I sat down, rubbernecking as I searched the auditorium for my mom, who waved when our eyes met. Most of the soccer team had also showed up to watch, amping up my stress quotient. Pete gave me a reassuring thumbs-up, and a few of the guys followed suit.
Katy made me jump when she abruptly slid into the chair next to mine.
“Nervous?” she asked.
“I can barely breathe.”
“Me, too,” said Michelle. “I don’t want to mess up.”
“You’re both going to do fine. Try to relax.” She patted our shoulders and left to find a seat.
I welcomed her confidence and fought to believe in it. I forced myself to take ten deep breaths, mentally repeating the word “calm.”
The microphone squealed as Mrs. Hardesty addressed the crowd, welcoming everyone and explaining how the tryouts would be judged and executed. Michelle and I would walk on stage together. She would perform her Hello Cheer first, then me. Immediately following, we’d do one action cheer together—a complicated succession of moves that required us to be in sync, not just physically but vocally. At the end, we could opt to do a series of jumps or gymnastics. I hadn’t aced the splits quite yet, so I planned to do a roundoff into a classic herkie jump.
I half-watched girls perform their cheers, and in between, silently practiced the Hello Cheer.
After being called to the stage halfway through the tryout, Michelle and I whispered good luck to each other and took our places. She performed her initial routine. She didn’t mess up her lines, but her voice wavered and her movements lacked the ideal snappy precision.
Now it was my turn. I stepped forward and put my hands on my hips in the ready formation. I gave the audience my biggest smile and began. My routine flew by in a blur until the end when I belted out, “An-na Tra-pa-ni says hel-lo!” while lunging with one hand extended toward the crowd. Applause and whistles erupted as I repositioned myself to get in line with Michelle.
The head judge nodded, and we performed our joint routine, “We are the Titans.” More comfortable now, I executed the cheer fluidly and with conviction. My voice rang out loud and clear. Being parallel with Michelle, I couldn’t gauge how she fared. We ended to thundering applause, and I did my tumbling moves while Michelle executed a few jumps. The judges leaned together as we exited the stage.
Still several candidates to go, all we could do was wait. With our tryout over, Michelle and I whispered about which girls nailed both routines, but so many delivered a solid performance, I couldn’t imagine how the judges would narrow it down to six. I crossed my fingers I would be among them.
The last pair finished and the buzz in the auditorium grew as the crowd waited for the winners to be announced. Finally Mrs. Hardesty took the stage to read the list in her hand that would change the lives of a half-dozen lucky girls.
She called out the first name, Suzi Fields, and the spectators erupted in applause and catcalls as she made her way onstage. Suzi was popular at school—a real looker with a body to match.
She announced the second name: Cathy Morris, another attractive junior with wavy blonde hair. Was this a popularity contest or what? The third name announced was Jan Boynton, yet another eleventh grader. She squealed and ran onstage, hugging Cathy. What if they only picked juniors? After all, it was their last chance to be a cheerleader. I held my breath for the fourth name.
“Anna Trapani,” said Mrs. Hardesty.
That’s me! I jumped up in reflex. Michelle screamed, Katy hugged me and whoops and applause thundered as I found my way to the stage to stand next to the other three girls. I couldn’t stop grinning, the shock preventing me from registering the full weight of making the squad.
I scarcely discerned the next name called: Pam Fong, a sophomore. Her long black hair swished as she trotted up the stairs to the stage. One spot left. Let it be Michelle.
“And the sixth and final cheerleader is…Amy Lipton!”
Once the shrieking Amy joined the rest of us, Mrs. Hardesty waved in our direction and announced the official cheerleading squad of 1979-80 to an enthusiastic round of applause.
Family and friends surrounded me as I exited the stage. My mom cried, tearful at my accomplishment. Michelle tried to be happy for me but couldn’t stave off her tears. I hugged her long and tight, empathetic about her loss and disappointment. Pete whispered “I told you so” in my ear and gave my arm a friendly squeeze. Jim picked me up and spun me around the room yelling, “You did it, Paisano!” Katy, other friends and some judges offered their congratulations and well wishes. I beamed idiotically.
The auditorium slowly emptied, and my mom drove me home, chattering about my flawless performance. I basked in her pride, and nothing—not even my pain, which usually hovered so close to the surface—could stop the joy radiating from my entire being. I was a Skyline High cheerleader!
17
Taking the Plunge
Making the cheerleading squad instantly elevated my social status. Suddenly popular, students who’d never given me the time of day greeted me as if we were friends, asked me on dates and invited me to their parties.
Summer vacation less than a month away also meant two things: I would never have to see Alec Mays again, and I wouldn’t have to study and slog through homework all the time.
Without a doubt, the best news was Pete. We got closer every day. He invaded my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking hour. We talked on the phone incessantly, spent time together during breaks at school and went out on another “friend” date.
My only problem? I was hopelessly in love with him, but I
