Chapter Text
As a flyer, Debbie knew better than anyone the peculiar sensation of being aloft, suspended high above the familiar ground, torn away from the earth.
Launched skyward by the strong arms of her bases, for those brief, exhilarating moments, when the roar of the crowd would fade, the sun became a warm obstruction against her vision.
Up there, so high it felt like just a little more reach would place the cool, wispy edges of clouds between her fingers.
She oftentimes found herself in the blue sky.... away from the world down there.
But there was nothing wrong with the sky, she loved the trust it required, the feeling of weightlessness, the altered perspective of the world spread out beneath her.
Yet, that very experience of being away, of trusting others to bring her back to solid ground, also gave her a subtle understanding of distance, of being removed from the known.
And as the captain of the Ventura High cheerleading squad, she projected an image of unwavering confidence, a bright California girl with an easy smile and a seemingly perfect life.
She had the perfect…. everything. Anyone who was friends with the girl at school could tell you.
She was an A student, she had the looks, and the place as team captain in the freshman cheer squad which brought her popularity amongst her peers.
But beneath that sunny exterior was a keen awareness of the effort required to maintain that altitude, the constant need for balance and precision gnawed at her formed image of life.
The sharp clap of Debbie’s hands sliced through the humid afternoon air, the sound echoing through the lively atmosphere of the football field. Full of chatting cheerleaders, probably talking about the days past events.
“Alright Cougars from the top.”
“Sharp hands, energy. Like. You. Mean it!”
Twenty-odd girls in their gold and teal uniforms snapped to attention, their pom-pom’s suddenly held to their sides stiffly.
Her voice usually light and friendly, held a firm edge as she called out the counts.
“Five, six, seven, eight!”
“Five, six, seven, eight.”
“Coug-ars, seal your fate!” Debbie yelled out to start the one of their cheers.
“Gold and teal, elevate!” The team responded, their voices cheering out the short cheer on loop, with a clap every single time they yelled the word ‘fate.’
They launched into a well-known routine of shouts, leaps, cheers, and Debbie’s usually bright blue eyes squeezed in concentration to spot, and correct, every slightly out of sync arm. Every hesitant jump.
Being the Ventura cheer team captain wasn’t just all about looking good in a short skirt and waving around pom-poms.
It was about being strict and disciplined, and pushing these girls to be their best.
“Hold it!” Debbie called out.
“Maria you’re high-V is sloppy, arms straight shoulders back. And Sarah, more snap in your kicks. You look like you’re wading through molasses!”
A few girls exchanged weary glances. Debbie knew she could be tough, but they all also knew she was because she cared.
They were a team, and she wanted them to be the best.
The upcoming regional competition this year loomed heavily, and everyone knew that the pressure was real.
A final “Boom” of the cheer routine resonated across the artificial turf, the sound sharp against the background hum of the afternoon.
Practice was finished up at about four o’clock, when the sun beat down high enough to make the black tarp surrounding the track painfully hot to the touch. The air thick with the lingering scent of hairspray and sweat, seemed to shimmer above the field.
As the last echoes faded, a collective exhale swept through the tired Ventura high cheerleaders, there movements slowing from the crisp energy of the routine to the weary relief of its completion.
Debbie clapped her hands one last time, sounding less sharp now.
“Alright, ladies, good job today. Remember those sharp hands for Thursday. Let’s pack it up.”
The girls, their faces flushed, and uniforms damped with hard work sweat, disperse to grab their water bottles and towels. The chatter that erupted was a mix of jokes, assessments of the practice and the inevitable discussions of weekend plans already taking shape.
Debbie watched for a moment, feelings of pride and critical observation swirling into a hot soup within her. They were getting there, slowly but surely.
The last of the Cougars had dispersed, their laughter a tired goodbyes fading into the afternoon hum of school grounds. Debbie hefted her bag onto her back letting the strap dig into her shoulder as she walked.
The sun, still high in the sky, despite the clock showing exactly 4:15, beat down on the innocent civilians of California radiating waves of heat that shimmered in the air. Debbie's own energy reserves felt slightly depleted, but the familiar rhythm of her after-school routine kicked in.
First of the list: picking up her younger sister, Reagan, from Atlacama Elementary school.
The drive to Atlacama was a familiar blur of palm-lined streets of stucco houses bathed in warm California light. Debbie automatically tuned the radio to a pop station, the upbeat melody of Polaroid Love, by ENHYPEN, played a strong counterpoint to the lingering weariness in the girls' muscles.
The stream of students pouring out of the double doors of Altacama Elementary school was vibrant, noisy wave of backpacks and youthful energy. Debbie leaned against the hood of her aging Civic with her jacket placed under to protect her skin from being burned by the hot metal, the afternoon sun warming the faded blue paint beneath her fingers.
Waiting here, as Reagan finished up with a club for one of her many fleeting passions, In Today’s case being art club, often gave Debbie a moment of pause.
To pause and think about...anything she wanted. It was often hard being left alone with her mind, and to deal with that she thought of her happy place. Which was: Near the water. The blue. Any beach or river or lake was always a place where Debbie felt at ease. Her everyday worries washed away by the beautiful blue.
But
Even from this distance, she could pick out the bright flashes of colors that usually adorned Reagan – Today, a neon green backpack and a t-shirt featuring some obscure cartoon character.
There she was her younger sister’s wiry frame a familiar sight near the school's front exit, chatting animatedly with a couple of other brats, a large, slightly messy art portfolio clutched under her arm. Reagan’s dark ponytail bounced with each energetic gesture as she spoke, a wide grin already spreading across her face as she spotted the familiar blue Civic.
“Deb!”
Reagan called out, waving a paint-stained hand as she disentangled herself from her friends
“My sculpture of a sea turtle actually looked like a sea turtle today”
Debbie smiled and replied as the younger girl walked up closer. “Hey, Picasso,” Debbie replied, pushing herself off the hood of the car.
“Ready to go home?”
As Reagan launched herself into the backseat and into a lively retelling of her artistic triumph, complete with descriptions of lopsided flippers and surprisingly realistic barnacles, Debbie pulled away from the curb. Her mind only partially on clay and art supplies.
The other half was already anticipating the usual evening routine: homework, dinner, the undercurrents of her mother's moods, and maybe a brief escape into a book before bed.
For now, the arrival of anything new was far from her thoughts.