I laid on the mat, soaking up depression that I was sure bled from many sweaty cheerleaders that rah-rah-ed on this same blue felt years before me. I pondered the question I had been asking myself for the past five months. Why did I try out again? I don't even like it here. The gym was overflowing with irascible tempers and seniors who felt it was their job to bitch the enthusiasm into you. 'If I needed someone to yell at me in order to whip myself into shape I would've joined the army,'� I wanted to say to them. But I couldn't. Not without getting my ass chewed out, anyway. The stress, the work, the devotion; it wasn't even worth it. None of it was worth the lackluster scores returned to us from biased, half-hearted judges. I was never a true cheerleader. Why? Because A) I'm not blonde, B) I'm not blonde, and C) I'm not hyper to the point of heart failure. I studied the lengthy air vent that strode across the ceiling. It was humming, thank God. My skin was suffocating, drowning from the pools of sweat bleeding from my pores.
'Brock,'� the ear-splitting voice crackled. 'Get up! What are you doing?'�
'Dying, I hope,'� I muttered, lifting my 105 pounds of skin and bones from the mat. The girls in my stunt group chuckled. Leave it to me to crack the facetious jokes.
'Excuse me?'� Coach's voice trilled.
I looked at her, my cheeks sucked in as if I were imitating a dead fish. 'What?'�
'Lemme see your full,'� she demanded.
I shrugged my shoulders and gathered the girls, getting them in position for the stunt.
'1,2,'� Elizabeth instructed.
We bounced together in one fluid movement, and I glided up through the air, coming to a sudden stop. I raised my leg to the most impressible arabesque of all the flyers and waited for Elizabeth to count off the full. She did, and I was sent spinning through the air like an elongated yo-yo. A silence beat down on the girls standing by, watching me get pin-pointed by coach. I had performed a double down instead of the one single full that was instructed of me. I loved doing that; getting yelled out, being told to do one thing, and then boosting the trick up a notch. Or, as the squad liked to call it, putting some 'stank'� on it.
Coach nodded and walked away. Sometimes I felt bad doing that to her. I was a very sarcastic person and wasn't afraid to elaborate on it. You can thank my mother for that. When I was six, my parents separated, and during that separation my dad took up a hobby. Adultery. To his misfortune, he knocked up his mistress. Needless to say, I spent the remainder of my life with Mom listening to her smart ass cracks on Emma, my dad's bride-to-be.
'I'm sorry if I offend you,'� she told me once after smacking on Emma in front of me once. 'But, this is how I deal with things. It's not easy being left for someone twice as small as you.'�
Emma was an out-of-work model. She showed me pictures of her modeling for a fashion show that was nowhere to be found on the internet. 'Model were you? Or porn star?'� I wanted to ask, but I didn't. I never asked half the questions that slinked into my mind. They just floated on the surface of my brain, glazing over my eyes with a dumbfounded expression that read: 'You're stupid, don't speak.'� Now, I actually had a friend, Pate, who would've actually displayed her thoughts publicly to anyone willing to listen. If only I had the guts to perform the way she did. But, then I'd probably be the most hated person alive, so better I just saved face.
Pulling my curtains aside to step back out into the present, my teammates were looking at me; some smirking (mostly my fellow Experienced Juniors), and others (primarily seniors) frowning in my direction. The captain, Joss Hampton, gently cupped my elbow in her hand, speaking over my shoulder.
'You're too talented to be this way,'� she whispered. 'You know that, right?'�
Joss was about the only senior I could tolerate. She spent her evenings in Bible school, studying the Lord and praying for others. Who could complain about that? Not me, that's for sure. I reminded myself at the most inopportune moments that I needed to expand my relationship with God, focus more on my life's purpose. It sounded like a brilliant idea while I was confounded to the hiss and roar of Cheerleader Nation. Mainly because I was more than 110% sure that my life's purpose was not cheerleading. I would've quit, but that would've been like Jesus saying: 'No dad, I don't want to die for these sinful people. They're not worth it.'� Well, that, and my dad forbid me to leave the squad while I was under a commitment.
I looked Joss over. She was wearing tie-dye Soffe's with a light blue tank-top with sequins outlining the v-neck. It didn't match, but it worked for her.
'Joss,'� I whispered back.
'Yeah?'�
'Thanks.'�

Want to comment on this Short Stories? Sign up to Edit Red and you will be able to comment on Short Stories and get access to: Upload your own stories and poems, get readers and their feedback, promote your work...