Page 13 of Forged By Shadows

Chapter Eight

The rally is busier, louder and far more coordinated than I expected. Starting in the open stadium, I’m happy to let myself become lost amongst the masses. Officially kicked off by the school band, brass instruments blare out a tune which soon becomes familiar. Our fight song. I’m in awe of their smart uniforms, of how they’re in sync and of their team spirit. It feels…good. I can feel myself buying into it. Cheerleaders take to the grassy floor next, flipping and twirling with an athletic grace.

From a middle spot in the benches, Kay squeezes between a group of girls with yellow ribbons braided into their hair and face paint around their eyes. I wave shyly and settle down, tucking my skirt beneath my butt. A couple of guys slap high fives over my head. The scent of sweat and popcorn mingles in the air. Vibrations from the music and cheers beat within my chest.

I should hate it. I’ve spent the last ten years hiding away, and before that…well, I’m not going that far back right now. Maybe I’m losing my damn mind or maybe I’m channeling my inner-Meg, but I think I could get into this team spirit thing. Promote the planning committee, I’m hooked.

A multitude of visiting schools take part. The best of the best in soccer and American football. Each game brings with it a newfound sense of excitement from those filling every seat, with Waversea taking all of the winning trophies. I clap when I should, cheer when others do. A cute guy buys all the girls hot dogs and before long, I don’t find it as difficult to blend in as usual. But then the crowds are herded like sheep by the cheerleaders towards the gymnasium.

My heart thumps faster just walking through the doors. I clutch my bag strap tighter, weaving through the students decked out in yellow and black, their school spirit on full display. The bleachers are packed, a sea of bouncing bodies and waving arms, a kaleidoscope of the opposing school’s colors - red and white. Kay grabs my wrist, dragging me to a seat in the front row. Huge overhead screens display the words ‘Waversea vs Radley’, before spanning the audience in full HD. Kay squeals when the camera passes us, distracting me just as the basketball players bound out onto the court.

My spine straightens. Their jerseys, black with yellow trims and lettering, gleam under the harsh lights. Well-defined muscles flex. The distinctly-feminine roar all around the gymnasium is deafening.

Huxley is the biggest of the bunch, broad and cocky. His shoulder-length blond hair has been pulled back into a top knot. Axel and Dax nudge shoulders, their leaner frames a contrast of tanned and pale. And then there’s Garrett; arms covered in those brightly colored tattoos. I need to explore them more closely sometime.

Garrett’s dark eyes land on me and the smile drops from my face. Jogging over, Garrett drops onto one knee, takes my hand and kisses the back of it. I blush furiously, seeing my own face appear on the overhead screen. There’s a mixture of whoops, boos and gasps all around. I set my jaw, tearing my hand from his grip. He must have known I wanted to blend in, to disappear in the crowd and not be put it in the spotlight. Yet he singled me out just so. Leaning back in my seat, I place my sneaker on his shoulder and push him away. Garrett tumbles onto his back, a belly-filled laugh tumbling from him. The camera catches it all.

“Looks like we have some feisty fans in the audience today!” the tannoy calls. I fold my arms, shrinking into my seat. Despite my death stare, Garrett blows me a kiss and heads back to his team. That’s when my eyes land on Wyatt. He’s leaning against the basket pole, clasping his wrist in front of him. His jersey is the same as everyone else’s, but he somehow makes it seem more imposing. The black nylon blends into his dark hair, pushed back from his face. Even from across the court, I can make out the sharp line of his jaw, the bump of his Adam’s apple, the black ink tipping just above his neckline. His lethal, green gaze is solely on me. Then he blinks, and forgets I insist.

Starting their warm-up drills, the Waversea Warriors are passing the ball in quick, practiced motions, their sneakers squeaking against the polished wood floor. Each time a ball swooshes through the net, the crowd erupts, a collective roar of approval that makes me grin despite myself. Fuck Wyatt, and fuck Garrett. I’m a part of this school too now, I’m going to enjoy this. That’s my last thought as a box of popcorn is put in my hands by Kay.

Of course, the Waversea boys win. From the first bounce of the ball, Wyatt’s team owned the court, their movements sharp and swift. I don’t know anything about basketball, and relied heavily on those nearby telling me who was in the lead, but I do have a keen appreciation of sweaty, muscled men. Not usually ones who showboat so often, but after a while, I saw the appeal. The crowd's enthusiasm was contagious - integral really in spurring them on. The chants, the cheers, the synchronized clapping. I found myself clapping along after a while, all earlier reservations melting away.

The winning players are announced one by one to receive their medals, each player stepping into the center of the court to thunderous applause. They look so confident, so in their element. They’re at home here, under the bright lights with everyone watching. Cameras snap pictures, their smiles practiced and seamless. A proper bunch of showboaters.

This isn't just about the game. It's about belonging, about being part of something bigger than themselves. And no doubt, about getting girls. There’s a whole row of them jumping around in teeny cheerleader uniforms, bouncing their boobs for attention. Kay and I don’t hang around to see those same cheerleaders rush forward, or the lingering touches on biceps or fluttering eyelashes. I don’t need to see what comes next. I have a party to get ready for, and maybe tonight, I’ll be the one giving the demands when it comes to my pleasure.

Pounding bass from the house can be heard from streets away, drawing in the selected attendees like the pied piper. Strobe lights penetrate the night’s sky, creating a spectacle for those who weren’t invited but have come to linger outside anyway. Kay’s arm is linked in mine as we push our way through, a half-empty bottle of wine in her other hand. She started early, whilst scrunching her red hair with mousse, giving it a kinky effect around her large hoop earrings. Her see-through red lace top, with a black bra underneath, blends into a deep burgundy skirt. Some may say it’s too much red, but not Kay.

The security on the door is a little overkill, six-foot-something of bulk wearing sunglasses and an earpiece. He checks our phones and admits us into the chaos within. I imagine when not filled with drunk, horny students, the house is an amazing place to live.

“Why’s it called Thorn Manor?” I ask, peering at the words carved into the white stone above the doorway. Kay mumbles into my shoulder.

“There used to be three brothers who lived here whose last name was Thorn. The rumors about them are wild, but they’ve got nothing on the new occupants.” Her eyes glimmer with mischief.

“So, who’s house is it now?” Kay’s laughter rings out over the din of music as she nearly trips over her own feet. I use my grip on her elbow, steadying her against me. She grins up at me through wine-stained lips and hiccups. On second thought, I can’t pinpoint when she started drinking.

The security guard permits us entry with a grunt, echoed by Kay’s squeal, and we step into the huge lobby. Rivaling the size of the sorority house, whoever decorated this one has finer taste. A range of shades from white to black, laying heavily in the dark grays, cut clean shapes across the walls and floors. The overhead chandelier is dimmed, making it almost impossible to recognize anyone in the various adjoining rooms. We step into a whirlwind of pulsating music, laughter and the occasional shriek. The smell of alcohol and weed is heavy in the air.

Moving together, Kay and I remain side by side, arm in arm. Past the throng of bodies on the dance floor, through the mass of people in the kitchen hoarding punch bowls. A few wolf whistles ring out while we fill plastic cups, and I realize belatedly they're for me. Reaching across the island littered in bottles, my high-waisted shorts rise even higher over fishnet tights. The black heels help my legs look incredibly long.

I turn and raise my cup in thanks, Kay being quick to drag me away. Compared to hers, my top is simple; white and long sleeved, dipping low in the cleavage. I thought she’d lead me into the rave taking place, but instead, Kay rounds the stairs. As we ascend, I note the rich wood paneling on the walls contrasting with the modern art. The room we enter is quieter, filled with plush couches and scattered groups of people lounging about. Another chandelier hangs from the ceiling casting a soft glow onto our faces.

A woman in a smart dress shirt detaches from a group when she sees us. Her tie is the same blue shade as her mohawk, both swaying as she makes her way over, eyes fixed on Kay. My presence is completely ignored and instantly forgotten by Kay. Charming.

While the pair chat each other up with hazy enthusiasm, I glance around the room again. The air is different here - cleaner, less chaotic but still carrying that undercurrent of wild unpredictability that comes along with house parties like this one. I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn around to find a slightly intoxicated cheerleader.

"Hey, you're not Sophia," the cheerleader slurs, squinting up at me through her heavily mascaraed lashes. She stumbles slightly and I reach out to steady her, careful to keep my plastic cup from spilling.

"No, I'm not," I reply with a chuckle. "I'm Avery."

"Oh." Her face falls slightly before brightening again. "Well, that's okay too!" She exclaims, throwing a friendly arm around my shoulders and leading us back to the group she'd detached herself from. I'm thrust into their girly giggles and matching uniforms. Black with yellow trim; the Waversea colors. The cheerleader who brought me over introduces me as Audrey, her words slurred and eyes heavy. I go along with it, giving a small wave.

Despite being cheerleaders, I'm surprised by the easy way they accept me into their bubbling conversation. I have to let go of the clichés, I berate myself while drinking my punch. Even still, I find comfort in their physique, their posture, the way they laugh and glance around as though they're always watching for an audience. A slice of predictability is needed sometimes. They're in the midst of 'Would you rather be chased by a snail your whole life or a lion for half an hour a week?' when the door slams open. On instinct, I shrink into their group.

The original cheerleader who approached me squeals, standing on her tiptoes to get the newcomers attention. He's tall and built with a shaved head and an easy smile on his face. Dimples pop in his cheeks, ones I’ve only seen on his gym-side flag. His dark eyes meet mine through the crowd, recognition flashing across his features.

“Ahh, fuck,” I watch his lips move and smile drop. More figures move in behind him and I don’t need to look to know exactly who they are.

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