They put us through our paces, and Grimshaw if anything is overqualified—her toes are too pointed, her jumps are too high, her carriage is too … lofty, somehow. When she does anything everyone stops to watch. She’s very graceful and can do handsprings and aerials, and her jumps hang suspended about six feet in the air for a full minute, with her legs fully extended and her toes perfectly pointed. She has way, way too much technique. But the poor girl never opens her mouth or smiles. When Nanci Lee watches her, she shakes her head, turns aside, and visibly mouths, “No spirit,” to the other two coaches. “This isn’t ballet,” she says. I, on the other hand, clap and shout peppy slogans without any display of rhythm or grace. I am not a bit ironic, either, not even during cheers like “Excellence, Perfection, Teamwork, Success,” which make me feel like spitting on the ground. I go through the motions because I don’t want this fiasco to be blamed on me. Between the two of us, we might make a whole cheerleader, but as individuals, I think we’re safe from being selected for the squad.

At lunch, Rack and Angel stay very busy on their phones, so nobody comes back to the clinic after lunch except for me and Grimshaw. Nanci Lee has a speech prepared. Cheerleading is not just bouncing around with pompoms, she says, hoping you get a shot at being popular. It is a serious, highly competitive sport. If you don’t make it as a freshman, your chances are basically nil. She stops. Nobody says anything. Her assistants stand behind her, looking nervous. You don’t just wake up one day and decide you’re going to be a cheerleader that day, she continues. You train, you condition, you follow the cheerleading code of conduct and sign a contract. She stops again. A silence opens up. There’s only the cheerleaders getting her lecture, plus me and Grimshaw. Nobody says anything, or appears to be taking this too seriously. Nanci Lee throws her clipboard down on the ground and walks out of the gym.

Rack steps forward and picks up the clipboard. “So,” she says. “They’re gonna need sweaters.” She looks at Grimshaw and points at her with the pen. “Size?”

“Medium.”

Rack looks at me. “Medium?” she asks.

“Sure.”

Upon becoming an official cheerleader, Grimshaw wastes no time in turning us into a dance team. She has better ways of doing everything. She wants to make us more dance-y, less jerky and stompy and stupid and old-fashioned. “It’s not anything new,” she insists. “Other schools started doing it this way a long time ago.” The co-captains are okay with that idea. Who knows, it might even make cheerleading cool again.