.” But with the way Jack smiled down at me, lame might actually be good. Or even great.
    “Have a nice break,” he said, and raced down the hall.
    “What would Lara do?” Todd asked. “You said that? To him?” He steered me to a stop against the lockers. “You think you’re one of them now? Because, let’s face it, he’s not one of us.”
    “Yeah.” Chantal sidled up to us. “Next time you should ask yourself, WWTD?”
    Neither Todd nor I spoke, but I guess she could read the question on our faces. T?
    “What would Todd do? He seems to know what he’s talking about. This little—whatever you’re trying to do with Jack. It’s not going to change anything. ” She turned on the toe of her silver and red rubber-soled Mary Janes and marched away.
    When she was out of earshot, I asked Todd, “Can you believe she said that?”
    “Actually, no.” He pushed his glasses up his nose. With a goofy grin on his face, he craned his neck to follow Chantal’s progress down the hall. “I didn’t think she knew my name.”
     
     
    Mannheim Steamroller played quietly in the background while my mom tinkered with our new set of LED Christmas lights. She was attempting to sync the flash to the music. At the computer desk, I ran the mouse over the color palette and clicked green. On the monitor, a pudgy eighth-grade Chantal Simmons glowed—chartreuse hair, orange skin, blue lips. And, since all was fair in love and war (and cheerleading), I gave myself a bleach job. Ack. I was so not a blonde. I clicked undo and wove a white streak through my black hair. Not too bad. The Cruella De Vil—no, Rogue from the X-Men comics—look could really work for me. If I could just get the parents on board with it.
    I dangled my index finger over the delete key. Some of these photos simply had to go, preferably somewhere far away, locked in a vault, maybe buried, burned even. Dad could not be serious about posting them all on his family heritage website.
    Still, the older photos were pretty neat. We had ones from as far back as the 1800s. Dad had taught me how to scan them in, then adjust the clarity and brightness in Photoshop. That was pretty cool—until we reached the not-so-ancient history of the Reynolds family. Okay, so an Oompa-Loompa Chantal, well, that was funny. Maybe I’d send a JPEG to Moni.
    When I heard footsteps behind me, I closed the image without saving. The screen was left scattered with thumbnails of tutus, Madame Wolsinski overseeing rows of leotard-clad girls, and one of two young friends side by side, each with a foot on the barre. The caption on that one read: Bee & Cee.
    I felt a hand on my shoulder. Mom bent down to view the screen, her soft laugh brushing my cheek. “I’d forgotten all about that. You know, even the parents were a little scared of Madame Wolsinski. You girls were such good sports; you never complained. I think that’s why she liked both of you.”
    She liked us? I always thought Madame Wolsinski preferred the others in the class, the ones with the moms who clucked and tutted on the other side of the waiting-area window.
    “And the mothers!” Mom said, as if she could read my mind. “You do know what it means to live vicariously, don’t you, Bee?”
    Sure I knew. Vicarious was the SAT Term of the Day a couple of months ago, but I’d heard it long before then. I guess Mom thought I wasn’t listening when she filled Dad in