Hexed (5 page)

T
he sun has edged behind the sycamores surrounding Fairfield High’s football field, and floodlights pour artificial white light across the stadium. Despite the suffocating heat, the bleachers are already crammed with students showing their Renegade pride with painted faces, foam fingers, and clothing in blue and silver, our team colors. I can’t fathom why anyone would willingly hang outside when there are air-conditioned entertainment options available, but hey, I might not mind the heat either if I didn’t have to exercise vigorously in it.

Thankfully, my uniform allows for maximum air: just a scrap of blue pleats (I think they call it a skirt in some communities) over a pair of silver spankies, and a fitted black shell.

Coach Jenkins (or Carmen, as she insists we call her) has finally decided to put in some face time with the squad. I’d like to think it’s because of her deep commitment to Fairfield High, cheerleading, and the betterment of the community, but the way she struts and preens in front of the football coach, combined with the fake knockers that hang out of her see-through white tank, is enough to put doubt into even the dumbest cheerleader's mind.

While Bianca bores everyone with the minutiae of Sebastian’s life, I scan the bleachers for Mom—no matter how much I protest, she comes to all the games that take place outside the shop’s business hours—but I don’t find her. It registers that I still haven’t called her back. Not the first time in the history of ever that I forgot to call Mom, but probably the first time it didn’t prompt her to call me six more times until I finally answered.

“Blackwood!”

I snap back to the present. Shit, what were we supposed to be doing? Lunges? Basket tosses? Bianca cocks her head, wearing an expression almost as severe as her ponytail.

I look to the girls for a hint. Julia stands just a few steps behind Bianca, mirroring her pom-pommed-hands-on-hips pose. Thea’s checking out something terribly interesting on her shoes, and the Amy/Ashley twins are retying their matching brunette ponytails. Thanks, guys!

“Sorry, got a little distracted,” I say.

“Distracted?” Bianca spits. “Please tell me I misheard you.”

I’m contemplating whether now’s a good time to tell her where to shove her pom-poms when Carmen appears.

“Bianc
aaa,
” Carmen singsongs.

Bianca jumps like she’s been seared with a cattle prod. Carmen might be the most easygoing teacher at Fairfield High, but get on her bad side and prepare to have a strip torn off you.

“I leave you in charge for five minutes and everyone’s standing around doing nothing?” She cocks an eyebrow (impressively high for someone else I suspect has taken a few Botox injections to the face).

Bianca exhales a short breath but for once is at a loss for words.

Which is perfect, because Carmen doesn’t wait for her response. Foul mood forgotten, she turns on a high-wattage smile and spins to face the rest of the squad, striding in front of us with her hands clasped behind her back. “Well, don’t you girls look gorge.”

She launches into an inspirational pregame speech about precious high school memories and the importance of showing off our hot bods while we still have them, before spotting a friend and sprinting off toward the bleachers.

The outdoor speakers crackle.

“Thank you all for coming out to support the Fairfield High Renegades,” Mrs. Malone announces, her normally stern voice brimming over with excitement.

Loud hoots and hollers ring out through the twilight.

“Game time is just five short minutes away. Until then, would everyone please give a warm round of applause to Fairfield High’s varsity cheerleading team!”

“Great,” Bianca says. “We didn’t get to practice the basket toss again. Thanks, Blackwood.” She trots off toward the center of the field, waving her silver pom-poms high in the air.

“Way to go, loser,” Julia says over her shoulder before following Bianca. The rest of the girls trip over each other to catch up.

No one’s looking, so I slip my bestie and her little sidekick the finger before getting into formation in the center of the field.

“Are you ready?” Bianca yells to the crowd. We clap.

“We are the mighty Renegades,

And we came here to win

The other team don’t stand a chance

It’s time to pack it in

’Cause we got the moves [cue suggestive writhing]

And we came here to fight

And everyone from east to west knows

Renegades go all night! Renegades go all night!”

The crowd jumps to its feet and roars. We run to the sidelines, a springing mass of hair ribbons and silver pom-poms, as Mrs. Malone takes to the speakers again.

“And now, introducing the pride of our school, ranked eighth in the state and soon to be number one, the Fairfield High Renegades, led by captain Devon Mills!”

Devon sprints out and runs backward to face the bleachers, giving a two-fingered wave to the audience. The spectators yell and whistle and jump and generally make big fools of themselves, Coach Carmen being no exception. I feel a tug of pride in my chest and shake my pom-poms extra hard for my boyfriend while the rest of the team runs in behind Devon to a slightly subdued but still crazy reception.

I take this opportunity to hazard another glance at the bleachers to look for Mom, but something unusual catches my eye. While everyone else is on their feet cheering, there’s one guy sitting—slouching would actually be a better word for it—at the end of the first row. And he’s wearing leather. In seventy-five-degree weather!

He yawns, checks his watch, then starts scraping something from the bottom of his boot heel. Whoever it is he’s here to watch is lucky to have such enthusiastic support.

The guy catches me staring. He raises a balled fist in a lame-cheerleader impression and yells, “Go, team!”

My mouth drops open. Is this guy serious?

A whistle blows. I reluctantly join in as Bianca leads another cheer.

“Defense, get physical

Get down, get hard, get mean

Defense, get physical

And block that other team!”

When I glance back at the guy, he’s laughing. Laughing! I want to bash the jerk over the head with my pom-poms. If high school football’s not your thing—and everything from his stupid leather jacket to his messy black hair and tattoos tells me that it isn’t—then why come at all? It’s not like he goes to Fairfield; I’d recognize a douche like him from around the halls.

The crowd leaps to its feet.

A touchdown.

Teammates slap Devon on the back, and he sends me a little wave from the end zone.

“Go, number nine!” I shout, and shake my pom-poms in his direction.

A hoot of laughter from the bleachers rises above the cacophony of yelling and cheering, and I glance in that direction. At first the guy looks like he’s trying to hold back, but then he bursts into laughter again—a full-bellied, brace-your-stomach fit—and I get the distinct impression he’s laughing at me.

“Get out there, girls!” Carmen shouts, shooing us onto the field. “Cheer sixteen.”

I swallow my irritation with our heckler as Bianca leads our first touchdown cheer.

“The best at kicks

The best at passes

The other team

Can kiss our … !”

As the crowd shouts “asses,” we turn around, bend over, and lift up our pleated skirts.

It’s not like I particularly
enjoy
flashing my butt to half the school, but I’ve never really paid too much mind to it before. Now my face burns, and I won’t look at the guy no matter how obvious and annoying his chortling is.

Carmen does excited little claps and jumps as we trot back to the sidelines. “Great job, Bianca.”

Bianca smiles so wide at the compliment I think I see tonsils.

I don’t look at the guy for the rest of the game, won’t give him the satisfaction, even when he laughs so hard that other spectators tell him to shut up.

By the time the countdown clock reaches zero, darkness envelops the field and the Renegades are victorious. The football team ambushes Devon and lifts him above their heads. To say the crowd is happy would be an understatement of epic proportions.

It takes about three and a half minutes for the stadium to thin out after that. I know this because that’s how long Devon gives me to change out of my uniform before we leave for the concert, and by the time I emerge from the girls’ locker room, dressed in a black lace tank, a fluorescent pink micromini, sky-high black heels, and bright red lipstick, there’s not a soul left in the bleachers. Everyone’s converged on the parking lot to make plans for the night. Kids pile into cars. Music blares from open windows, sending vibrations across the earth that I can feel in my spine. Someone peels across the parking lot, and everyone whoops and cheers. The air crackles with positive energy.

“Hurry up!” Devon calls from across the lot, waving and hopping impatiently outside his silver BMW.

“I’m coming, I’m coming.” I run as fast as I can in four-inch heels on loose gravel. Which is impressively fast, I must say.

I pass the rest of the squad and football team circled around Jarrod’s car, which pumps techno music through the lot. They’re still dressed in their uniforms, which they’ll wear all night, if tonight is anything like past game nights; it’s important to show our team pride around the city, Bianca says. Yeah, because what the citizens of Los Angeles can’t get enough of is high school football.

“Hey,” Jarrod calls to me. “You guys are coming to my house after the concert, right?”

“Course,” I say. “Who
isn’t
going?”

My answer elicits cheers from our friends. Jarrod better have some carpet cleaner handy, because his place is getting trashed tonight.

“Hey! Hey, you, Indiana, or whatever.”

I spin around and find the leather jacket guy giving me a wide smile. “Good, I thought I’d have to tackle, tackle, tackle you!” He mimics our cheer, a shit-eating grin on his face.

My friends must recognize our heckler too, because they circle around me.

“You know that guy?” Bianca hisses in my ear.

“No,” I say, offended, then call over to him, “Hey, don’t you have animals to torture behind a Dumpster or something?”

“Taking a break,” he says without missing a beat.

“Want me to mess this guy up?” Jarrod asks.

Bianca pushes Jarrod back and marches in front of me to face the guy. “Look, I don’t know who you think you are, but next time you chirp us during a game, we’re getting you kicked out.”

“Kicked out?” He claps his hand over his mouth. “You wouldn’t!”

“You better watch how you talk to us,” Jarrod says, taking a big, macho step closer.

“Indie, hurry up, we’re gonna be late!” Devon calls.

“Look,” Bianca says, catching Jarrod’s arm, “as much as I’d love for you to get better acquainted, we have a party to go to, because we have, like, lives. Come on, guys. Don’t waste your time on this loser.”

“Are you all just gonna, like, let her boss you around like that?” Leather Jacket Guy says in a perfect Bianca impression.

The weirdo makes a valid point; I hate him slightly less. But I’m running late, so I leave the petty, immature fighting to my friends.

“Finally,” Devon says as I get inside the car. “Who were you talking to?”

“Some loser.” I flip the vanity mirror down to check out my hair. It’s a good thing I’m going to a concert where wild hair is acceptable, because it’s Krazy with a capital
K
: about ninety percent frizz and ten percent curl.

“I don’t like him,” Devon says.

I flick him an incredulous look. “You can’t seriously be jealous.”

“I don’t want you talking to him.”

And I don’t want my boyfriend telling me who to talk to. I normally wouldn’t think twice before telling him exactly that, but we’ve been bickering too much lately. We need a good night.

Devon fiddles with the buttons on the dash until a Jay-Z song blasts through the speakers. “Yeah!” His head bobs in time with the music. “Hope he does this song tonight. It’s wicked.”

I smile and gaze out the window; the guy is gone. “Yeah, really wicked.”

Sweat collects in places I didn’t know was possible. Beer is sloshed down the front of my tank top, which clings to my body like I’m an extra in some sort of
Girls
Gone
Wild
video. And I smell—bad.