The Cheerleader

Chapter Four

Susie

Late August 1975, UConn, Storrs, CT

“Five, six, seven, eight,”

Liz calls out, standing with her back to us, and we start up the dance routine. This one is called Proud Mary to go with the Tina Turner song. We’re lined up on the sidelines at the football stadium in the searing heat, one week ahead of the start of the semester. The team is practicing on the field about twenty yards away.

This is the third routine I’ve learned today, and sweat trickles down my temples. I wish I’d put my hair up in a ponytail because it’s sticking to my neck and keeping me hot. None of the girls have their hair up. I guess we’re all too vain.

When we finish, I hold my breath, hoping Liz won’t make us go through it again. She’s been turning around every few seconds, watching us like a mother hen while she performs flawlessly in front of us.

“Okay, let’s take a break. We need to talk about our uniforms and what we’re all responsible for buying for ourselves. The school only provides us skirts and sweaters.”

“Do we still need to wear the little white gloves?”

Carol asks on a plaintive note.

Liz gives her a big smile. “I was thinking we can update our look and drop the gloves. What does everyone think?”

Looking around, I take my cue from the others because I have no clue what’s appropriate for a cheerleader to wear or what the traditions are. But apparently, judging by the overwhelming agreement to drop the little white gloves, this is one tradition they’re not sad to leave behind.

Keith Berry, a senior and one of the four male cheerleaders, heaves a dramatic sigh. “I suppose we’ll have to buy our sweaters and skirts for ourselves.”

We laugh.

“I think so,”

Liz says. “You’ll have to wear the same white painters’ pants and blue polo shirts from last year unless I can convince Pete to ask for more uniform money.”

She looks apologetic.

“White painter’s pants, navy blue polo shirts, sneakers,”

he repeats for the new guys. He turns to Liz. “Are we buying our own megaphones too?”

“I requested megaphones in the budget. I’m talking to Pete about it today.”

“What about us?”

Sherry asks eagerly. She’s quiet compared to the others, but maybe that’s because she’s new. She has a sweet smile with dimples, a pleasing round face, and long straight blond hair. I like her. I can tell she’s a nice, genuine person—a nursing major, which I automatically admire her for.

Liz says, “White canvas sneakers, white ankle socks, and white turtlenecks with snaps under the crotch to keep them in place.”

I laugh, but no one else does. A slight flush heats my face. “I suppose the snaps are a good idea.”

I sound lame, but Liz carries on.

“Also don’t forget the navy blue skater panties?—”

“Skater panties?”

I ask, looking around. No one else seems to find this requirement mysterious, making my newness to cheerleading acutely obvious to everyone.

“Yeah,”

Liz says with kindness, “I should call them dancer panties. Danskin makes them to go under your skirt so no one sees your actual underwear.”

“We have to buy our own? It doesn’t come with the uniform?”

Sherry asks.

Laughing, Judy rolls her eyes. But I’m as concerned as Sherry sounds. With my meager spending money, I’m afraid I can’t afford to pay for all the extras that cheerleading might require.

“Get used to it, new girl,”

Judy says. “We’ll be lucky if we get sweaters with letters on them this year. Last year we had blank sweaters because Pete couldn’t be bothered to order the ‘C’ for us.”

Attempting to keep my concern from my expression, I don’t say a word because I see the faces of the others registering tolerance. Shit. I turn to Liz.

“I’m sure we’ll get fantastic new uniforms this year,”

she says. I let out a breath. If Liz isn’t concerned about extra expenses, then I suppose I shouldn’t be.

Then she claps and shouts, “Line up.”

We practice our on-field cheers with the guys, wearing them out. We learn new mounts and stunts that Liz and Carol saw in a cheerleading magazine and practice “old”

ones, though it’s all new to me.

“Let’s do shoulder stands,”

Liz shouts, pointing to four girls, including me, to stand in front of the four guys.

We jump up while they hold our waists and lift us to sit on their shoulders. I’m assigned to poor Josh, and he’s patient with me in spite of my clumsy lack of confidence.

“Now pop up to standing,”

Liz calls out.

“What?”

I mutter to Josh as I watch the others.

“Press down on my hands,”

he says as he raises his arms. I do as he says. “When I dip and lift, you stand on my shoulders.”

My heart thunders. All the others have completed the stunt, even Sherry. Now they’re all watching me. This is nothing like dancing or anything else I’ve ever done. Shit.

“Ready?”

Josh says. “One, two, three…”

He dips, and I lift my knees, timing it so I find his shoulders under my sneakers. “Now straighten up and let go of my hands.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. Not looking down, I find my balance and straighten, holding my arms out to the side. Then I breathe and look around. Liz is on the ground, looking us over, inspecting us.

“Smile and raise your arms above your heads.”

She pauses while we comply, and the thudding in my chest calms down.

“Excellent. Dismount. Next we’ll do leg raises.”

What? What is she talking about? I don’t have a chance to ask or even think about it because Josh takes his hands off my legs and dips again, and I find myself jumping to the ground, though not as gracefully as the others. I stumble forward.

Liz says, “If you stumble during the game, turn it into a forward roll.”

She smiles at me and comes over. “You did great for your first time.”

“Thanks. Sherry did way better than me.”

I smile at her.

“Thanks. I’ve done it before. In high school, though we didn’t have guys.”

I nod, refusing to admit I’ve never done cheerleading stunts before because I was never a cheerleader. I hope Liz is okay with that being our little secret.

Why do I have a feeling we may have a few more secrets between us before the semester is over?

“Let’s move onto pyramids. You guys on the bottom.”

She points to the three larger guys, including Josh.

Standing next to her, I whisper, “Pyramids?”

“Don’t worry. This is easy. You can be on the second layer. Just watch the others.”

I join Judy and Carol on the guys’ backs, and we build a pyramid with Sherry standing on the top, assisted by a couple of guys lifting her.

“Take a photo, Keith,”

Liz shouts from above me, and we hold on while he grabs a Kodak camera. We smile for photos before we dismount. Then we move on to more stunts. Stand on the guy’s legs and jump into their arms. And what turns out to be my favorite, flipping over their shoulders, Superman style.

“We need more guys,”

Keith says, panting.

“I’ve been trying to recruit?—”

“I’ll take care of recruiting,”

he says. “I know a couple who might want to join.”

“Time for a break,”

Liz announces, and most of the girls head for the field house to the ladies’ room.

“See that guy? The third one from the end?”

Liz sounds confident even when she’s whispering. “He’s mine.”

“Really? The guy you were telling us about, Bryan? He’s cute. I’m impressed you’re dating him.”

I take another look at him while she laughs.

He has longish dark wavy hair, full lips set in a permanent nonsmile—not exactly a grimace; maybe he looks like he’s about to growl. There’s something moody and intimidating about him, and not just his impressive size and those steely-looking muscles—so many of them all rippling and gleaming with sweat.

In spite of having the body of an Adonis, he looks like he could star in Dark Shadows with that edginess he has about him, like he’s hiding something, possibly a destructive power deep in his soul. It’s in the way he moves, stealthily, and the way he hangs back from the group, not talking or laughing with the others.

“We’re not back together yet,”

Liz says, pulling my attention away from her dark crush back to her. “Even though we broke up over the summer, two summers ago technically, we’re still close friends, and I’m sure we’ll end up back in bed together, lovers the way we should be. It’s more than dating—which isn’t a thing around here.”

“Really? No dinner, not even a movie?”

“Is that how it was at Smith?”

“Sure. We’d go to dances or parties mostly, but?—”

“Did you have a guy you left behind?”

“No, not really. No one special.”

It’s not a total lie. I take a deep breath like I’m about to dive into deep water. “I was seeing someone—Todd. I thought he was special, but after… everything happened with my dad and I had to transfer to UConn, he showed his true colors. He’s a self-centered snob down to the core.”

She takes my hands. “I’m so sorry, Susie. What a jerk. Who needs a guy like that? You’re special, and you deserve someone special.”

“You’re right.”

I smile, glad I told her. Whatever embarrassment I thought I’d feel doesn’t materialize.

“You’ll do better here in the romance department. Smith is all girls.”

Her nose scrunches. “I don’t know how you found anyone, even a Todd.”

I laugh. “We had mixers with some of the guys from Amherst and sometimes Dartmouth.”

I hold my breath and add, “Todd came out to Smith from Harvard.”

“I see. You didn’t party at UMass? I’ve heard it’s a big party school.”

She grins.

“Some of the girls partied there.”

She nods. “Did you have sororities?”

I shake my head.

“Same at UConn. There are a few, but… it’s not the thing to do like in the old days.”

She scrunches her nose again. “No matter. I’m into the sports scene, and you can’t do better than an athlete. All those muscles.”

She wiggles her eyebrows.

I nod. “They can be fun to look at.”

I don’t want to judge, and so I don’t tell her I’m not interested in musclebound guys who are into playing games more than real life. Not that it matters to Liz. She always drooled over cute boys. Back in junior high, she was full of talk. Now it seems like more than talk, but we’re adults, so of course.

A cooling breeze cuts across the field, and a big dark cloud blocks the sun. I enjoy the reprieve even if it is starting to look like rain.

Liz and I are different. She can handle cheerleading and classes and boys and probably a dozen other things all at once. Not me.

Boys are the last thing on my mind. Getting a useful degree is front and center for me. I need to get my academic act together so Dad isn’t spending his dwindling supply of money on my college tuition for nothing.

Liz watches the football players and says, “I plan to do a lot more with Bryan Granger than look.”

I laugh and pat her back. “Of course you do. He’s gorgeous and the star running back and the most unapproachable guy I’ve ever laid eyes on. He may as well have DANGER stamped on his forehead.”

“Sister, you have no idea. But I have a head start. We have a shared past.”

“Wow. When should I expect the wedding invitation?”

Smiling, she slaps my arm at the tease, but she can’t be shamed out of her oversized interest, realistic or not. “Don’t you worry, you’ll be a bridesmaid for sure.”

She takes me in a hug, her smile brilliant, the way I remember it minus the braces. I feel that affection and warmth trapped in her contagious goodwill and the relentlessly ambitious sunshine of her disposition.

“You know what? I believe you. If you say it will happen, it will. How could anyone resist you?”

She laughs, shaking her head. “No need to resist. Stick with me. You didn’t have enough fun at Smith, Susie.”

She pats my back.

“How do you know?”

A bead of resentment bubbles up. She’d always told me I was too serious.

“I know you. Don’t worry, I’ll catch you up. We’ll start by going to Rapp’s tonight.”

“Rapp’s?”

I skip over my resentment because it’s useless to deny she’s right. I am serious. And no amount of Liz’s influence will change that.

Not unless I want to change. To fit in, to belong and have close friends.

She grins and yells orders to the squad like a drill sergeant on happy pills as they return from the short break. “Looks like there’s a storm coming, so we’re done for the afternoon. Pick up everything you brought. We’ll meet for dinner at the student union snack bar at five.”

We walk arm in arm to wherever she’s leading me—me in my tennis shorts and collared Izod top, and her in worn gray shorts that look like she got them at the Army Navy Surplus store, and a UConn T-shirt with the sleeves torn off.

“Rapp’s Deli,”

she says to me. “They have beer and bagels. I know it sounds like an odd place to hang out, but the beer’s cheap and the bagels are good. And no one else will be there this week but us and the football team.”

She wiggles her brows again.

I wonder about all the other fall sports, like soccer and girls' field hockey, because I saw the girls practicing earlier on the field on the other side of the stadium, and I saw some guys carrying a big net full of soccer balls from the field house. Maybe they don’t go out for beer because they’re too tired—like me. Or maybe they don’t like beer, also like me.

Carrying our giant blue-and-white pom-poms, I head toward the gate and our dorm. Liz breaks away to head to the field house to talk to Pete. The guys load up her car parked just outside the fence with the cooler, all the megaphones, and her bag of supplies that she keeps in the trunk. I hear Josh saying something about a fundraising project.

Slowing, I don’t know why I glance behind me at the field to where the football team is still practicing. Liz’s guy, Bryan, stands on the sidelines not too far from me, straight and tall, watching the action with motionless intensity, like a sculpture. He really is something.

He turns his head then, and our eyes meet. I stumble to a stop, almost dropping the pom-poms. Embarrassed, I want to look away, but I don’t.

He doesn’t either. He doesn’t smile, so I don’t.

He holds my stare with dark, fatal eyes, like he has something menacing on his mind. His longish hair falls heavy over his brows. I feel shameless, looking at him so boldly, like I’m somehow doing something wrong, something forbidden.

Liz’s determined words slip through my conscience… I plan to do a lot more with Bryan Granger than look.

Guilt gains traction, but there’s no cause. No need to drag my eyes away from him. I rebel as long as I can against the rules of etiquette. They’re old rules anyway. Who knows what the new ones are? He licks his lips, and my heart beats so fast it rises too high in my throat. I swallow it down.

Then I look away with unnecessary violence, enough to feel the heat in my cheeks—and not from the warm weather. I’d been determined to win the staring contest without realizing it, and as I rush away, I feel foolish.

I didn’t just lose; I lost spectacularly.

Great. Now he thinks I’m some dorky girl who can’t handle looking at a cute guy without being horribly awkward.

That’s not who I am. Or I don’t want that to be who I am. It shouldn’t be.

Not that it matters what Bryan Granger thinks of me. It only matters what I think of myself, right? That’s what Dad always says.

But then Mom always says a girl needs to be aware of her reputation and stay out of trouble. I almost laugh out loud. Is that even good advice anymore? Do girls get bad reputations for what my mother would call forward behavior? Somehow I doubt it. The free love movement on college campuses changed everything.

It feels like there are no more rules when it comes to dating—or whatever passes for dating now.

Liz told me that at UConn the parietal rules are gone, so guys sleep over in girls' dorms all the time. That happened at Smith too, but at UConn, we can get all the birth control we want at the women’s clinic.

Our dorm room, the same one Liz had from last semester, is hot as Hades even with the box fan stuck in the window. At the end of last semester, she filled out the forms to request me as her roommate so we could both move in early for pre-season cheering practice.

I pull the ice tray from the small fridge my parents bought me, pop a cube, and glide it over my neck and shoulders. Liz is taking a shower, and I’m supposed to be dressing.

Knowing the ropes and exactly what to do to get the necessities, Liz already had a phone installed. Contemplating the pale blue phone hanging on the wall with its extra-long curling umbilical-like cord, I hesitate only a second before I pick up the receiver and dial home. This will be the once-weekly call my parents are allowing to keep down the long distance charges. Unless there’s an emergency.

I wonder if worrying about what Bryan Granger thinks of me—when I have no business worrying—qualifies as an emergency?