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

every week after dance class. It was funny, really. My parents would rather die than be caught watching a soap opera on TV. But give them a real-life drama starring a dozen simpering stage mothers and their offspring, and they were riveted.
    “Chantal…oh, what was her last name? Simmons, right?” I knew my mom placed Mrs. Simmons in the stage mom category too. She’d pushed Chantal into everything. Dance class, modeling lessons, sessions with a nutritionist…Chantal didn’t complain about any of that , either.
    Not even when her mom showed up before our last recital with a small, beautifully wrapped package. Chantal’s lip barely quivered when she opened it to find…a pair of tummy-control panties.
    “A girdle, Oscar! Can you believe that?” Mom had said. “For a thirteen-year-old girl.”
    “Poor thing,” Dad had agreed.
    Mom leaned closer to the monitor. “Have you heard from her lately?”
    I shrugged and prayed she wouldn’t ask for more details. Surely she knew we went to the same school. Mom squinted at the screen. “I imagine she’s lost that baby fat by now.”
    And then some. Talk about an extreme makeover. “You wouldn’t even recognize her.” I no more than whispered it, but Mom picked up my tone of voice immediately.
    She squeezed my shoulder. “Want to talk about it?”
    I shook my head. What could I say?
    Sometimes I wondered what had changed. Was it her or me? Well, Chantal had changed, that was for sure. But it was more than just the weight loss or the wardrobe or the brand-new mean-girl attitude. I’d heard the rumors: nose job, fat camp. To me, it was like someone had forced Chantal into a mold and sliced away all the good parts.
    I held my finger over the mouse button, poised to bring the old Chantal back again, even if it was only in pixels. Just then, the Christmas lights flashed bright and the deep bass opening to the high-octane version of “Get the Party Started” sounded down the hall, replacing the delicate carols.
    Talk about living vicariously. Ever since I’d made the squad, Shelby had gone nuts—stealing my pom-poms and begging me to teach her all the cheers and dance routines. We’d been “practicing” together nearly every night, but—ugh—my legs were noodles and my feet felt like they were about to fall off.
    “I think your sister wants to shake her groove thing,” Mom said.
    “Her what?”
    “Shake it like a Polaroid picture?”
    I rolled my eyes, and Mom laughed.
    “Bethany,” Shelby called.
    The very last thing I wanted to do was shake, shimmy, pivot, or kick. I was spending more hours at school during winter break than I did in a normal school week. Both Sheila and Coach Miller were determined to get everyone ready for the rematch with the Wilson Warriors, a game set for the Friday after Valentine’s Day.
    If the boys won the game, they’d probably go to the regional tournament and have a shot at state. But what exactly were we cheerleaders getting out of the deal? It sure wasn’t extra time with the jocks. When we took a break, Coach Miller had the basketball team run laps. When the boys lounged in the lobby, Sheila chased us down to the weight room. There really was a cheerleading conspiracy after all. Its dark and mysterious goal was to keep me from talking to Jack. I carried my “Witty Things to Say When Jack Paulson Is Nearby” list every day and hadn’t had the chance to use it once.
    “Bethany!”
    I was exhausted, but it was so easy to make Shelby happy. Besides, that morning Coach Sheila had pulled me to the side and said I knew the routines better than anyone else on the squad. The truth was, Shelby knew them even better. I just followed her lead. To shake it or not to shake it? That was the question.
    “Beth-a-nee!”
    I pushed away from the computer screen and walked down the hall. Maybe not like a Polaroid picture, but sure, I’d shake it.
     
     
    All the next week, Sheila made us shake it again and again. She even scheduled a