The Blood Coven - Girls That Growl Part 2

"Fine, fine." Sunny groans, dragging herself off the bed. "Let's see what I can find." She walks over to her closet and starts rummaging through. "So Slayer Inc. thinks the cheerleaders have something to do with Mike's disappearance?"

"Yup. And he says they've been heard growling."

"Oh-kay then." Sunny laughs. "So you've got to secretly infiltrate their ranks and figure out where they stashed the quarterback."

"Something like that."

"What I want to know is how the heck you're going to make the squad."

"Extreme pep makeover, I told you."

"I hate to break it to you, Rayne, but it may not be that simple. One, they're going to see right through your pink clothes.

Your tattoos won't be easy to cover up, just FYI. And two, regardless of whatever stereotype you have in your head, I gotta tell you, there are some minimum skill requirements for cheerleaders."

"Please. They just jump around and wave pom-poms. How hard can it be?"

Sunny shakes her head. "Fine. You'll see. But I suggest you practice before your tryout. A lot." She hands me a pair of yoga capris and a tank top. "Seriously. And even then, you're not going to be able to master a round-off back-handspring by tomorrow evening. There's going to be lots of girls more qualified than you."

"Yeah, yeah."

"Not to mention Mandy's the captain of the team. And we all know what Mandy thinks of you."

"Right," I say, suddenly inspired. Mandy Matterson. Captain of the squad. Former best friend. That gives me an idea.

"Sunny," I say. "Forget the makeover. I have a much better plan. One that will guarantee I make the squad, no questions asked."

Oh yeah, baby. This is going to be fun.

5

"Okay, we're going to call you out by name, one at a time. You'll step out in front of us and perform your cheer. Then we may ask you some questions. We only need two girls to fill the squad, so obviously most of you won't make it. We're very selective here at Oakridge High. We have standards. High standards."

After finis.h.i.+ng her speech, Captain Mandy sits back down in her seat behind the row of tables, joining the seven senior squad members serving as judges today. She tosses her long blond hair behind her shoulders and clears her throat.

"Okay," she says, after a glance to her clipboard. "Up first, Britney Smith."

A giggling blond girl jumps up from the bench the rest of us wannabes are sitting on and cartwheels over to the center.

Hmm, nice open.

"Hi!" she exclaims brightly. "I'm, like, Britney Smith. Thanks for having me!"

Do we get bonus points for over-the-top, air-headed behavior? Something to consider. Not that I think for one moment I'd be able to pull off that level of vapidness.

"I'm so nervous," squeaks a voice next to me. I turn to the girl in question. She's smaller than the rest of the hopefuls and really thin. The kind of girl who'd get to be top of the pyramid were she to make the squad. Still, she's not as . . . Barbie doll looking as the others. Her brown hair's a bit on the stringy side and her huge, unmade-up eyes are a muddy shade of brown. She's wearing a long-sleeved black s.h.i.+rt and baggy shorts that do nothing for her figure. I'd like to say those things don't matter and that it's all about talent, but I can't imagine that's a realistic a.s.sumption in this scenario.

"Meh, you'll be fine," I say, trying to calm her nerves. Not like I'm not a bundle of them myself.

"My mother was captain of the squad back in the 1970s when she went to Oakridge," the girl continues, her voice literally quaking with fear. "And she really wants me to follow in her footsteps. When I didn't make the team last year, she was so upset."

Wow. Talk about pressure. I hate parents like that. The ones who try to relive their own sad, pathetic youths by forcing their kids into activities they used to enjoy. Who knows, this mousy little girl could have been a terrific artist or track star. But she's going to waste all her effort in this air-headed, pseudosport because Mommy Dearest wants to be able to brag at bridge.

"Well, I'll keep my fingers crossed for you," I say. "I'm Rayne, by the way. What's your name?"

"I'm Caitlin. But everyone calls me Cait."

"Okay, Cait." I hold up my crossed fingers. "Good luck."

"Thanks, Rayne," she says, beaming back at me. She seems like a really nice kid. I hope that she gets picked. Me and her.

That would be ideal.

"Up next, Cait Midwood." Mandy already sounds bored.

"Ooh!" Cait squeals, throwing herself at me for a hug. Did I mention I hate hugs? Or any kind of public displays of affection.

After all, there's a three-foot bubble rule for a reason. But I endure it because I know she's so excited. "Here goes nothing! Wish me luck!"

"Luck!" I wish. And I mean it. Though I don't know how optimistic I am.

She bounces up from her seat and skips out into the center of the room. I watch as she starts in on a pretty elaborate cheer.

Wow. Even I can tell that she's good. Really good. Almost as if her joints are made of springs, always bouncing from one trick or jump to the next. She ends the cheer with a round-off back-handspring, back-tuck, and then throws her arms up into a V, a huge smile on her face. She knows she's nailed it.

I'm so excited for her, I break out in applause, then realize no one else is clapping and lower my hands, a bit embarra.s.sed.

But whatever. She did an amazing job. Ten thousand times better than the girl before her. They'd be a fool not to accept her on the squad. Then again, they are fools, so really, all bets are off.

"Rayne McDonald."

Oh great. Here goes nothing.

I try to jump up from my seat as I saw the other girls do and bound across the gymnasium floor. Problem is, I manage to trip on my untied sneaker and fall flat on my face, slamming my knees against the s.h.i.+ny floor. Ugh. A rippling of laughter comes from the stupid peanut gallery.

I try to look as dignified as possible as I pick myself up off the floor and brush the dust off the tight, s.e.xy yoga capris and tank Sunny let me borrow. (So not me, but at least they're black.) Then I head to my position.

"Hang on a second!" cries Mandy. "Rayne McDonald?"

Eight pairs of eyes stare at me from behind the tables, utter disbelief written on every Kewpie-doll face.

"Uh, yeah?" I ask, feigning complete innocence. "That's me!" "Um, yes, we can see that. It's just. . . well, why are . . . you . . . trying out for cheerleading?" sputters the girl to Mandy's right.

I clear my throat. I've prepared for this very question. "Well, I just felt that lately Oakridge High has become a cesspool of dispirited youth and it would be irresponsible of me not to rise to the challenge of inspiriting our young people. To bring cheer to the uncheerable. Spirit to the spiritless. Joy to the unenjoyable."

Blank looks all around. Hmm.

I try again. "And I just, like, thought, like, it'd be really cool to be one of you guys?"

Ah, there are the head nods of understanding.

"I'm sorry," Mandy snorts. "But I really don't think you're cheerleader material."

"I see." I study her thoughtfully. "Yet, funny, I seem to recall your flyer saying everyone is allowed to try out. I believe this rule is in response to some sort of Big Betty episode back in 2004?"

No one can say I didn't do my homework. A few years ago, the cheerleaders excluded some three-hundred-pound girl with facial acne from tryouts on the ruling that, well, she was fat and had zits. Turns out, according to the school's policy and procedures manual, that's not an acceptable reason to deny someone the opportunity to try out and her mother sued the school.

Betty got enough money for plastic surgery and stomach stapling and last I heard she was living in Manhattan, modeling for Calvin Klein.

The cheerleaders murmur to themselves. Obviously it takes eight brains to come to one decision in this crowd. Good thing they have one another. I can't believe Mr. Teifert thinks these chicks are a threat to the school. I doubt they'd be a threat to a paper bag. I am so wasting my time here.

"Okay, fine," Mandy says at last. "You can try out. But don't get your hopes up. I hardly think you have much of a chance."

"Like, thanks!" I cry, all school spirit. I clap my hands. "You guys are the best!"

Mandy rolls her eyes. "Just go."

I jump into position, wis.h.i.+ng I were a real vampire with powers. Preferably the power to flip and kick. Then this would be uber-easy.

Oh well. Here goes nothing.

"Wolves, let's hear you yell go-GO Wolves, let's hear you yell fight-FIGHT Wolves, let's hear you yell win-WIN Wolves, all together yell go fight win-GO FIGHT WIN GO FIGHT WIN!"

Ugh. I'm already out of breath and that's just the first stanza. How do these girls last a whole football game doing this c.r.a.p?

Forget part two. I'm ending this while the ending's good.

I launch into a straddle jump-the kind where you're supposed to touch your toes with your hands. Unfortunately for me, I'm sort of balance challenged and instead I end up flinging myself backward and landing with a thud on the gymnasium floor.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it!" I cry, rubbing my bottom. If I wasn't a vampire, I surely would have just broken my b.u.t.t. Even as a vampire I'm likely to end up with a nasty bruise.

"Um, thank you, Rayne, that was . . . interesting," Mandy says. "We'll let you know."

I flash her a fake smile and then prance over to the bench. Cait greets me and gives me a comforting squeeze. I can tell she thinks I totally blew my chance.

"Are you coming?" she asks, hopping to her feet and gesturing to the locker room. "I think we're done."

"You go on," I tell her. "I'm going to watch the rest of the girls."

"Okay," she says. "I hope you make the squad!"

"You, too," I say, smiling up at her, suddenly realizing I just may have the power to make her dreams come true as well.

Power I plan to use.

Cait waves good-bye and walks away. I turn back to the tryouts. Some perfect blonde is doing some kind of bendy Cirque du Soleil-type movement. It hurts just to watch. Nice.

Anyway, after what seems an eternity, all the wannabes finish their tryouts. The cheerleaders dismiss them with haughty good-byes and insincere good lucks and begin exiting the gym. Mandy is the last to leave, gathering up all the score sheets and stuffing them in a manila envelope. Perfect.

I approach the table. "Hey, Mandy," I say casually.

She looks up, disdain and no friendly recognition on her face. I can't believe she and I were once BFFs. "I'm sorry, I can't tell you the results." She sniffs. "You'll have to wait until Monday like everyone else. Though I guess I could give you a hint. You ever hear the expression 'a cold day in h.e.l.l?' "

"Actually, that's not it," I say sweetly, ignoring her jab. "I-well, I have this one other cheer I was working on. Sort of a custom-made, personalized thing. I was wondering if I could run it by you."

She frowns. "Look, you had your official audition, as per our rules. I'm not going to give you any bonus points for this."

"Oh, I don't want bonus points," I say, the picture of innocence. "I just want to see what you think of my cheer."

She sighs deeply, as if the weight of the world has just landed on her narrow, bony shoulders. "Fine, Rayne. Go ahead."

"Great!" I clap my hands. "You won't be sorry!"

I run to the center of the room and get into position.

"Ready! Go!" I cry.

"We've .. . got it made We're gonna win this race I have video of you with braces and a bad perm from seventh grade- That I'm gonna post on Mys.p.a.ce!"

Okay, so the poetic stanzas don't exactly match up, but from the look on Mandy's face I think she gets my message.

"You've got a lot of baby fat You've got zits on your face Let me be a cheerleader . . . and, um, Cait, too. 'Cause she's all that!

And the video I will erase!"

"Rayne! Get the h.e.l.l out of here!" Mandy hisses, her face pale and her eyes wide. Is the big, bad cheerleader actually trembling in fear? Ooh, you've got to love twenty-first-century blackmail. All you need is a camera phone and a laptop with wireless Internet to destroy their lives.

"Thanks, Mandy." I grin. "I really hope I make the squad. Goooo, Wolves!" I cry for good measure, before I skip off to the locker room, feeling pretty d.a.m.n good about myself. I can feel her evil stare at my back the whole way.