Marcia Clark: The Competition

The fourth book in the Rachel Knight series, 2014

Monday, October 7

6:51 a.m.

Christy Shilling rolledover and squinted at her nightstand for the fifth time. Why hadn’t her alarm clock gone off? She pushed the Kleenex and can of Icy Hot spray out of the way. Still too early, but at least she could get up now. She hadn’t slept more than two hours total, and it wasn’t a good sleep. She’d had constant nightmares of waking up, going to her closet, and finding it wasn’t there. The pain was still so real Christy was afraid to look at her closet door.

But there it was. The plastic dry cleaner’s bag, hanging in front of the mirror, right where her mother had left it. Christy’s heart soared. The Marion J. Fairmont High School cheerleading uniform in that bag was the realization of a dream she’d had since third grade, when the Newport Junior High cheerleading squad came to her school. She’d never forget the moment those girls ran out onto the auditorium floor. Christy had watched in openmouthed awe. Always the smallest in her class, she’d kneeled on her chair to take it all in. And from the very first shout, Christy had known she’d do anything to be one of them.

She’d made the junior high squad, and those tryouts had been tough. But they were nothing compared to varsity. Weeks of practice in the school gym, the rec center gym, her backyard. The sore hamstrings, the bruises, the falls, the constant anxiety. She’d been so nervous the first day of tryouts she’d had to run to the locker room to throw up. And after Christy made the first cut, the pressure only got worse. At that point just the cutthroats were left. She’d been proud-and a little amazed-to find herself among them.

Throughout the next two weeks of practice, rumors flew about what the judges were looking for. Hair in ponytails, hair in pigtails; no makeup at all, light makeup, glam makeup; rail thin, muscular thin, “healthy”-whatever that meant; short, medium, tall; blonde but not bottle blonde, brunette, auburn. Christy threw up so often her clothes got baggy. Her mom had threatened to make her quit if she got any thinner. Christy tried using safety pins to make her clothes look tighter, but her mom had seen right through it and instituted morning weigh-ins. Desperate, afraid to ask anyone for help-if the coach found out she’d be cut for sure-Christy had searched the Web. She’d found her salvation in protein shakes and Ensure. Finally, the needle on the bathroom scale held steady at 103 pounds. Christy’s eyes had filled with tears of relief. But nothing worked when it came to sleeping. She’d tried melatonin; warm milk; long, hot baths; even counting sheep. All useless. The last four days of tryouts, she was running on fumes.

But she’d made it. The varsity cheerleading squad.

Today would be her first pep rally. In just a few hours, she’d run out onto the gym floor to do her first routine in front of the whole school. Christy’s breath caught as she pictured the packed bleachers, heard the roar, the stomping of feet, the whistles. She saw herself yelling to the crowd, taking her first run for her handspring-roundoff combination-and her final move, a climb to the top of the pyramid, then a somersault through the air into the basketed hands of the bigger base girls. Christy thrilled to the imagined cheers and fist pumps, hugged herself as she savored the moment. Her cell phone rattled on her nightstand. A text from Harley Jenson. They’d been besties since they pulled their nap-time rugs together on the first day of preschool. “The big day! Break a leg-KIDDING. You’ll be awesome! Xo, Harley.” Christy hugged the phone, jumped out of bed, and headed for the shower.

7:42 a.m.

“Honey, don’t stress. You’ll do great-”

Harley Jenson looked up, forced a smile, and sprinkled more brown sugar on his oatmeal, then dropped back into his world history notes.

“Harley, listen to me.” His mother pulled out a chair and sat across from him. “I don’t want you to pressure yourself. If you don’t get the scholarship, we’ll find a way to make it happen, I promise.” She squeezed his arm. “Okay?”

Harley covered his mother’s hand with his own. “Sure, Mom.” He tried to give her a genuine smile. “I just want to give it my best shot, that’s all.”

His mother sighed. “Of course, sweetheart.” She squeezed his hand, then got up and moved to the sink to hide the tears that burned in her eyes. The truth was, she didn’t know that they’d find a way to make it happen. With Andrew laid off, nothing was certain anymore. At least, nothing good. They’d planned a family trip to Greece that summer, knowing it might be their last chance to travel together before Harley went off to college at MIT in the fall. Now those plans were a taunting, bitter memory. Family vacations? A pricey, prestigious school for Harley? That was for rich people with steady incomes. This family would be lucky to keep the house. But she didn’t mourn for herself or her husband. They’d had their chances to shoot for the moon. It was Harley she mourned for. The unfairness of it all made her heart ache. He’d done everything right. Made the grades, done the extracurricular résumé builders-and he’d been duly rewarded with early admission to MIT. But that was back when they’d been paying customers. Now, the only way he’d get in was on a scholarship. And the competition for the few slots that afforded a full ride was breathtaking. Harley never complained, but she knew he was working night and day, seven days a week, to make it happen.

Harley closed his notebook, forced down one last bite of oatmeal-it was hard to get food past the knot in his stomach-and took his bowl to the sink. He rinsed it quickly before his mother could see how little he’d eaten. He’d studied hard, but he still didn’t feel ready for his exam. And he had to ace it. If he didn’t, he’d ruin his perfect 4.2-and probably his one shot at the scholarship for MIT. He needed more time. Even one more hour would help. His cell phone buzzed. It was a text from Christy. “Thx, Scooter! See you there! Xoxo.” Scooter-as in the opposite of Harley Davidson-had been his nickname in elementary school. Only Christy still called him that. He didn’t love it, but it was better than Vespa. Harley frowned at the phone. He hated to miss her pep rally, but it was his only chance to sneak in more study time. Besides, she’d never know if he didn’t tell her.

Harley leaned down to kiss his mother’s cheek. “Bye, Ma. Don’t work too hard.”

As was her habit, she walked Harley to the door.

He slid into his backpack. “Love ya!”

“Love you back!” His mother swallowed hard as she watched him head out, his heavy backpack swinging behind him. He still moved like the little boy who’d given her a nervous-brave smile as he left for his first day of school-a side-to-side roll that reminded her of a skater. She smiled with wistful eyes as he headed down the front walk and out into the world.

10:45 a.m.

Principal Campbell’s voiceblared through the classroom loudspeakers. “As you know, it’s Homecoming, and I’m sure you’re all as excited about it as I am. Pep rally starts at eleven a.m. sharp. Show your school spirit and greet our new cheerleaders. See you there! Go, Falcons!”