Why we fly, p.10
Why We Fly, page 10
Jenni asks, “Are we all in a line or staggered?”
“In a line.” I literally just asked if everyone knew their positions. I think we need a run-through to avoid a catastrophe. “Let’s run it once quickly. Do pom-pom stands for now, but when we’re out there, you’ll kneel.”
I glance down the tunnel, which is full of all the spirit squads, including the band, the boosters, the dance team, the water boys, the statisticians, the medics, and off-duty police officers as security. The football team is still in their locker room; they come out last. But the band is already playing, jumping up and down, getting us warmed up. Practicing pom-pom stands won’t give away what we’re about to do. We run it twice before I’m confident this will go as planned. Just in time, because then the band strikes up our fight song and runs onto the field.
Leni, Avery, Sydney, and I take the corners of Sam’s celebratory banner and stretch it out so it’s readable. We walk onto the field with nothing but excitement, full of adrenaline for the big game and also for what we’re about to do. Everyone’s energy is at an all-time high. When the band finishes the fight song, we’re positioned with the banner stretched across the tunnel entrance, and the rest of the squad forms pom-pom lines flanking us. Three stands at the helm of the team, arms linked with his assistant captains, who stand on either side of him. They’re all swag surfing as the band music gets louder and louder. The Ram mascot stands before him holding a confetti cannon, along with a flag bearer from the dance team.
The announcer yells through the sound system, “Here are yoooouuuur Franklin High School Raaaaaaaaaams, led by your Georgia state record–breaking captain, number three, Saaaaamuel Waaaaaaltersssssss!”
The mascot shoots off the cannon, and an explosion of blue and green glitter paper fills the air. The squad goes wild, shaking our pom-poms. Three runs forward and blasts through the paper banner, leading his team. I may not be the biggest fan of the way he’s messing with Leni these days, but I can’t deny he owns that field. Whether people want to admit it or not, they’re here to see that boy play. He’s a superstar, and we all recognize it.
The team follows him, jumping, clapping, cheering, shaking one finger in the air. The crowd is as riled up as they are. Their intensity wafts over the stands, and the roar sounds like two stadiums full of people. We maintain position and wait for the grand entrance of Coach Brown. He struts out last, clipboard under one arm, face turned down to the ground, hat pulled low, headset wrapped around his thick neck. He never acknowledges us.
The noise begins to subside as the team lines up at the benches, and we follow, finding our spots on the sidelines behind them. The band heads into the bleachers. The announcer says, “Please rise and turn your attention to the north end of the field, where the Junior ROTC squad will present the flag while the anthem is sung by Franklin High’s national champion choir.”
As the first strains of the anthem begin, we all look to Leni, who signals with one pom-pom and then drops until one knee touches the grass. We fall like a line of dominoes—me, then the bases, then the spotters, and finally the flyers, one by one, just as we planned.
My head is buzzing. I fix my eyes on the backs of the players, thinking about Cody Knight. It feels good to have my entire team kneeling in solidarity beside me, and in this moment, I have even more respect for him, doing it on his own.
At the end of the anthem, the team looks to me with the very obvious question of what’s next. Instinctively, I nod and stand. They follow haphazardly, but I’m focused on the Junior ROTC, who stare at us with bewildered looks. They have not vacated the field as they should have by now. Their shock is the first hint that our move made an impact.
I look over at Bull, who’s doing some kind of really sad Magic Mike-meets-touchdown dance with his famous grin, pointing at us, clearly pleased by the situation. That does not surprise me at all. Bull is always here for something out of the ordinary. His happy shimmy adds to my excitement until my eyes land on Coach Brown, who is clearly the opposite of pleased. If looks could kill, the laser beams he’s shooting at Coach Pearce would incinerate her right here on the sidelines. She awkwardly claps and avoids his stare, trying to pretend she doesn’t see him at all. The clapping echoes in the silence that hangs over the stands, which is abnormal for this stage of the game.
Too much time has elapsed, and the announcer realizes someone needs to push things along. “All right, football fans, let’s clear the field and go ahead with the coin toss. Captains, on your marks.”
Our team gets back into formation and falls into our normal routine, lighting up the crowd. Slowly, everybody around us comes out of their trance, and the game goes on. At halftime, still riding the high, we nail our brand-new routine. It’s one of our better performances in a long time. I don’t even take offense when Coach Pearce ducks out immediately after the game without our normal debrief.
* * *
My phone doesn’t stop dinging for the rest of the weekend. Every message makes my heart beat faster. There’s so much love and support for what we did. It’s all over Snapchat and Instagram. The squad keeps sharing posts to our WhatsApp group, and we’re all totally flying. This keeps going through Monday, when the first person who greets me at school is none other than Mr. Shenanigans, Bull.
He bear-hugs me, lifting me off the ground. “Yo, I’m low-key impressed by what you did, no cap.”
“Thanks, Bull.” The other cheerleaders frequently get this kind of attention from the team. It’s such a Hollywood-teen-movie trope, but I appreciate him recognizing me for this.
“No matter what happens, know you did the right thing.”
Before I can ask what he means by that, he’s headed down the hallway, high-fiving and jonesing on people, as he always does. But all of a sudden, I feel a swirl of butterflies. That comment did not come from nowhere.
“Bull!”
In the noisy hallway, he can’t hear me calling to him, so I start to follow. After only a few steps, Marisol blocks my path, the streak of turquoise in her hair catching my eye, a gentle cloud of woodsy perfume settling around us. She wears a beautiful smile.
“That was one boss-lady move you pulled on Friday night.”
“Thank you. I think?”
“Oh, it’s a compliment,” she says. “Proud of you for standing up by kneeling down.”
All of the attention we’ve received has been amazing, but for someone like Marisol, who lives this type of activism, to say that is everything. She’s done incredible things, like when she organized a bunch of different groups from the student body to create a float and march in the city Pride parade—the first time any high school around here did something like that. A helium balloon fills my chest and carries me to my first period class. I accept every high five, fist bump, and “Dope, sis!” people sprinkle on me on the way.
That balloon remains full and floaty until near the end of the day, when I receive a notification that The South Cheers has posted. Between periods, I take a look. There’s a grainy picture of us kneeling. Of course this blog’s reps were out watching our performance.
A bold move by the Franklin Rams squad at their opening game
This is the first time we’ve seen a squad take this kind of action. Does this focus on politics belong on the field? Does it take away from the experience of the fans who are just there to watch the game? Tell us what you think in the comments, Southern Cheer Champs!
Chris007: Does anyone know how the school has reacted to this? This has got to be a violation of a school code…
CheerMom&LegalEagle: Kids don’t check their First Amendment rights at the door when they enter school. They have a right to make their voices heard.
RedWhiteandBlueMamaBear: These “athletes” should shut up and cheer, that’s what they’re on the field for—ENTERTAINMENT!!!!!!!
CheerChelsea: I’m proud of these girls—total badasses.
2AKaren: Promoting ridiculous disruption? Cute. Real cute. I wonder what YOUR coach would say if she knew you were on here supporting this kind of misbehavior…
BaseBoss: I wonder what the world would think of a grown woman harassing a TEENAGER. Your own cheer days are obvi long gone—what are you even doing on this blog?????
CBT0987409734986734: They should watch out and see what “action” gets taken against them.
I knew not everyone would be on board with our decision, and you can always count on The South Cheers for weak commentary that misses the point but is still written with a ridiculous amount of unwarranted confidence. I wonder who’s already seen this post. Some of the articles on this blog get a lot of attention. Lord, let this be one that does not. I wish there was another voice in the cheer world that could balance this conversation, but her blog is the one everyone reads.
I click it closed. I can’t go down the rabbit hole of who’s commenting, liking, and disliking this post.
Now I’m worried.
11
Eleanor
After Coach sent me a text saying that some things had come up and she wouldn’t be attending weekend practice, I led it by myself. Everyone was high on each other and the statement we’d made on Friday. No one squabbled, gossiped, or complained. Just like our performance, we were having our best moments together. Nelly felt it too. She brought extra oranges for snacks, set up her GoPro to take video we could study later, and spent Sunday with me perfecting the routine. Things felt like they had before my first fall, when we were the sharpest pair on the team and every head twinge didn’t make me angry or worried.
Walking the halls all week makes me feel like a celebrity. I’m used to a certain amount of attention, being a cheerleader, but this is next-level. People who would normally never talk to me congratulate me. My cheeks ache from smiling.
On Wednesday, I get a text from Coach asking to meet in her office before afternoon practice, which is a little odd. Even weirder, I arrive just as Coach Brown pushes her door open. He pauses and raises the brim of his ever-present Rams hat to look at me. “Young lady,” he says curtly.
“Leni,” Coach Pearce calls. “Come in. Sit down.”
Okay, definitely weird. I perch on a cushion on the sofa.
“I wanted to chat briefly about the team’s, uh, display on Friday night.”
“Wasn’t it amazing?”
“It certainly was. How did it come about?”
“We were talking about Cody Knight in the locker room and how unfair it is that everyone is missing his point. We wanted to show our support for a Franklin alum. In the moment, it felt powerful. It was emotional, the way we knelt together. Everyone took notice too. It was electric.”
“Yes, about that,” Coach says. It’s then that I realize she isn’t wearing her usual perky grin. Her mouth rests in the straight line that’s her equivalent of a grimace. “You understand not everyone thought that was the right statement to make, don’t you? I got a few calls from the president of the Booster Club over the weekend. And I had an…interesting conversation with the administration today.”
“What did they say?” My knee begins to bounce.
She considers me for a moment, then sighs. “Don’t worry about exactly what they said. You have a right to protest, and I made it clear that I stood behind your decision. But the front office is anxious. They’re worried about this being the start of trouble.”
She doesn’t normally keep details to herself, and I push my brain, which is starting to feel tired, to read the cues she isn’t saying aloud. I think of Coach Brown’s hard look and why he might have been in her office this afternoon. “When you say administration, do you mean the football coach?”
“He was part of the conversation, yes. He’s concerned this will take the focus off of athletics.”
I look down at my hands. “Is that how you feel?”
“The important question is how you feel. You and the rest of the team. You guys have done an amazing thing. A brave thing. I’m proud of you. I just hope you’re thinking about how it will land. You must know people feel strongly about this, whether I agree with them or not.”
“Of course we know that. We’re not naive.”
“I’m glad to hear it. I want to make sure you’re all thinking rationally about it. Are you planning to do it again?”
I narrow my eyes. That sounds a whole lot like she’s not in favor. She won’t even say the word kneel. “Why wouldn’t we? We’re protesting injustice in this country. I can’t imagine that will all be fixed by Friday night. Why would we go back to pretending everything’s fine, now that we’ve made it clear that we think it’s not?”
Coach sighs again. “Look, I appreciate your dedication. I do. Honestly, I just wish you had let me know in advance. It was awkward for me to be caught off guard, to say the least.”
A sour taste fills my mouth. Awkward for her? It wasn’t about her. I admire Coach a lot, but she’s really missing it with this response. I say nothing, and she misreads my silence, like everything else.
“Just, you know,” she says, lightening her tone, “give me a heads-up next time. I’ll be able to help navigate the boat better if I’m on board when it leaves the dock!”
I don’t have a polite response to that, and she’s my coach, so I stick with the no-reply thing. What I’d like to tell her is that we don’t need her hands on the rudder. We’ve got this.
* * *
That night hands me an unexpected gift to make up for Coach’s disappointing behavior. Three texts that he has the night off from training, and it turns out I have an empty house while my parents are having dinner in the sukkah at the synagogue. As soon as I tell him that, he responds: OMW. Bull drops him off, and I stand at the door, glutes clenched, bracing against the jerky comments Bull’s likely to yell from the window of his truck. Why did he have to get a ride to what is obviously going to look like a hook-up? Couldn’t he have taken an Uber?
I shouldn’t care, but I do. When I spent time with Roman alone, it was fodder for basketball team gossip. He’d come over, and their eyes would follow me down the hallways the entire next day, appraising. Smirking. Judging. Nelly said Roman was the type to kiss and tell, and she was right. Anyone who thinks girls create drama but guys don’t is naive. I’m not sorry I slept with Roman; I’m just mad everyone thought it was cool to slut-shame me for my choice while admiring him for doing the same thing.
I remain at the door, squinting to see Three’s face as he jogs up the front walk. Tension etches lines around his mouth, and he casts a warning glance over his shoulder at the truck where Bull waits, engine idling. I wonder if he and Bull had words about the exact thing I’m worrying about. If he warned Bull to be cool. Although I wonder a little whether he’s protecting me or himself, I feel safer with him than I ever did with Roman.
Bull hollers hello. “I’m going to see Paris,” he says. “She’ll boot me at eleven, though. I’ll come back for you.”
And that’s it. The strain oozes out of my muscles, leaving me trembly.
Inside, Three sets his gym bag and backpack down in the hallway, making a neat tower of them. “Nice place.”
I shrug. It’s an ordinary front room, with a sofa we’re supposed to use only for company and my grandmother’s antique coffee table and credenza. But considering Three’s front room has been converted into a high-end weight room/football shrine, maybe my normal is noteworthy to him.
“Want a snack?”
“Always.”
I head to the kitchen for some of my famous frozen Greek yogurt and fruit parfaits. They’re such a good substitute for ice cream, even my brothers eat them. I fling open the freezer and see we’re down to four. This year’s brutal schedule has me running low. I put a note on my mental to-do list—the one that’s about ten pages long—to remind my mom to pick up blackberries for another batch. Three better appreciate what he’s being offered.
He follows me into the TV room. “Mind if we put on ESPN?”
I laugh and press a button on the remote. ESPN springs to life on the screen immediately. In this house, you’ve got at least an 80 percent chance of turning on the TV and finding it already tuned to a sports channel. While Three inhales the parfait, I watch him watch ESPN, which is a little hilarious and a little PITA. He cannot shut up, offering commentary about every single segment. When the commentators start in on college football, his comments get personal. He played against some of these guys when they were in high school last year or the year before. He’s funny right up until they start talking about a struggling freshman quarterback, questioning whether he should have been redshirted. Whether he was really ready to play.
“Better not be saying that about me in another year.” He’s laser-focused on the TV screen, the glow of the images flickering in his eyes. His voice is quiet, confessional, almost. Like he’s forgotten I’m here. Like this is a fear he speaks aloud only when he’s alone, but also one that crosses his mind every single day.
I shift closer, rest my shoulder against his, and say, “There’s no space for a bad day when there’s a spotlight on you.”
He turns to me. Three has a few default expressions: the confident smirk he wears for the public, the pulled-straight game face he wears for football, and the worried frown he wears when he thinks no one’s watching. In this moment, he shows me another face, one that is open and gentle, the corners of his mouth turned up, but only just. “Or when you wear a C on your jersey.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. Because I know that to be true.
The commentators drag the poor quarterback for another thirty seconds before they move on to other topics, and the air in the room grows heavy.
“Well, that got dark,” he says.
Too dark. “Maybe we should talk about something else.”
He nestles into me. “Maybe we shouldn’t talk.”
Three’s lines are way less suave than he thinks, but a shiver runs down my spine. I turn my face up, and his mouth finds mine. His hands are warm on my skin, and I shift back, tugging him down so we’re lying on the couch.
