She stood in front of the crowd, mechanically clapping and shouting with the squad. She scanned the risers for any signs of a cloaked figure or yet another porcelain-faced demon.
“When I say Trenton, you say Hawks! Trenton!”
“Hawks!”
“Trenton!”
“Hawks!”
The crowd thundered, their voices booming, calling for blood.
As the squad began their stunts, Varen’s image continued to haunt Isobel, and more than once, she struggled to keep the count. Stevie, standing as third base, whispered to her almost every time. “All right, Iz?” he asked just before the load.
“Yeah,” she said, even though she had never been less right.
Dip. Toss. Isobel popped into the air, propelled high. She opened her legs, hitting a toe touch. The cradle caught her and her sneakers found the floor. The crowd cheered. The squad clapped, shouting a steady rhythm of, “Let’s go Tren-ton, let’s go!” Clap! Clap!
Someone announced the football team. Clad in their blue and gold numbered jerseys, they sprang through the gym doors like a herd of oxen and pounded across the gym floor, spreading out like a conquering army, like they’d already won. The stands exploded with riotous shouts of favorite numbers—Brad’s number, number twenty-one, prominent among the calls. Isobel saw him then, the last one out of the double doors. Following behind the rest of the team, Brad half jogged, half walked.
Isobel watched him as the team took their place on the bleachers, piling up the rows, but then Henry the Hawk ran by her, flapping his wings, and Isobel jumped, letting out a small yelp.
Coach Anne’s whistle blew, and it was time for the squad’s routine.
The drums rumbled for action. Isobel walked to her place in the formation. Alyssa bumped her as they passed and leaned in to whisper, “Try not to screw us up, spaz.”
The squad gathered. They all brought their arms up, crisscrossed in front of their faces, their hands made into fists. Coach Anne’s proud microphone announcement echoed around them, telling everyone how this would be Trenton’s routine for the cheer Nationals, the one they’d started over the summer, the one the squad would perform again tonight at the game, and then for real in Dallas in less than two months, the one that would bring Trenton the first-place trophy for the third time in three consecutive years. The crowd filled each of Coach’s pauses with screams of enthusiasm. Trenton liked to win.
The music started with a reverberating synthesizer blast that morphed into a fixed beat, electronic and fast. Isobel let her body go to the memory of routine and she was in the air, whirling before she could recall how. Caught, dipped down, then shooting up again, like a stalk through a tangle of weeds. Her body stiff, she raised her arms in a high V; then, extending her leg out, twisted it behind her head, grabbing the toe of her tennis shoe. She went into a Scorpion, her back arching, her rib cage extending out. The stretch felt good.
She felt the dip, and instinctively, on the pop, she went into the tight, spiraling twist of a double-down. Her bases caught her, and Stevie set her back on her feet. Everyone was on the floor now, and the squad wound around one another, in and out like a deck of self-shuffling cards, a montage of blue and gold, their footsteps matching the beat, their arms fanning out and snapping in. They reorganized, the base of the pyramid preparing for the load. Isobel climbed up, one foot sliding into Alyssa’s awaiting grasp, the other into Nikki’s. Then, extended high, she raised her arms in another V. She felt her foot wobble, and she stiffened. They completed the pyramid within three seconds, almost as tight as Coach had drilled it.
The music ended with the sound effect of a dynamite explosion. The squad held their pose to the eruption of deafening cheers.
Isobel felt her foot wobble again, enough this time for her to glance down. Her eyes locked with Nikki’s—two spheres of utter panic, her face flushed pink with effort. Isobel felt a strange pang from somewhere within her gut. Not at the sight of Nikki’s distress, but at the white porcelain hand wrapped tight around Nikki’s left wrist.
“Hello, cheerleader,” she heard a voice say, though she could not tear her eyes away from Nikki, transfixed by her pained struggle to keep Isobel aloft.
Nikki’s wrist jerked back, and she uttered a clipped cry. Isobel sank fast.
She floundered, arms wheeling as she toppled forward. The world rushed up around her. She heard the crowd gasp and then someone’s strangled cry of, “Catch her!”
Images and silhouettes floated around her, blurred in tints of fuzzy white and muted gray, as though her eyes had gone permanently unfocused. She had the distant sensation of hands pressing against her from behind, supporting her weight, and she could decipher only the formless face of someone she thought she might know. Coach? Even though it looked as though the figure was shouting at her, Isobel could only register a small, indistinct sound, and the shape of her name being formed on those lips.
