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Amy would never admit to caring about cheerleading. Her mom did care a lot, a teeth-baring, scary lot, so Amy swore she was putting in extra practice after school, then spent three hours smoking behind the gym and reading Wuthering Heights. She could see the cheerleaders on the grass, practicing flips and pyramids and twirls.
She snickered when they stumbled, and laughed aloud when Cordelia bitched the others out for sloppy cartwheels. When they filed past her, glaring at her for the crime of existence, Amy dropped her latest cig, ground it out with her heel. Cordelia started to flounce past, and Amy looked at the sky and muttered, "Aphrodesia should be doing the herkie."
Cordelia froze, looking perfect, her hip cocked just so. "I didn't ask for color commentary from stoner rejects," she spat.
Amy tucked her book into her backpack and shrugged. "Aura's form isn't as clean, and she doesn't know the choreography as well." Amy shouldered her backpack with a soft grunt. "Aphrodesia's been practicing more."
Cordelia stared as Amy trudged past. She sputtered, but she didn't manage to reply.
Amy would never admit to caring about cheerleading, but that didn't mean she was an idiot.
The next two weeks passed in the same way, and Amy liked staring at the routines, realizing where things were going wrong. They weren't bad, even compared to the championship tapes her mom always made her watch, and Cordelia was the best of them. She always sauntered past Amy last, and sometimes it seemed like she actually listened to what Amy said, fingers tapping against her lips, a mirror of the cigarette Amy usually held.
One Wednesday afternoon, Amy watched an empty field for twenty minutes before a pair of ragged sneakers landed next to her backpack. She looked over her shoulder and discovered Cordelia, arms folded and a scowl affixed on her lips.
"It's not my birthday," Amy observed.
"Whatever," Cordelia replied. "There's an away game next weekend, and there's no way I'm letting the Rancho skanks look better than my team."
Amy dropped her cigarette and watched it smolder on the concrete. "So what? You want me on the team?"
"Please," Cordelia said. "We have a strict no-loser policy."
"You're really good at motivating people," Amy replied.
"I can't decide where to put the double hook," Cordelia said, "and we can't run the choreography if you're wearing Birkenstocks." She stalked off to the field, her skirt swishing violently.
"I wouldn't have joined anyway," Amy shouted after her.
Cordelia spun around. "Keep telling yourself that," she said. She bent her knees, sprang backwards perfectly, and Amy hated her, hated her so much.
She kicked off her sandals and jogged onto the field barefoot.
The locker room was empty except for the two of them, and Amy groaned as hot water pelted her sore muscles. "This is why I don't want to be a cheerleader," she announced, voice echoing through the steam.
Cordelia paused while shampooing, smirking. "That and your thighs." Her gaze lingered.
Suds stung Amy's eyes. She blinked, and reached for the soap. "So next week?" She lathered, tried not to look self-conscious.
"Yeah." Cordelia stepped closer, took the soap from Amy's hands. "But if you tell anybody, I'll deny it."
"No kidding," Amy muttered, and Cordelia's smile was sharper than ever.