The Hardest Cut, page 2
“That was Benjamin Matthews, our new quarterbacks coach,” Lyle answered. “Starting with us this season and we’re all glad to have him.”
Benjamin Matthews, I repeated in my mind. Ben. Coach.
“What are the rules about cheerleaders going after coaches?” Addison whispered to me. “Because damn, I’d like to have a taste of that. Who is he again?” She started scrolling around the official Woodsmen football site on her phone.
“His picture isn’t up on the website yet,” I told her. “The team put out a press release last week about hiring him and he just started here, replacing the old QB coach who retired.” He had played in college for a while, but he’d quit, I thought. Or something had happened. “His brother, Kayden Matthews, used to be the backup quarterback for the Woodsmen and he got the start when Davis Blake was injured a few seasons ago. When Davis’ knee was healed, Kayden got traded to the Rustlers.” I also realized why I’d felt a flare of recognition when I’d heard Coach Ben speak: he had laughed in the deep, growly chuckle back in the auditorium when Rylah had invited us to check out how democracy worked in Cuba. I looked after him, at the closed door of the office.
“How do you know all that stuff about football?” Addison asked me, amazed.
I shrugged, more surprised that she didn’t know it herself. What had she been doing with her time besides keeping up with the Woodsmen news? On top of that, cheerleaders were supposed to know all about the football team they were supporting. “I like the Woodsmen,” I said simply. They had always been a huge part of my life.
Lyle held up his radio to his ear and nodded at the air as he listened. “Ok, ladies, it’s time to head back to the main lobby,” he called to us. “The judges want to talk about who’s moving to the next round.” He held up his hands when the big crowd surged forward and clamoring voices asked who had gotten through. “I don’t know what the results are,” he announced loudly, “but you’ll find out soon. Let’s go.” He started at a quick pace back through the huge stadium complex and we all followed, nipping at his heels until we reached the cavernous lobby where we had entered that morning.
The woman who had met us back then, the one who had handed out the numbers we had pinned to our bra tops, now stood outside the auditorium doors. She waited calmly until everyone stopped talking, which didn’t take long. A nervous hush settled quickly over the crowd.
“First, I’d like to thank you all for coming down here today and putting in the effort. The panel of judges agreed that you ladies are the strongest group we’ve ever had try out for the squad, and you’re going to give the returning cheerleaders a real run for their money when you dance against them. Let’s have a round of applause for all of you.”
We clapped, briefly. We wanted to know. The group pressed forward, and I saw lots of crossed fingers, closed eyes, and moving lips in prayer.
“I’m going to call out the numbers of the women who will be going on to the next round of auditions, in no particular order. There are…” She paused, and looked down at her tablet. “I’m just counting up how many of you made it through,” she explained, and stuck the microphone under her arm to move the pad of her index finger on the screen.
Come on, I pleaded in my mind. Come on and tell us!
“Right, yes, there are twenty-two of you who got past the prelims today,” she stated, and pointed at the closed doors to the auditorium behind her. “If your number is called, please line up here.”
Twenty-two? Only twenty-two out of over a hundred and fifty women standing here? Oh, gravy.
She looked back down at her screen. “Ready? Ok, here we go,” she said into the microphone, and then she started calling numbers like an auctioneer. “Seventy-six. One-oh-four. Lucky thirteen!”
Number thirteen jumped like someone had poked her with a stick, but everyone seemed to be taking the news differently. Nine squealed, sixty-two grabbed the person next to her so she didn’t fall down, thirty-eight swore (which earned her a frown from the woman announcing the results). Forty-five sighed, “Hallelujah!” and went dead white. When Addison’s number got called, she yelled, “Yes!” and pumped her fists a few times before she joined the group who’d made it through to the second round.
I counted on my fingers as the woman called the numbers. Now there were fourteen spots left, then eleven, then eight. Then four. My heart started to pound very hard in my chest and the women around me looked as anxious and unhappy as I felt. I was number seventeen. I closed my eyes and pictured large, Woodsmen-orange digits, a one and a seven, and I tried to project it to the woman looking at the list on her screen. The woman who controlled my destiny, I told myself. Say it. Say, “Seventeen!”
“Number seven—”
I drew in a gulp of air, but her voice had stopped. Number seven smiled hugely, giggled, and skipped to the front. My breath stuttered out of my lungs. Three spots left.
“Twenty-four.” That was the woman whom I had overheard in the parking lot threatening violence if she didn’t make it, so I was almost glad to see her claim a place. But it meant that there were only two spots left. Several women started to cry, knowing that most of us weren’t going to get called. Our numbers were up.
Please. Please, please, please, please please please please—
“Seventeen.”
I didn’t move at first, and I didn’t react at all. “Seventeen?” she repeated questioningly into the mic, and I managed to hold up my hand like I was in math class instead of a cheer team audition. I didn’t remember walking but suddenly I was there with the chosen group, and the girl with the final number called joined us as well. The other women hugged me, except Addison. She only said that now the ass-kicking would begin and she hoped I was ready. But she didn’t look very hopeful when she said it.
Everyone who wasn’t picked stood there disconsolately, silently wiping their cheeks or sobbing out loud. I felt terrible for them, and I didn’t celebrate with the other women who had made it. I had been through things too, so that I understood how it felt to have your heart broken, your dreams ripped down into little, useless pieces. The judge who had called the numbers said a few more nice things into her microphone and then signaled to Lyle the security guard, who began to escort those women out of the stadium.
In a daze, I followed the winnowed-down group into the auditorium, where Rylah and two of the other judges were waiting. “Hi there,” she said to us, wearing her big smile. “Congratulations on making it past prelims!”
The other women cheered for themselves and I clapped, too.
“Have a seat,” she told us, pointing to the plastic chairs we all had perched on earlier as we’d waited for auditions to begin. Now there were only twenty-two of them lined in a long row. “There are a few things we need to go over before we bring you back for more.”
First, she let us know that no one was sure of making the team. “Not any one of you should think that the coast is clear,” she said. “You’re going to have to work your butts off to prove yourselves.” She glared around as she announced this, but then went back to smiling. “The returning squad has the upper hand due to their experience, but there’s no reason to think that you wouldn’t be able to compete with them! Stay positive,” she advised. “And that being said, I do have a few specific criticisms for each of you. Things you’ll need to work on before the second round of auditions when you’ll be dancing next to the real Woodsmen cheerleaders.”
She started reading from a list on her phone of all the things that our group needed to do to improve. Rylah mentioned topics like better outfits (“more coverage” she told Addison, who was nearly nude), bigger smiles, putting in more effort, or in the case of number eighty-two, showing less effort on her face.
“It’s supposed to be fun,” she reminded eighty-two, who frowned heavily and nodded seriously.
“Fun, fun,” the woman repeated, pounding her fist into her thigh as she said the word. “Fun, ok, I can do fun.”
I foresaw problems there, and Rylah shrugged and went on. “Less sweat,” she ordered twenty-one, whom I had spotted as an awesome dancer but who currently looked like she had taken a bath or been caught in a rainstorm.
“I don’t know how to…ok, I’ll make that happen,” the woman said, quickly agreeing when Rylah pursed her lips and raised her eyebrows.
The scary one, the woman who had never been past preliminaries in her five previous auditions, was told to put more personality into her moves. I wondered what that would bring out in her, and I hoped that it wasn’t a weapon. Number thirty-three showed too much confidence but number ninety didn’t show enough. Then…
“Seventeen. Gaby?” Rylah looked straight at me. “Polish up the dancing.”
It felt like an arrow to my heart. I knew that I wasn’t the best in the room, but I had thought that I’d sold it. Apparently, I hadn’t, and bad dancing wasn’t something that I could fix overnight, like a bigger smile or more rhinestones on my bra top. I couldn’t even fix it by Thursday, when we had the next round of auditions.
“One more note for all of you ladies,” Rylah said. “You’ve just made an important first step that may lead you to becoming Woodsmen cheerleaders!” She waited a beat, and we obediently clapped. “But several things can derail this journey. By that I mean, if you’re rude and have bad attitude, if you don’t work your hardest, if you step out of line in any way…” She glared down the row of chairs at each of us. “Any of that, and you’re done. Out. Huevos y jamón,” she told us sternly.
I looked to my left and number nine, the woman who had said she was bilingual and had spoken in Spanish when she introduced herself, looked flummoxed by these words. Even I, with only two years of high school language classes under my belt, was pretty sure that Rylah had said something…off.
“We are thoroughly checking your social media, starting now,” Rylah continued. “We’ll look at everything, including your posts, likes, friends, videos, comments, and anything else we stumble across. We’ll look at your entire online presence. So watch what you’re saying, the pictures you’re posing for, everything.”
“Oh, shit,” I heard someone whisper. “Do you think they check porn sites? What if it wasn’t under our real names?”
Gravy.
“As cheerleaders, you would represent the team and also the proud history of the Woodsmen. You may remember that some former members of our squad did not represent us well,” Rylah said, and I thought we all remembered that. There had been a lot of bad publicity a few seasons ago and I had followed it voraciously, as had most other people in northern Michigan. “Those women are no longer on our roster because we want people who aren’t just awesome dancers. You have to have character to be a Woodsmen cheerleader, or whatever we’re going to end up calling this team. We want people who stand on the moral high ground. Like Hugh Hefner,” she said, nodding, and heads in the audience nodded with her. “If there’s something in your past that will disqualify you from being on the squad, then you should leave now, no questions asked. If we find out later, and I guarantee that we will find out, it won’t be good for you.”
I sat stock still, frozen, staring at a spot on the floor. I asked myself what an innocent person would do after hearing those words, and I realized that I was acting guilty. Ashamed. I made myself lift my eyes and look around the room at the other women, as if I, too, had nothing to hide.
“Well, I’m out,” number twelve said, and hopped up from her chair and strolled to the doors. We all watched in shock as she escorted herself into the lobby.
“One down!” Rylah said gleefully. She pointed at the chair and Lyle removed it, leaving a scary hole in our long row. Then she talked to us more about the expectations for when we came back for subsequent auditions in terms of behavior, dress, and timeliness. She also informed us that all trainees should be familiar with both the current Woodsmen organization and the team’s history. “Read up,” she said, and I watched women already scrolling on their phones. After that, finally, Rylah excused us to go, and by that point I was so tired with the dancing and the stress that I could barely get my butt out of the hard chair.
“Good night!” the women called to each other, and gravy, they did seem perkier than I felt. Maybe it was me being so much older? I followed them out to the parking lot and most of them had people waiting, filming them with their phones, handing them flowers, kissing them, crying with happiness. There were a lot of boyfriends or husbands along with the dads, moms, relatives, and friends.
I walked purposefully toward my car. I hadn’t told anyone that I was doing this, not my best friend Hallie, and certainly not my mom or my brother. I didn’t have a boyfriend, let alone a husband to wait for me with flowers and a kiss. Making this team had been my secret dream, and I was going to keep it that way, until it became something permanent. I didn’t want to have to explain, especially to my mom, that I hadn’t succeeded in this. It was better to keep it to myself until—and if—an opportunity came my way.
An opportunity like a Woodsmen-orange halter top and white and orange pom poms! I closed my eyes briefly and pictured myself in the uniform. My brother, who was a very successful guy, believed that this worked. “Optimize your directionality by visualizing,” he’d told me, which meant that if you saw your future, you could make it happen.
I didn’t leave immediately when I got to my car. Instead, I sat and watched the scene in front of the stadium more. Now Lyle the security guard had come out and was taking pictures of the couples and of the women and their friends, and he also posed with them. Rather than pulling out the main gate, I slowly steered closer to take another look as they broke off to drive home with their guys, as the moms and dads hugged their daughters, and Lyle waved to them, grinning happily. It was sweet, so sweet that I felt my throat tighten. And that was silly! I could have had people there waiting for me, if I had wanted, but I had chosen to be alone. My choice.
Right, alone. The word made me shiver a little, or maybe it was how I was still kind of nervously glowing on this cool, spring night. Sure, I had chosen to be alone today, but I hadn’t actually chosen to be single. My relationship status wasn’t at all what I had planned for myself, and it was one of the reasons I was here at this stadium trying out.
And as I went from tight-throat to actual tears, my phone rang. A name came up on the screen that I told myself I didn’t want to see anymore. I should have already blocked him; I knew I should have. But every time I had started to, something had stopped me, so he stayed in my phone. More than that—he stayed on my mind.
I looked over at the phone as it rang, vibrating slightly on my passenger seat. I wasn’t going to answer. No, nope, I wasn’t, absolutely not. It finally stopped but after a few moments, the phone shook itself one more time. He had left a message.
I swallowed. Well, I certainly wasn’t going to listen! I certainly didn’t need to hear anything he had to say. Nope. I shook my head at the phone, that was how opposed I was. No way!
I drove slowly through the empty lot toward the stadium exit and I glanced over again at the dark screen. Maybe I would just quickly look and see how long the message was. That wouldn’t make any difference, just to check that. I reached over and picked up the phone.
It was one minute and forty-nine seconds long. I stared at the screen, shocked. What could he have been saying for one minute and forty-nine seconds? I realized that I was squeezing the phone hard in my hand, so hard that it made a creaking sound, so I put it down on the passenger seat and gripped the steering wheel instead. I continued onto the stadium drive, definitely not listening to the message, however long it had been. It didn’t mean anything to me.
But actually, I realized, it wouldn’t hurt anything to hear it. I, of course, wouldn’t believe any more of his lies and I wouldn’t fall for any of his excuses or apologies. But I could listen to one, simple message, because it wouldn’t affect me at all. Of course wouldn’t affect me, since I was so totally over him. I could listen and hear if maybe it was something like that he was sick—which I certainly wouldn’t care about, but I would want to know, anyway.
Or maybe he had something of mine, like my hot pink, hibiscus flower earrings that my dad had brought back from Hawaii for me one winter when it was so cold. They had always reminded me to be hopeful, that warm weather and flowers would come again. I loved those earrings and I thought that I hadn’t seen them in a while. Maybe he had them, and he was calling to tell me because he knew how much they meant to me…
If he had my earrings, then I wanted them back, and I needed to listen to the message to find out if he had them. I reached over for the phone but by mistake, I knocked it onto the floor.
“Gravy!” I stretched, brushing the sparkly case with my fingertips, but it slid away again, closer to the passenger door. I stretched further, glancing down to see if I was close to getting it. Almost, I could almost reach—I stretched a little more.
I grabbed the phone and sat up straight, just in time to see the truck stopped ahead of me. And I hit it.
Chapter 2
“Oh, gravy. Oh, no.”
I sat in the car, shaking, and watched the driver’s door of the truck open and a big man descend from the cab. What had I just done?
I opened my car door too, and got out. The entire front of my little green convertible was squished, smashed like when my older brother had shoved his palm against my face when we’d been kids to give me a pig nose and make me ugly. “Oh, no,” I said again. I more or less groaned it.
“You ok?”
My head snapped up, because for the second time in that long day, I recognized his voice. Benjamin Matthews. Ben. Coach. “Yes, I’m fine,” I said, and heard my voice shaking, too. “I’m so sorry I hit your car. It was totally my fault because I was trying to get my phone.”
To my utter shock, he smiled a little, a reaction that seemed to surprise him, too. “Well, that’s honest,” he told me. “I guess it’s good to be an honest person, even when you rear end someone.”
