ordering room-service Caesar salads and riding the elevators with the other cheerleaders, twenty-five teams from all over New York. For once, Mally forgave her sister for being a fake athlete and joined in the craziness. She didn’t even seem to mind the choruses of “I’m so sure” and “I was like . . . so what?”
They’d probably stayed up too late, Merry thought.
She was tired. Her reactions were probably slower than they should have been. But adrenaline was a beautiful thing. And she’d had two cups of strong tea with lunch.
Ahead of them were the Donovan Eagles from a richie prep school out on Long Island. In first were the girls Merry had to admit were better—the girls from PS 15, in Spanish Harlem. They were not only better, they were better-looking, too. The Donovan Eagles were almost neck and neck with the PS 15 Rockets in school cheers and quad routines. And when it came to dance, the girls from PS 15 blew both Merry’s squad and the preps out of the water. Solid tumblers all, Merry’s squad needed a rhythm transfusion. Plus, there were three or four girls on Ridgeline’s team who were . . . well, Merry would never say gross, but a little thick. Like, couldn’t get a thigh boot on to save their lives. The long-haired girls from the city made Merry feel like some kind of black-haired leprechaun, in her cheesy green-and-white uniform that was new about a year before Merry was born. The Donovan girls had probably snipped the tags off their teal-and-gray sweaters that morning before the first round.
She would have to pull off something amazing.
She knew what it was.
Anyone could do a mount to a lib if she had speed and balance, but hardly anyone could do a front flip dismount. Merry could. She and Kellen, with Caitlin and Kim as spotters, had practiced it in secret before winter break. But could she do it in competition after two months off, when she’d been back in action for only a few weeks?
She and the others sprinted out onto the floor.
As they took their places for practice before the music began, Merry looked up and, in the stands, she saw David. Had he driven all the way from Ridgeline to this big convention hotel two hours from their house just to see Kim compete?
Or to see her?
To see her ?
Merry’s heart thudded, the way her mother once described it—like a bird in the cage of her ribs.
“Can you do it?” she asked Kim and Kellen as they warmed up for the morning finals. “Just like we practiced? After the catch you put me into a stand, and I know I can land it.”
“I’m not doing it unless we tell the others,” Sunday Scavo spoke up. “Because we could all get kicked off.”
“Not if we win.”
“Duh. If we win, and you get hurt . . . it’s all of our butts,” Sunday said. She waved at her parents. Merry couldn’t understand how Sunday could even speak to her parents, who had named her Sunday River Scavo after the ski resort where they were when she was conceived—my God! It was disgusting. She wondered what her name would be: Juneberry? Sugar Maple? You only had to count backward to figure out her parents had been at the family camp one spring weekend, at one of the cabins, which were all named for New England trees, when they got the idea that resulted in her and her sister. Campbell and Tim didn’t go for weekends to the cabin camp anymore, not since Tim bought the store.
But they always went in summer! And Adam—come to think of it, which she did not want to, Adam was born in April, nine months after their July vacation. At least she didn’t have to think about her parents doing it more than once a year.
The first-place team was performing to “Beautiful, Beautiful Girl,” letter perfect, every move crisp as a flag in a stiff breeze. Left hurkey. Right hurkey. Huge, huge kicks. Big synchronized jumps. Sexy, sexy contortion moves. Double backovers, endlessly. Merry watched in agony. The one thing they lacked was a super flyer—and Merry’s team lacked
They’d probably stayed up too late, Merry thought.
She was tired. Her reactions were probably slower than they should have been. But adrenaline was a beautiful thing. And she’d had two cups of strong tea with lunch.
Ahead of them were the Donovan Eagles from a richie prep school out on Long Island. In first were the girls Merry had to admit were better—the girls from PS 15, in Spanish Harlem. They were not only better, they were better-looking, too. The Donovan Eagles were almost neck and neck with the PS 15 Rockets in school cheers and quad routines. And when it came to dance, the girls from PS 15 blew both Merry’s squad and the preps out of the water. Solid tumblers all, Merry’s squad needed a rhythm transfusion. Plus, there were three or four girls on Ridgeline’s team who were . . . well, Merry would never say gross, but a little thick. Like, couldn’t get a thigh boot on to save their lives. The long-haired girls from the city made Merry feel like some kind of black-haired leprechaun, in her cheesy green-and-white uniform that was new about a year before Merry was born. The Donovan girls had probably snipped the tags off their teal-and-gray sweaters that morning before the first round.
She would have to pull off something amazing.
She knew what it was.
Anyone could do a mount to a lib if she had speed and balance, but hardly anyone could do a front flip dismount. Merry could. She and Kellen, with Caitlin and Kim as spotters, had practiced it in secret before winter break. But could she do it in competition after two months off, when she’d been back in action for only a few weeks?
She and the others sprinted out onto the floor.
As they took their places for practice before the music began, Merry looked up and, in the stands, she saw David. Had he driven all the way from Ridgeline to this big convention hotel two hours from their house just to see Kim compete?
Or to see her?
To see her ?
Merry’s heart thudded, the way her mother once described it—like a bird in the cage of her ribs.
“Can you do it?” she asked Kim and Kellen as they warmed up for the morning finals. “Just like we practiced? After the catch you put me into a stand, and I know I can land it.”
“I’m not doing it unless we tell the others,” Sunday Scavo spoke up. “Because we could all get kicked off.”
“Not if we win.”
“Duh. If we win, and you get hurt . . . it’s all of our butts,” Sunday said. She waved at her parents. Merry couldn’t understand how Sunday could even speak to her parents, who had named her Sunday River Scavo after the ski resort where they were when she was conceived—my God! It was disgusting. She wondered what her name would be: Juneberry? Sugar Maple? You only had to count backward to figure out her parents had been at the family camp one spring weekend, at one of the cabins, which were all named for New England trees, when they got the idea that resulted in her and her sister. Campbell and Tim didn’t go for weekends to the cabin camp anymore, not since Tim bought the store.
But they always went in summer! And Adam—come to think of it, which she did not want to, Adam was born in April, nine months after their July vacation. At least she didn’t have to think about her parents doing it more than once a year.
The first-place team was performing to “Beautiful, Beautiful Girl,” letter perfect, every move crisp as a flag in a stiff breeze. Left hurkey. Right hurkey. Huge, huge kicks. Big synchronized jumps. Sexy, sexy contortion moves. Double backovers, endlessly. Merry watched in agony. The one thing they lacked was a super flyer—and Merry’s team lacked
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