“Eyes on the field, girls,” she calls to us.Īshley and I turn around just in time to see Darcy Hawthorne intercept a pass. O’Donnell, our cheerleading coach, is a stickler for big smiles. “Shut up! I do not,” I reply, through teeth clenched in a big smile. Third is actually Cranfield Bartlett III, but nobody ever calls him that, not even his parents. “I didn’t know you liked Third,” she teases. My friend Ashley swats me with a pom-pom, her dark eyes flashing with mischief. Third sees me, though, and waves his trombone from where he’s sitting with the rest of the brass section. As the pep band strikes up “We Will Rock You,” I look up in the stands to see if Zach Norton is watching. I finish off the cheer with a star jump and a high kick, then fling my maroon-and-white pom-poms skyward, catching them neatly on the way down. “D-E-F-E-N-S-E! DEFENSE, CONCORD, DEFENSE!” “When there are boys you have to worry about how you look, and whether they like you, and why they like another girl better, and whether they’re going to ask you to something or other.
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