Song of a Sophomore

CHAPTER 19 - You Don't Know How it Feels

When I spring into my toe touch during our routine at the first away game and the rest of the squad leaps into back handsprings, I know something is wrong. Embarrassed at my blunder, I visualize how must look from the stands: one lone cheerleader jumping into the air with a fake smile plastered on her face, while the other girls tumble backwards in unison. Then, the misfit girl looks around, bewildered, as the spirit fades from her face. She stands there for a second out of sync with her peers, stumbling to catch up.

Utterly humiliating.

When we strike the final formation at the end of the cheer, laughter breaks out all around.  My newly built confidence crumbles like a sandcastle hit with a rogue wave. I am still standing, but all the fortifications are washed away.

"Nice toe touch." Katelyn snickers.

"Bethany put me up to it." Tiffany shrugs as we line up to walk off the field.

I turn to Bethany with my hands balled into fists and my teeth clenched in rage. She pats my shoulder. "Oh, Rosie, you know we're just messing around. Can't you take a joke?"

The burning sensation I am so familiar with filled my chest. I hate you Bethany. I hate you Katelyn. I hate all of you.

Coach Roberts pulls me aside. "What happened out there? Don't make the same mistake at the pep rally next week. The whole school will be watching."

Her look of disappointment crushes me, but I dare not speak up. What kind of retaliation will be in store for me if I do? I shiver at the thought.

Bethany wins again, and she will keep winning because I'm too afraid to speak up. A coward. The shame of that realization spreads across my cheeks and fills my eyes with tears. Hate twists inside me, but there is so much sadness too. It gnaws persistently at my throat, threatening to escape in heavy sobs like blood rushing from a wound, but I can't let Bethany know she won.

Dad's words of wisdom ring in my ears: "Don't let anything those girls do get you down."

I lift my chin, ready to revive my role as the cheerleader chick, when I feel the weight of a dozen eyes on me. It is obvious the group of Meadow Wood cheer moms gathered at the base of the bleachers are talking about me--pointing, looking me up and down, and passing their judgements. When I kneel to take a shaky sip from my water bottle, they eyeball me through the chain link fence like I was some farm animal who failed to win a prize at the county fair.

"I heard she's never even cheered before," says a lean, blonde middle-aged woman with a perm in a loud whisper to another mom.

She must know I can hear her? Right? I clear my throat to try to shut them up. It doesn't work.

"It's too bad our girls have to be dragged down by a sophomore on the squad." The lady has a whiny voice and red hair. Is she Bernie's mom? "If she lost a few pounds she'd look so much better out there. She has a pretty face though."

The comment knocks the air out of me like a punch to my gut from the playground bully. I hold my sides and droop my shoulders as I fight back tears. The mom's hurtful comments bring me right back to so many childhood moments where I just wanted my mom.

Damn it. Where is Gloria?

Why isn't my mom there to break up their circle or at least say something to transform their disapproving stares into nods of approval? Gloria didn't come because she had a jazzercise class that night and I am so mad at her. However misplaced my anger is, in this moment, I hate her for pressuring me to do this. For not accepting me for who I really am. For making me earn her love.