Ricochet

2002-06-28

When I was in seventh grade desperately wanted to be a cheerleader. Cheerleaders represent all that is good and right with teenagers and America. This was going to be my piece of the American dream, my version of Happy Days. Being a cheerleader would mean that I was accepted, I was finally a teenager. Tryouts were held in September. The first week there was a group practice every day after school. I loved every minute of it. The second week everyone had to choose a partner to do a duo routine for tryouts. My friend Erin was my partner. I felt pretty good about my chances, I had taken dance class my entire life, plus I knew that Erin wouldn't let me down.

The tryouts were held in the school cafeteria. We had a huge gym, but for some reason they were in the cafeteria. The judges asked all of us to remove our shoes to avoid marring the precious floor. As the duos started trying out, I realized that the last jump, where I stood directly in front of Erin and then we each jumped to opposite sides, was reversed from everyone else's. Erin and I decided not to change our routine as we would be nervous enough as it was; we couldn't risk the tryout with a routine we had never practiced.

When it was our turn, we got up in front of the crowd and cheered our hearts out. Everything was great: I was perky, I was peppy, I genuinely wanted the team to win (Go Bryant Eagles!!). Everything was right with the world. On the last jump, I went right as we'd planned. So did Erin.

She cheated me. And it looked like my fault.

I was down, but I wasn't out.

There was the individual portion still to go. I'd show that girl what a genuine 7th grade cheerleader looked like. I cart wheeled with the best of them. My handspring was springy, but not particularly straight. The competition was fierce. Only one more event to go, and I knew that I couldn't do it. We had to do a cartwheel ending up in the splits. I had never done the splits before, I could only get down about half way before I was in total pain. I needed a miracle.

As I waited in line, I was so nervous. Everything was riding on this one competition. Everything that I had worked for, for 13 years was being tested in this one moment. I cart wheeled. I went to do the splits with my best perky cheerleader face, arms above me. As I got to the point where I would normally stop, I realized that I couldn't get any traction on the cafeteria floor with only my socks on. I went all the way down, but I went down smiling.

I didn't want the judges and the other girls to know that I had, most likely, ripped both of my Achilles' tendons. I somehow stood up and I limped over to the doors. I couldn't put my legs together to walk, so I had to rock my whole body back and forth to move, the way you move large furniture without picking it up. I held it together until I hit the phone booth (luckily it was right outside the cafeteria). I was in tears when I called my mom to pick me up. She worked far away, so I locked myself in the phone booth and cried. I had to pretend to be talking on the phone because every other girl there needed to call home to be picked up. I might have lost the use of my legs, but I was consoled that I might have played it well enough to make the team.

I was still a little sore the next day. I'm lucky that children are rather bendable and heal quickly. I'm sure that if that happened to me today, I probably would have become paralyzed. I found out that day that I didn't make the team. Erin did. Erin went on to be a high school cheerleader (she was a basketball cheerleader, which was less fashionable than the football team - but that's little consolation). She remained both perky and peppy thoroughout her teen years. I went on to be a jaded punk.

It's funny that the true milestone's in life are usually not planned.

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