Chapter 5 - I'll Be a Home for You

confessions of a teenage drama queen

(aang’s version)

JJ

The next day, before my first class starts, I search my locker for my lip gloss.

“I’ll join the team.”

I squeal, spinning around, my hand flying to my chest. Ja pierdolę.5 Is this what a heart attack feels like? I focus on the navy T-shirt in front of me to slow down my racing heart. Chinese characters. I’ve seen this T-shirt before. It’s a proverb. Stone, dripping water, doing something.

A cough snaps me out of it. My gaze travels upward and meets a set of black eyes. He’s standing in front of me. And … “You said something? To me?”

Aang pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up. “I’ll join the cheerleading team.” He grits his teeth.

“You will?” The prayer worked. He’s lost his mind.

His expression is so pained, I check behind him to make sure no one is holding a gun to his head.

“Do you want me to change my mind? I’m already halfway there,” he says.

“No, no.” I shake my head. I might not hunt like Remy does, but I recognize a deer about to be spooked.

“But I will join under one condition.”

Of course he will. “If I sell my soul to a devil?”

“That already happened.”

A sharp sting burns my eyes. He used to be so nice. I turn away from him to close my locker and blink the sting away.

“What is it, then?” I lean against my locker, looking up at him. I might have gotten taller, but he got taller. I don’t know what to do with that fact.

“What’s the real reason you want me on the team? You’re not doing it to help me get into Stanford.”

He’s not wrong. But he wouldn’t get it. Even worse, telling him might make him not join just to spite me.

“You won’t understand,” I say.

He shoves his hands into his pockets until only his black watch is visible. “Try me.” His eyes lock on mine.

The words spill out before I can reconsider. “I got too tall over the summer to fly.”

He tilts his head. “There’s no height limit for passengers on domestic or international flights.”

Seconds pass with neither of us blinking.

I force a deep breath. “A flyer is the person at the top of a cheerleading stunt. I’m flying”—I make air quotes—“means being the flyer. They’re usually really short.”

He doesn’t comment this time, which motivates me to keep going. “I don’t believe there’s a girl on the team tall enough for Coach to choose to be my backspot. But if I bring in a boy, that changes the rules. I’ve worked hard over the summer, stretching and working on motions, and being chosen as a flyer last year was a huge thing. It’s not easy when you’re not”—I point to my face—“you know …” I search for understanding in his face.

He nods slowly, and I exhale.

“So, what will this nightmare entail for me?” He runs a hand through his hair, but the strands don’t stay back. They spring to the front, the ends falling over his glasses.

My stomach flips. From irritation. “It’s not a nightmare! It’s an amazing sport, requiring strength, flexibility, stamina, and showmanship. And it’s a privilege to represent the school. Stop rolling your eyes at me!”

He rolls his eyes at me.

I can’t believe I used to have a crush on you.

I force a displeased smile that shows all my teeth. If he’s joining the team, I’ll have to show some civility. “Practices are Mondays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays in the gym, starting at three p.m., and they last for two hours. The first practice is this Thursday. The tryouts were a week ago, but I’ll talk to Coach. She’ll definitely let a guy in. You’re lucky.”

“That’s exactly how I feel right now.”

I swallow my annoyance. “It’d be good to meet up tomorrow? I can explain the basics, so you’re not completely lost. You could come over to my house and—”

“Come over?” His eyebrows shoot up. “To your house?”

I wince. What on Earth possessed me to say that? I’ve never invited him over. At my house, wherever he turned, he would find something Polish or Nigerian to ask about.

“I … um … I meant the gym. Yeah, the gym. Basically, my house now.” My voice is an octave higher than normal. “Loads of space. I’ll show you stuff!”

“Okay …” he says slowly.

“Okay!” I jump from one leg to another. “I can text you the time for tomorrow?”

“I’m surprised you still have my number. Did that not lose you popularity points?”

“I decided to keep it. What if I ever needed to bully you into doing my homework?” I pick my backpack up off the floor. “Now, excuse me, I need to find my lip gloss.”

He scoffs and turns away from me. “… always … left pocket …” He walks away.

“What was that?” I shout after him. But he keeps on walking.

Did he say something about a left pocket? I open the side pocket of my backpack.

My lips curl up at the sight of my lip gloss.

The next day after school, we meet in the gym. We have an hour before the volleyball team shows up.

“Good news! I talked to Coach. She could not be happier you’re joining!” With Aang on the team, we move from a thirty-team all-girl division to a ten-team co-ed division. Coach’s eyes lit up with glee when I told her I found a boy who wants to join.

I sit on the bleachers with my laptop, and the smell of sweat and rubber puts me in a good mood. On the other side of the gym, three state championship banners hang in a row—proof of our cheerleading team’s winning streak. We’re getting that Nationals title this year.

Aang moves to sit next to me but freezes. After a moment of deliberation, he sits one row above me.

Okay then. Good mood dampened, I open my laptop.

“Let’s start with what we actually do.” I strain my neck to look at him. “We do sideline cheerleading for another sport, usually American football, once every week or two. We don’t spend much time preparing for that.” I half-turn toward him, showing him a photo on my laptop. “Now, this is the George R. Brown Convention Center in Houston, Texas. This is where cheerleading Nationals are. This is the goal. Any cheerleader would kill to perform there. We start working on the routine from the first training session until the last. It consists of stunting, tumbling, jumps, and dance. Any questions?”

“I need definitions for all those words.”

“That’s what videos are for.” I show him the first one. “This is stunting. One backspot holding the ankles and two bases holding the feet, lifting a flyer into the air.” I point at him. “You’ll be a backspot. You’re mainly in charge of ensuring the flyer doesn’t fall.” I change the video. “This is a prep. When the flyer’s feet are held at the level of the bases’ shoulders. And this is an extension, where the flyer is held in the bases’ extended hands.”

Blood drains from his face. “You expect me to lift a human being above my head like that? How do they even stay there?”

“Good grip from the bases, strong core from the flyers, mild disregard for injury-related death.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t understand why you think I’d be a good fit for this.”

I glance at his arms. Definitely more defined than they used to be.

His brow furrows.

Shit. I tear my gaze away from his biceps. “Well … I thought …”

He leans toward me, hovering over my shoulder. “What are you mumbling over there?”

“I thought … I thought if you put even five percent of your math obsession into cheerleading … no lack of muscles could stop you.”

“I’ll put in one percent.”

“Fine by me.” I shrug, and my shoulder brushes his chin.

He springs back, as if just realizing how far he had leaned toward me. My cheeks heat up. He’s acting like I have a contagious disease transmitted by skin-to-skin contact.

There’s a beat of silence before he clears his throat. “Also, I have muscles. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t be able to move. Wouldn’t a future doctor know that?”

And just like that, my face goes back to its normal temperature. “You’re lucky I take the Hippocratic oath seriously. I’ll be the bigger person and reset your nose when someone finally punches you in the face for being a jerk.”

“You won’t be getting anywhere near me.”

I change the topic before I’m the one resorting to physical violence. “Backspot and lifting. Three people lift. Two of them will be more physically capable than you, so you’re there for show, really.”

“And the dancing?”

“Coach will probably stick you at the back. Unless you want to be the center of the dance. I’ve heard it’s one of your dreams.”

He fixes me with a hard stare. Were his eyes this dark two years ago?

Nope, wrong thought.

“Okay!” I put the laptop aside and jump up, shaking out my arms. “I’ll show you some of the basics now. The counts, motions, and backspot technique.”

“Do we have to?” He looks around the empty gym.

“No, we can go home. Where I can draft an email to Stanford telling them that personality’s chasing you, but you’re faster.”

He murmurs something about being punished enough but stands up.

“As a flyer, I’m between the bases, and you’re behind me.” I stand in front of him and hope he doesn’t take this as an opportunity to stab me in the back. Again.

“I put my hands on the bases’ shoulders and push off to jump into their hands.” I jump and half-squat on the ground. “Your job is to grab my waist when I put my hands on their shoulders and then help me jump. That’s called a smoosh, and it’s usually how a stunt starts.” I straighten up and stand behind him. “I’ll show you how to lift. I’ll put my hands on your waist, okay?”

“What?” He shivers and spins around. “No! Why do you need to touch me?”

I gape at him. “You think you signed up for chess? This whole sport is built around people touching each other!”

His eyes widen in horror as it dawns on him that he will indeed have to touch me.

“Oh, this is a nightmare.” I pull on my braids. “How is this going to work if you’re scared to touch girls?”

His ears flush red. “I’m not scared to touch girls!”

“Sure, you’re a real player.” I roll my eyes.

He scoffs. “Because you love your players, don’t you? How’s Chad, by the way?”

“His name’s Brad. And we broke up six months ago.”

“Forgive me for not knowing all the details about cheerleading dating escapades. I know I should aim to find any scrap of information about such important figures like you and—”

“But you knew about my relationship with Brad?” I cross my arms. “And that relationship lasted barely four months?”

He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. His ears get redder, though.

I cock my eyebrow. “Well?”

“I have to go.” He makes a beeline for the door.

“What?” I run after him. “We haven’t gone over anything! Are you coming tomorrow? Coach thinks you are, and she was so excited when I told her. If I have to tell her you changed your mind …” I wince at how my voice breaks.

Aang stills without turning around. I stop behind him, my back taut like a spring.

“I’ll come tomorrow.”

My shoulders relax, the tension leaving my body. “I understand it must be overwhelming joining a new sport, and I thank you for—”

“There’s no need to thank me.” His voice is cold. “Because there’s not a single part of me that’s doing this for you.”

He storms off.

He’s such a drama queen.

He’ll fit right in.

4 In Cantonese, four (sei, 四) sounds similar to the word for death (séi, 死), and it is considered unlucky. Some Hong Kongers will go to great lengths to avoid the number four.

5 Fucking hell.