Ann Martin - Stacey And The Cheerleaders

Stacey and the Cheerleaders

Ann M. Martin

Chapter 1.

"Watch out!"

The shout startled me. Before I could turn around, something hit my shoulder. It threw me off balance. My books went flying, my feet shot out from under me, and I fell.

I, Stacey McGill, was a victim of the winter's first snowball. Or one of the first, anyway.

Until that moment, it had been a great morning. Snow had fallen overnight, even though it was only early December. I had wolfed down my breakfast, put on my new plum-colored corduroy pants and white down jacket for the first time, and taken a nice, slow walk to school with my friend Claudia. The sun was blazing away, and Stoneybrook had never looked so gorgeous.

Now, I adore snow. But right then, sitting in it was not what I'd had in mind.

As Claudia helped me to nay feet, I could

see I'd left two plum-colored streaks in the snow. "Ohhhh, look," I said.

"Hmm, I guess you better wash those pants separately," Claud remarked.

I was too annoyed to laugh. "Thanks," I replied, brushing myself off.

A big shadow loomed behind me. "Sorry. I didn't mean to hit you."

I looked up.

And up ... and up.

My attacker must have been at least six feet tall. I was eye level with his jacket, which had a varsity letter sewn to it — the letters SMS with a basketball across the middle. (SMS, by the way, stands forStoneybrookMiddle School .)

When I reached his face, my anger melted away. I knew who he was. Everyone in SMS did. RJ Blaser was a star of the SMS basketball team.

I should explain something. This winter our school had been swept up by basketball fever. Our team was number one. Totally undefeated. Even I had started going to the games, and I'm no jock. The Stoneybrook News, which never writes about SMS, had printed a big article about the team.

To be hit by a snowball from behind was no fun. To be hit by RJ Blaser? Well, that was

different. I felt kind of honored, I had noticed RJ around school (who hadn't?), but this was the first time he had ever looked me in the eye.

"That's okay," I squeaked. "It's . . . soft . . ."

He looked confused. "Your shoulder?"

Claudia rolled her eyes. "No, the snow."

"It wasn't hard enough to hurt," I quickly added. "Really."

We stared at each other, smiling and saying nothing. Claudia brushed off the back of my corduroys with sharp, strong swipes.

"Um, my name is RJ," he said.

"I know," I replied without thinking. "I mean, I went to a basketball game last week and they were calling out your name over the loudspeaker a lot."

RJ's face brightened. "Was that the 64-59 over Mercer or the 70-60 over Lawrenceville?"

"The ... uh ... Mercer one, I think."

"Yeah. I scored twenty-seven points and collected five fouls."

Huh? I thought he said fowls, and I couldn't remember any chickens running around the basketball court. But I said, "Wow," because I could tell I was supposed to be impressed.

"So that's why they were calling my name," RJ added. Then he pointed toward the school

and said, "That's Marty Bukowski. You probably heard his name, too. He's the one I was throwing the snowball at."

I looked across the lawn and recognized Marty. He was with Malik Jaffrey and Wayne McConville, two other drop-dead cute basketball stars. With them were four of the most popular girls in the school: Darcy Redmond, Sheila McGregor, Margie Greene, and Penny Weller — all cheerleaders.

"I guess you better stick to basketballs, huh?" Claudia piped up.

RJ gave her a blank look. "Say what?"

"You know, instead of snowballs?" Claudia glanced at me warily. She must have thought she was intruding on something, because she started backing away. "Just a joke. Uh, I better get going. I have some questions for my homeroom teacher. See you later."

"That's okay — "I began, but Claudia was booking.

As she passed RJ's friends, one of them yelled, "Yo, Blaser. It's cold. We're going in."

"Okay," RJ called back. "Later!"

The group started walking toward school. I was a little disappointed. It would have been cool to meet them.

"It is kind of late," RJ said. "Want to walk with me?"

"Sure," I replied.

As we headed in, I didn't feel the wetness at the back of my corduroys at all. I didn't feel much of anything. I wondered if anyone was actually witnessing my walk with RJ Blaser.

"So, you're . . . ?" RJ was asking me a question.

"I'm fine," I answered.

He flashed a big smile. "No, your name. You didn't tell me."

"Oh!" I must have turned red, because I could feel my ears heating up. "I'm Stacey McGill."

He nodded and looked earnestly at the ground. For a moment neither of us said anything. Then, as RJ held open the front door of the school for me, he asked, "Did you see Mall Warriors II yet — you know, the movie?"

I shook my head. "Uh-uh."

"Good. We can see it Friday night. It's playing in town. Okay?"

"Okay, sure."

Rrrriinnngg! The homeroom bell echoed through the school.

RJ began trotting down the front hall as if it were a basketball court. "My dad can drive us," he called over his shoulder. "I'll get your address later. See you."

" 'Bye!" I called.

Kids were scurrying to their classrooms. I stood rooted to the spot until no one else was

in the hall. It took me a moment to realize I hadn't picked up my books from the snowy sidewalk. I'd have to run out and get them, and I'd be late for homeroom.

But you know what? I didn't care.

I was going to go out with RJ Blaser.

Okay, time out. Do I sound hopelessly boy-crazy? I'm not. I mean, I do like boys, but they're not the only things in my life.

I guess I should tell you about myself. My full name is Anastasia Elizabeth McGill, but please don't ever call me that. (My parents are the only ones who do, and just when they're angry.) I'm an only child. I'm thirteen years old and in eighth grade. My family moved to Stoneybrook when I was twelve. Before that we lived in New York City.

Yes, kids do grow up in the Big Apple — and like it. Does that surprise you? It surprised some kids in Stoneybrook when I first moved here. They believed New York had only office buildings and theaters. And some of them had these weird expectations that all New Yorkers should be warped, nasty, or snobby.

No way. New York does have its problems, but I love the city. Plenty of kids live there, and there's so much to see and do it's impossible to be bored.

We first moved to Stoneybrook when my dad's company transferred him here. It's a suburb, but to us it felt like the country. I met some really great friends, including Claudia, and I joined the Baby-sitters Club (more about that later). Then came the McGill Family Drama. We moved back toNew York when Dad was relocated again, and he and Mom started fighting all the time. Soon they were asking me the Big Question: whom did I want to live with after the divorce?

Well, it wasn't as sudden as it sounds. The problems had been growing for awhile. But nothing had prepared me for how much the divorce would hurt. After lots of crying and arguing and talking, I decided to stay with Mom. Even though I'm such a New Yorker, I had grown to love Stoneybrook, too. And I missed my new friends terribly.

So we were off to Connecticut again, but this time there were only two of us. We've been here ever since. Stoneybrook is just a train ride away from Manhattan. I visit Dad pretty often, so I have the best of both worlds.

What else can I tell you about me? Here are some things I like: clothes, movies, kids, and math. (Yes, math. I can't help it. I'm good at it, and I think numbers are fascinating.)

Here are some things I don't like: snobbi-

ness, seeing people barf, and doctors. Not necessarily in that order. I have to see doctors a lot, and I probably will for the rest of my life. You see, I have diabetes. That means my body can't regulate the amount of sugar in my blood. Have you heard of people who get a "sugar rush" if they eat too much candy? Well, multiply that by a hundred, and that's what I could get if I eat even a small amount of sugar. It's not just a rush, either. I could end up in the hospital. To keep my body running normally I have to give myself daily injections of a drug called insulin. It sounds gross, I know, but you get used to it if you have diabetes.