I Was a Non-Blonde Cheerleader by Kieran Scott Page B

face and her finger held up in triumph—We’re number one. There were trophies in almost all the photos.
    “Wow,” I said. “You’ve won a lot of competitions.”
    Coach Holmes looked over her shoulder. “Oh, yeah, I guess. But I’ve lost as many as I’ve won.”
    “It doesn’t look like it,” Mindy said.
    “Take a closer look,” Coach Holmes said as she came out with a few skirts and tops. “Those pictures in the middle, there’s no trophy. We still had fun, though.”
    I smiled. It was nice to know our coach wasn’t just about winning. Especially since it seemed that was all that mattered to our captain.
    “Here. These should work,” Coach Holmes told us, handing each of us a uniform. She added a white SDH CheerleaderT-shirt and a pair of blue shorts with a little white megaphone on the leg to each pile. “Don’t drive yourselves nuts with those cheers tonight. I’m sure you’ll be fine tomorrow.”
    “Thanks, Coach,” Mindy and I said in unison.
    “So wear your uniforms to school with white ankle socks. You both have white cheerleading sneakers, right?” she asked.
    “I have Sage’s extra pair,” Mindy said.
    “Mine have red and black stripes,” I said.
    “Well, they’ll have to do for now, but I’ll order you both some new ones tonight,” she said. “What size?”
    “Oh . . . uh . . . five and a half,” I said, surprised. “How much are they?”
    “They’re considered part of the uniform, so the school foots the bill,” she said. “But you two are going to have to buy competition uniforms, ribbons, practice uniforms and sweats.”
    Holy shopping spree, Batman. Number signs floated through my head like I was some crazed Scrooge McDuck cartoon.
    “Don’t worry,” Coach said with a laugh when she saw our faces. “We’ll figure it all out over the next couple of days. Now, when you’re in uniform, it’s no nail polish, no jewelry, and hair goes up.” She paused and looked at my forehead. “Got any good, soft headbands?” she asked.
    “I’ll get some,” I told her.
    “Good. Make sure they’re light blue, white or yellow. Ask Whitney where she gets hers. She’s been wearing them ever since she chopped her hair off last year.”
    “Okay,” I said. At least the only other short-haired-girl on the team was the only other girl on the team who was talking to me. Maybe it was short-haired-girl solidarity.
    “See you tomorrow,” Coach said, dismissing us.
    Mindy and I turned and headed for the door, clutching our uniforms to our chests. My head felt like it was bursting with information. It was exhausting. And I still had to go home and practice for hours. What was I thinking?
    “Oh, and ladies?” Coach Holmes called out, for the first time showing the infectious smile that I’d seen in all her pictures. “Welcome to the squad.”

“We are the Crabs! The Mighty Sand Dune Crabs! Stand up and shout for the Mighty Sand Dune Crabs!”
    You know, the more times you say the word
crabs
the weirder the word starts to sound.
    “Crabs,” I said to myself, staring into my full-length mirror, which I had been practicing in front of for an hour. “Crabscrabscrabscrabscrabs.”
    My bedroom door, which was already ajar, creaked all the way open. My father stood in the hall, eyeing me warily.
    “Michella!” he called. “I think all the cheerleading has finally gotten to her brain.”
    “Say crabs, like, ten times and you’ll understand,” I said.
    “Twenty-five cents, please,” he said, holding out his hand and smirking.
    I tipped my head back. “Oh . . . 
crabs.
” I shook a quarter from the South Park bank where I keep my like-quarter stash and handed it to him. Sometimes I think if I could just stop saying
like
, I could have a wardrobe that rivaled Gwyneth Paltrow’s.
    “So listen, UNLV called and asked me to come out and give a guest lecture,” my father said as he pocketed my cash. “Your mom and I are going to Vegas!”
    “Vegas, Baby!