Page 47 of Home Game

“Hey, ladies. Make some room?” I part my hands as if I’m parting the sea, and they quickly scoot in opposite directions. The pale one looks sick, but Stephanie, the one who thinks Coach willcut my ass?She seems up for a challenge.

I’ve been talked about most of my life. That’s part of the curse of having a famous dad. And when you’re a teenage girl, it’s like you instantly have a target on your back for bullies of all ages. In their eyes, nothing I get is ever because I earned it. It doesn’t help that cheer is so intertwined with football, so the leap that my dad is involved isn’t a big one. Sometimes I wish like hell I was drawn to anything else—figure skating, sculpting, the piano.Anything!

But I love tumbling. I love making my body strong and being part of a team. And if I’m honest with myself, I even love the goddamn Friday nights. What I don’t love, though, is overhearing people disparage me. It’s not only that their words hurt—which they do—it’s that I know they’ve said those things alot, all of the times I wasn’t listening. Meanwhile, I’ve been nice to their faces. And when it came to these two, I cast the final vote to put them on varsity.

I hold all of that in and instead turn my attention to Stephanie when it comes time for me to lead us through stretches.

“Why don’t you take this one?”

Her eyes widen briefly before blinking a few times.

“You mean, lead?” She leans her head toward the inner circle.

I force my laugh to remain breathy and light—friendly.

“Yeah. You want to be captain one day, right? This will be good for you. Get us hyped. First big comp of the year. Take us out to mat.”

Tasha leans forward from a few people down and meets my gaze. I drop my smile for a blip, my mouth a hard line as my eyes bore into her. We’ve been friends long enough for her to get a sense of what I’m doing. Also, this is not how my friend would handle this. She would call Stephanie out in front of everyone and probably threaten to punch her in the throat. Then there would be detentions involved, and we’d be down two girls for the next two weeks.

My way is better. This is how my mom taught me to handle things. By letting people have the floor and either rise to the occasion or dig their holes deeper.

“Are you sure?” Stephanie whispers.

“Uh huh.” My smile is Teflon.

“O-kay,” she says, her voice vibrating as she stands and moves to the middle.

“Girls, Stephanie is going to take us out today. Let’s give her our best,” I say, my palms flat on the floor between my legs as I prepare to stretch.

“I’m so sorry you heard that,” her friend mutters from next to me. I wondered how this would go when she was alone.

I tighten my lips and breathe in through my nose, following along as Stephanie leads us through our first stretches.

We all lean forward, stretching our palms to the center, and I maintain my focus on the small space between my two thumbs.

“Don’t be sorry,” I say. “I’m glad I heard it. It’s nice to know what people say when they don’t think you’re listening.”

While the spirit of that statement is true, it also sucks. It’s not that I wish I didn’t hear their words, though; I wish they never said them at all. That’s the difference.

“Can I teach you something, though, Langley?” I roll my head to the side and meet her waiting stare. She looks petrified, and her eyes are glossy. She may have just gotten caught up in things, which is good. It means this lesson will be good for her. Goodtoher. In the long run.

“People who say things behind other people’s backs . . . are probably also talking about you that way when you aren’t around to hear it.” I sit up slowly, sliding my hands along the floor as Langley does the same. She swallows hard.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks.

And all I can seem to say is, “Okay.”

We finish our stretches and Stephanie pulls us all into a tight cluster to start our hype cheer. I keep my promise and let her run the show, though she’s not as good as I am. It’s good enough for today. And maybe she’ll walk away with a better perspective on things. Or maybe not.

The Chandler High team finishes their routine to massive cheers, which I can tell intimidates some of my teammates. They need more than the hype session Stephanie left them with, but they also deserve my entire heart in it. And right now, I need to go somewhere and cry.

There are ten minutes between routines, time for the judges to tally scores, and for the inspectors to check the mats and set up our props. I mumble something about going to the restroomas I move toward the hallway and deep into the bathroom. I step into the far stall and pull the door shut just as my eyes begin raining tears. But as I close the door behind me, someone tugs it the other way.

I gulp with fear at first, not wanting to get caught, but then I see it’s Tasha and let everything I’ve been holding on to so tightly go.

“Hey, come on. Step in there,” she says, ushering me toward the toilet so she can squeeze in with me and shut the door.

I laugh at how absurd this is, but the tears are still welling up. I fan my face with my hands and blow out through my mouth like my mom does with her hot flashes.

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