Free Stacey And The Cheerleaders by Ann M. Martin Page B

in the middle of a fashion show.
    "Go ahead, Stacey!" Jessi whispered.
    I stood up to a chorus of "Good luck!" from my friends. I adjusted my Danskin outfit and walked to the gym floor.
    A logjam had formed in front of the cheerleaders. Everyone wanted to be in the front row. Girls were standing so close together, they would have knocked each other out if they had had to do a kick.
    I guess that would have been one way of making the first cut.
    "Whoa, stop it!" Darcy shouted. "Let's spread out! You're all going to get an equal chance!"
    The cheerleaders plunged into the crowd, gently pushing and pulling the girls farther into the gym. It made me think of cattle rustling.
    When we were finally spread out, the cheerleaders distributed themselves around the gym. Darcy announced, "Okay, make sure you can see one of us. We'll demonstrate the routine twice, and you join in the third time."
    I was on the left side of the group, at about the middle of the gym. Sheila had made sure to be the cheerleader nearest me. She saw me over her shoulder and gave a smile.
    Darcy pressed a button on a boom box in the bleachers. A rock song blared through the gym.
    Well, the combination they did was embarrassingly easy. A few simple steps, kicks, and turns, and one split at the end.
    Everyone would be able to do it, I thought. It would be impossible for them to cut anybody.
    I was wrong. You'd think some of those girls had never learned their right from their left. And their faces! Half of them looked as if they were being tortured. Not to mention the "cheer," which sounded like a chain gang chant.
    "You must be kidding!" Darcy's voice boomed out. "Come on! Have some fun with this!"
    After running through the routine a few more times, the cheerleaders began walking around the room. They would casually look over the crowd, then whisper into the ear of a girl.
    I was one of the first who got a whisper. It was Sheila, saying, "Get away from these goons. We want to see your routine."
    I walked to the stands. My BSC friends were staring at me, all confused. "You got cut?" Jessi exclaimed.
    "I got kept," I said, "for the finals."
    They jumped up and cheered. We waited patiently until only the finalists (and their friends) were left in the stands — twelve finalists altogether.
    In the back of the gym, near the locker room door, the rejected girls were murmuring and complaining. Some were sobbing. The one who had asked the question earlier was at the table in front, pleading with Darcy.
    Before long that girl was running for the locker room door, weeping uncontrollably. Darcy just looked annoyed.
    "Okay," she announced. "I'm going to assign you each a number. Remember it, because that's the order of your routine."
    She pointed to us, one by one, counting out numbers. I was five.
    The torture began. Number One was Kathleen Lopez — tall, willowy-thin like a model, and stunning. She even looked great giving her cassette to Darcy. Her routine was pretty good, too. I was dying. "Jessi..." I moaned.
    "No comparison," Jessi whispered. "Not even close."
    Lisa Kedem, Ronnie Gallea, and Diane Maqnani followed. Each of them had a decent routine — but none of them had been trained by the great Jessi Ramsey, and it showed.
    I was beginning to calm down.
    "Number Five!" Darcy shouted. "Who's Number — "
    "Here!" I said, jumping up.
    From behind me, I heard: "Go!" "Good luck!" "Break a leg!" "Show 'em!"
    Jessi and I shared a Look. Now she seemed more nervous than I did.
    I took my cassette and walked to Darcy, flashing my biggest, happy-to-be-here smile.
    What happened next? It's all a blur. My body was on auto-pilot. Here's what I remember: I kept smiling. I didn't lose my place. And the cheerleaders did not take their eyes off me during my performance.
    When I was done, my BSC friends gave me a loud standing ovation.
    I stood up, panting and sweaty. My breathing sounded like a hacksaw in the vast gym. Very chic.
    I couldn't help staring at the cheerleaders. I