troubled gaze. I know what she’s thinking without even having to ask. Because I’m thinking the same thing.
“I agree with Manuel,” I hear myself say.
Of course, everyone turns to look at me. Which must be a relief to Manuel. But which causes me a certain amount of discomfort.
But I hold my ground.
“I think it could be a lovely gesture,” I say. “If done tastefully.”
“Oh, it will be,” Cheryl assures us. “We already asked if the band can play the school song real slow. And we all chipped in and bought a wreath made out of gold and white roses. And I’ve got Lindsay’s sweater, all nice and pressed.”
I notice that everyone—including Dr. Jessup, the head of Housing—is staring at me.
But what’s the big deal? It’s just a stupid basketball game. Who cares if they—what is it again? Oh, yeah— retire a girl’s sweater during it?
“I think it would be a touching tribute to a girl who had more Pansy spirit than just about anybody else in this school,” I say to President Allington, who is still looking confused.
“But”—he looks worried—“the game is going to be televised. Live. The entire tri-state area will see Lindsay Combs’s cheerleading sweater being retired.”
“We’ll be the laughingstock of college basketball,” Coach Andrews mutters.
“And you’re not already,” I say, genuinely curious, “with a name like the Pansies?”
Coach Andrews looks sad. “True,” he says. I’m sure when he was applying for coaching positions, he never dreamed he’d end up at a Division III school with a flower for a mascot.
He sighs, looking heavenward, and says, “It’s all right with me if it’s all right with President Allington.”
The president looks startled—mostly because he’s just taken a big bite of potatoes au gratin, and, from his expression, it’s clear the bite included a big clump of flour.
After chugging half a glass of water, the president says, “Whatever. Do whatever you want.” He’s been beaten, by five cheerleaders and a lump of flour.
Cheryl Haebig immediately stops crying. “Rilly?” she asks brightly. “Rilly, Mr. President? You mean it?”
“I mean it.”
Then, as Cheryl and her friends scream—shrilly enough to cause Dr. Kilgore to put her hands over her ears reflexively—Coach Andrews, raising his voice to be heard above the ruckus, says, “They won’t broadcast the halftime show, anyway.”
President Allington looks relieved. “Well,” he says. And brings a forkful of turkey to his mouth. Then, relief turning quickly to disgust, he says, “Well,” in a different tone of voice.
And reaches hastily for his water glass again, signifying to all that this will probably be the last meal the president will choose to enjoy in the Fischer Hall cafeteria.
13
The “cad” in “decadence”
The “ow” in “follow through”
The “ass” in “embarrass”
Together these spell “YOU.”
“Rejection Song”
Written by Heather Wells
Okay, so I’ll admit it. I’ve never been to a basketball game before. Not a professional one (although Jordan used to beg me to accompany him to Knicks games all the time. Fortunately, I was usually able to come up with a good excuse… such as needing to wash my hair), not a high school game (I dropped out of high school after my first album took off), and certainly not a college game (I have generally been able to find other ways to occupy my time).
I can’t really say what I’d been expecting, except… not what greeted me as I came through the gymnasium doors, which was hundreds of fans—because Division III games evidently do not attract thousands of fans, even if they are being held in the busiest metropolis in the world—with their faces painted the colors of their team—or, in some cases, wearing basketballs split in half, with little slits cut out for eye holes, as masks—stomping their feet against the bleachers, impatient for the game to begin.
Magda, however, a hardened veteran of the sport—all three of her brothers played in high school—takes it all in stride, steering me, followed by Tom (“Don’t leave me alone”), Sarah (“Basketball is so sexist”), and Pete (“I told you. Don’t put your brother’s hamster in there”), toward some bare spots on the bleachers that aren’t too high up, because we don’t want to have to walk too far to get to the bathroom, according to Magda, and not too low, either, because we don’t want to be hit by any balls.
The rest of the representatives from Fischer Hall—including President Allington, who goes to a section reserved just for him, Drs. Kilgore and Jessup, and the trustees, looking relieved to finally be brushing off the residue from Death Dorm—stream into the bleachers, and, since the impulse is contagious, begin stomping their feet as well, until the steel rafters a hundred feet overhead seem to reverberate.
It’s only after the band starts the first few notes of “The Star Spangled Banner” that the crowd quiets down, then sings happily along with a pretty blond musical theater major who seems to give the tune her all. Probably she thinks there’s a representative from a major record label in the audience, who’s going to sign her then and there to a contract. Or maybe a Broadway producer who is going to come up to her when she’s done singing and be all, “You were brilliant! Won’t you star in the revival of South Pacific that I’m planning?”
Yeah. Good luck with that, honey.
Then, when the last echo of “brave… brave… brave… ” dies away, the band rips into the school song, and Cheryl and her sister cheerleaders appear, flipping and cartwheeling their way across the court. They really are very impressive. I’ve never seen such flexibility—outside of a Tania Trace video, I mean.
The cheerleaders are followed by the gangly-legged Pansies team, in their gold and white jerseys. I hardly recognize Jeff and Mark and the other residents of Fischer Hall. On the court, in their uniforms, they look less like hapless sophomores and juniors, and more like… well, athletes. I guess because that’s what they are, really. They high-five each of the New Jersey East Devils, in their red and gold jerseys, as they stream by. I’m impressed by this good sportsmanship, even though I know they’ve been told they have to do it. The television cameras swirl around Coach Andrews as he and several other men—assistant coaches, no doubt—walk to their seats on the sideline, and shake hands with the opposing team’s coach before something happens that Magda explains is called the tip-off.
Despite the subzero temperatures outside, it’s overly warm in the gym, what with all the people and their winter coats and the screaming and all. Tempers are short. Sarah, in particular, seems to feel the need to complain. She expresses strong opinions on multiple subjects, including but not limited to the fact that the money spent on athletics at New York College would be better spent helping to fund the psychology labs, and that the popcorn tastes stale. Beside her, Tom placidly sips from his flask, which he informs Sarah he needs for medicinal purposes.
“Yeah,” Sarah replies sarcastically. “Right.”
“I could use some of that medicine,” Pete observes, after finally hanging up his cell phone. The hamster crisis has been averted.
“Be my guest,” Tom says, and passes the flask to Pete. Pete takes a sip, makes a face, and passes it back.
“It tastes like toothpaste,” he rasps.
“I told you it’s medicinal,” Tom says happily, and swills some more.
Meanwhile, Sarah has started paying attention to the game.
