The Competition - [2]

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.

1

10:45 a.m.

Principal Campbell’s voice blared 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!”

Groans went up in nearly every classroom as the students rolled their eyes and traded disgusted looks. The truth was, they didn’t mind the break. Any excuse to get out of class.

10:59 a.m.

The gymnasium buzzed with heat and raucous energy; the bleachers, designed to hold three thousand, were nearly packed to capacity. Girls’ high-pitched notes and boys’ hornlike, cracking bleats mingled and snowballed into a roar. Wincing at the din, geometry teacher Adam Levy leaned toward Hector Lopez, the Spanish teacher. “Bet you wouldn’t mind having library duty today.”

Hector sighed. “Yeah, no kidding. Sara totally lucked out.”

Finally, Principal Dale Campbell walked out to the center of the floor, the wireless microphone invisible in his large mitt of a hand. He still carried himself like the linebacker he’d been when he was in high school. The principal loved these rare opportunities to see all the kids together like this. To him it was a family gathering. He tapped the mic, waited for everyone to settle down, then thanked the crowd for coming-as if they’d had a choice-and read off the announcements: a bake sale for the Woodland Hills Home for the Elderly, the job fair next month, and the upcoming performances of the junior and senior orchestras and jazz bands.

“And since our fantastic jazz singer Sheila Wagner has graduated, it’s my pleasure to announce that her replacement will be Dimitri Rabinow-”

Girls shouted out in singsong tones, “We love you, Dimitri!” and “Dimitri’s so hot!”-sparking a wave of laughter.

Principal Campbell chuckled along with them. “Seems we’ve made a popular choice.” Then he pushed his hands down, gesturing for them to be quiet. “And now, the moment we’ve all been waiting for: Fairmont High’s new, world-class varsity cheerleaders-I give you…the Falconettes!”

The locker room door at the far end of the gym opened, and a single line of girls in blue-and-gold pleated skirts and blue sweaters bearing the gold outlined image of a falcon in midflight came bursting out, cheeks shining.

They went into their V formation. Christy Shilling tilted her head and smiled at the crowd. Cheerleading 101. Captain Tammy Knopler, in position at the apex of the V, shouted the cue for their windup chant, “Hey! Go! Hey! Fight!” They clapped out the rhythm for four beats, then started to yell the words. The students joined in, stomping and pounding the wooden bleachers as they shouted, “Go!” and “Fight!”

After a few rounds, the squad threw their arms straight up in the air and called out, “Go, Falcons!” The crowd obediently roared back, “Go, Falcons!” The V stretched out into a line, and Christy took the brief run to start her first tumbling pass. Just as she launched into her handspring, the double doors behind the top row of bleachers flew open. At first, no one noticed the two figures who stood there, rifles in hand. The crowd continued to clap and shout; Christy went into her roundoff. As she turned in the air, the shorter of the two figures raised an assault rifle and fired off four rapid shots. The blasts ripped through the noisy gym. A hush fell, and for an instant, wide-eyed students turned to stare at one another. Christy landed heavily and stuttered backward on her heels.