She Drives Me Crazy(15)
She whips her head around. “What are you trying to say?”
“What? I just mean, like, you’re not actually competing for anything. You’re cheering on the competitors. There’s no winning or losing for you.”
She twists in her seat, more agitated than I’ve ever seen her. “Oh okay, and this is coming from someone whose idea of ‘competing’ is lobbing a ball at a hoop? Cheerleading is more competitive than you can imagine. It’s gymnastics meets acrobatics meets dance, with a shit ton of cardio work, not to mention the emotional intelligence it takes to read a crowd’s energy—”
“And yet you’re not actually winning or losing anything. It’s just a performance. A performance you’re doing for someone else.”
“It’s not for someone else, it’s for ourselves and our own physicality and—”
“It’s for the boys’ football team. Or their basketball team. Whichever boys’ team is being worshipped that night.”
“Wow, aren’t you such a bastion of feminism, tearing down other girls because you think we’re oblivious to misogyny—”
“Aren’t you, though? Or is it just my imagination that I’ve never seen your squad at my basketball games before?”
“Have you ever asked for us to be there?” she counters. “I don’t have time to hold your hand if you can’t even be bothered to speak to us. I’m doing more than enough already, captaining two squads during overlapping seasons and trying to win Student Athlete of the Year.”
This last part takes me by surprise. The Student Athlete of the Year award is just about the highest honor a Grandma Earl senior can win. The last few years, it’s almost always gone to soccer or football players.
“You’re trying for SAOY?” I ask.
“Don’t say that like it’s so fucking surprising.”
“It is surprising. I’ve never heard of a cheerleader winning that.”
“That’s because no cheerleader ever has,” she snaps, her eyes burning. “But we work just as hard as other student athletes, so why shouldn’t we be considered?”
I shake my head and turn away from her.
“What?” she spits.
“It just seems like a waste of your energy,” I say, knowing very well that I’m playing with fire here. “You’re obviously going to win Homecoming Queen tomorrow night, which is a natural extension of being cheerleading captain, but instead of focusing on that, you’re thirsting after an athletic award you stand no chance of winning?”
“Fuck you, Zajac,” she growls. I only barely register her use of my name; it’s jarring coming out of her mouth. “You have got to be the most arrogant, dismissive, judgmental person I’ve ever met—”
“And who are you to talk?” I say nastily. “You’re just a stuck-up cheerleader who’s high and mighty enough to think that Homecoming Queen is beneath her.”
“Don’t you dare try to tell me who I am—”
“Ah, right, I forgot I’m not allowed to ‘make assumptions’ about you. Since it’s our last day together, though, I’ll leave you with one final thought.” My words tumble out with a reckless, satisfying feeling. I know I’m crossing a line, but I can’t stop. People have been singing Irene’s praises to my face for days, but I know just how shitty she can be. “It’s not my fault you’re so fucking insecure about being a cheerleader or that no one, including your own mother, takes you seriously about it. So figure out your own shit and stop taking it out on other people.”
The silence between us cuts like a shard of glass. Irene turns very slowly in my direction. Her jaw is clenched. Her eyes are dark fire. They’re also, to my shock, slightly wet.
I’m breathing hard; she’s hardly breathing at all. I don’t know what else to do, so I twist the volume dial until it’s all the way up, so loud that it pounds in my ears. Irene says nothing. She sits eerily still in the passenger seat, her arms crossed over her practice hoodie.
When we finally pull into her driveway, she throws off her seat belt and snatches her bags from the back seat. Just as she’s about to get out of the car, she punches my stereo off. I can only gawk at her.
I open my mouth to say something, but before I can figure out what, she slams the door and stalks off into her house.
* * *
That night, my sisters and I curl up in Thora’s bed to watch Teen Witch at Daphne’s request. Pickles and BooBoo prowl across our legs, restless. They haven’t been allowed in Mom’s garden for several days.
“I messed up today,” I say when we’re halfway through the movie.
“Did you hit another car?” Thora asks, and I shove her while Daphne laughs.
“No. I was an asshole to Irene.”
“Nemesis Girl?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, she’s your nemesis. You’re supposed to be an asshole.”
Daphne frowns. “What happened?”
I tell them about our spat—and how ugly I was to her. “I don’t know why I said that thing about her mom,” I say feebly. “I don’t usually go for people’s weak spots.”
“No, you don’t,” Thora says thoughtfully. “Sounds more like something your ex would do.”