Page 85 of Against The Rules

“Are we being paid for the event?” Ashley asks, tossing her bright red ponytail. “I wouldn’t mind the extra cash.”

“It’s a volunteer situation. It’s an honor to be a part of it,” Rebecca says, ice dripping from every word.

I bite my tongue even as I smile. Frowning is just going to draw unwelcome attention to me.

The longer I sit, cross-legged like an adult child in a sports bra and hot shorts on the black Marley, with Rebecca telling us all how grateful we should be for the honor of being weighed and judged and pitted against each other…

The more it feels like bullshit.

The more everything I word-vomited at Kelsey on Saturday feels important.

Like maybe she has a point, and maybe, just maybe, there’s something fishy in the state of pro cheer.

I’m just not sure I want to be the one to rock the boat.

I love to dance, right? I do. There aren’t many opportunities for adult dancers, not like this.

I love dancing on the field, love cheering the players on and getting to be right in the action.

And I worked my ass off to make it to even this level.

So I smile, and I nod my head, and I try not to look at where Kelsey’s sitting with her iPad in hand, making notes. Instead, I think about how fun it’s going to be to work with the little kids at the dance clinic.

I love working with kids—not so much that I ever wanted to be a teacher or anything, but it’s super rewarding to watch them learn a new skill or beam when they finish their performance at the end of a clinic afternoon.

Besides, I remember going to clinics like these when my mom cheered, and how much I worshipped all the cheerleaders and wanted to be just like them.

There are worse ways to spend a Sunday, that’s for sure.

The clock on the wall reads a quarter after ten. Practice was supposed to end fifteen minutes ago. I hold myself still, resisting the urge to stretch or wriggle or do anything that will make Rebecca look more closely at me.

My mind drifts, and I mentally catalogue all the things I need to do for my fledgling business if I want to officially launch by Christmas, now just a few short months away.

Firm up vendors for the merch. Decide on a website server. Decide on a name. Do all the annoying business paperwork to make it legal. Set up the mailing list. Get my branding nailed down and start posting on socials. Make a few more branded collections.

A real smile blooms slowly on my face as I remember Tyler’s reaction to some illustrations I sent him last night.

He loved them. A small sigh slips out of me, and then I go still.

“Are we keeping you from something, Miss Savannah?” Rebecca asks.

“No, ma’am. Sorry. I had a cramp.” I shake out one leg, and Ashley puts an understanding hand on my elbow. When I glance sidelong at her, she nods at me, and when Rebecca starts talking again, she mouths the word ‘bitch,’ then jerks her head at our director.

My eyebrows raise.

Well, if I don’t talk to Kelsey, I have a feeling Ashley might have some choice words on the topic.

Not that I really considered going on the record with Kelsey.

I don’t want to get kicked off the team. My mom would be so disappointed. Besides, I’ve come this far, why would I risk all my hard work just to vent my grievances? I could kiss my future with the Beaver Cheer goodbye, and any opportunity to dance again, probably.

Finally, Rebecca wraps up her speech, reminding us all to act like ladies, to take off any non-neutral nail polish before this weekend’s game, to make sure we are game day ready physically.

“Lay off the cheeseburgers and fries this week,” she says, laughing with her assistant. “We don’t need any bloated tummies, okay? Water and salad. See you all on Wednesday.”

With that, she flounces out of the room, her assistant hot on her heels, and we all exchange fake smiles as we stand up. From her spot in the corner, Kelsey watches us all carefully, her iPad firmly in hand.

I leave as she stands up, unwilling to say anything else to her.

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