Chapter Two - Cheerleaders Lift Athletes

"Smile, boys!"

Mrs. Callahan's voice sliced through the buzzing energy in the auditorium, sharp and commanding, layered with that overzealous enthusiasm only a faculty yearbook advisor could muster. She hoisted her glossy camera to eye level, the lens glinting under the harsh overhead lights like an unblinking eye. The shutter clicked rapidly, capturing stills of the freshly formed soccer teams—both male and female—proud and squirming in their stiff, new St. Phillips uniforms.

The air buzzed with anticipation. The season hadn't even started, and yet the room pulsed with competition, nervous chatter, and the magnetic spark of teenage adrenaline.

Harriet lingered off to the side, arms folded loosely across her chest. Her gaze drifted across the chaos—freshly gelled hair, awkward smiles, and bright team colors. It all felt... oddly surreal. She'd been in this auditorium dozens of times, but today, something felt different. Maybe it was the fact that it was her senior year—her final round of high school cheerleading. Or maybe it was the low, persistent flutter in her stomach, a mixture of excitement and dread that clung like static.

A final year. A final chance.

Her eyes scanned the soccer players lined up in a row on the front benches, landing—predictably—on him.

Scott St. James.

Captain of the boys' team. absolute heartthrob. The kind of boy girls wrote about in their journals, scribbled his initials in the margins of math homework, and quietly obsessed over during lunch periods. Harriet wasn't immune—far from it. She had been low-key nursing a crush on Scott since junior year, when they'd been paired up for a pep rally planning committee. He was charming in that maddening way—effortless, magnetic, with a wit that made girls laugh too loudly and teachers pretend not to notice.

But she'd never acted on it. Not once.

He was Scott, and she was Harriet. Confident in her own right, sure—but in a different orbit. He had no shortage of admirers, and she wasn't about to be another nameless one chasing his attention.

Still, here she was, heart doing that ridiculous little skip as he leaned forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, hair tousled in that perfectly careless way. His cologne—a sharp, earthy scent with a hint of citrus—drifted through the air and found her like a dart.

"Okay, cheerleaders! Let's come and sit down next to the boys!" Mrs. Callahan called again, a bit more commanding now. "We'll have the two captains seated at the front, and then line up by height. Juniors on this side, seniors over there."

Harriet exhaled through her nose and pushed off the wall, weaving her way through the gathering squad with a practiced grace. Shoulders back, spine straight. A performance in its own right.

As she approached the front row, her eyes flicked toward Scott again—and to her surprise, he looked right at her. And then—God help her—he patted the seat beside him.

Her feet moved of their own accord. She slid into the spot next to him, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that she hadn't reapplied her lip gloss since second period.

Out of habit, she reached up and fluffed her ponytail, fingers adjusting the large maroon-and-gold bow that perched at the top. It was slightly off-center, and she frowned, trying to fix it without a mirror.

"You know.." Scott's voice came, low and amused, "Your bow's a little wonky."

Harriet stiffened, caught off guard. She turned just slightly, her breath hitching as he reached over, fingertips brushing her hair. With surprising gentleness, he adjusted the ribbon, smoothing the strands around it.

"There." he murmured. "Perfect."

She blinked at him, trying to play it cool despite the sudden rush of heat to her cheeks. "Gee... thanks. Didn't think you'd notice. I figured you'd just let me look tragic for the yearbook."

He smirked, leaning back on his hands. "Please. I've got a reputation to uphold. Can't have anyone thinking I sat next to someone with a crooked bow. It's practically social suicide."

A laugh bubbled out of her—light, a little awkward. She brought a hand up to cover her mouth, but it was too late. He'd seen it.

And he was smiling back.

"Okay, boys and girls—look this way!" Mrs. Callahan's voice boomed, jolting them both back into the present. "Smile! Three... two... one... Perfect! And one more... Great! Now let's have just the cheer team. Boys, you're free to head back to lessons!"

The soccer team began to stand and file out. Scott rose to his feet with the kind of casual swagger that seemed built into his DNA. But just as he was about to walk away, he paused and looked down at her.

"Hey.." he said, voice low, eyes locked on hers. "What are you doing tonight?"

Harriet blinked, thrown. "Tonight?"

"My buddy's throwing a party.." he continued, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Just seniors. Parents are out of town. Chill vibe. You in?"

She tilted her head, working hard not to look stunned. Her heart was racing. But instead, she let a slow, teasing grin tug at her lips. "Sure... I'll come. I'll text you my address—you can pick me up?"

His smile widened. "Deal."

And just like that, he was gone—vanishing into the hallway with the rest of the team. But the moment lingered.

Harriet sat frozen for a second, the whirlwind of the conversation sinking in like sunlight through fog. She bit her lip, trying to suppress the grin threatening to break free.

Then—a sharp nudge to her knee.

"Was that you chatting with Scott St. Freaking James?" Finola's voice was like a firecracker, exploding with disbelief. "Harriet—tell me everything, right now!"

Finola, fellow cheerleader and Harriet's high school bestie.

Harriet turned, cheeks still flushed, eyes dazed with disbelief and a dash of glee. "He invited me to a party tonight." she said, almost in a whisper. "You're coming over after school. You have to help me pick what to wear."

Finola's mouth dropped open. "Say no more. Fashion guru mode: activated. This is not a drill."

They both dissolved into laughter, but Harriet's mind was still spinning.

The final school bell rang like a starter pistol, sending waves of students rushing through the halls of St. Phillips like a tidal surge. But Harriet didn't join the stampede. She took her time packing up—hands slightly shaky, thoughts tangled in anticipation and nerves.

The memory of Scott's grin replayed in her mind like a favorite song on loop. She still wasn't sure it had actually happened. Maybe she'd hallucinated the whole exchange. Maybe Finola had spiked her smoothie at lunch.

"You're walking like someone about to meet the Pope!" Finola teased as they exited the school building together, linked at the elbow like always. "Harriet. Breathe. It's just a house party. Not a wedding."

Harriet groaned. "I know that. But it's Scott. He actually—spoke to me. He fixed my bow!!"

Finola threw her head back with a laugh. "That's the most you comparison I've ever heard."

They'd been best friends since junior year—bonded over a disastrous group project in English where they were stuck analyzing Wuthering Heights with two boys who thought SparkNotes was high literature. Finola, with her loud laugh and chaotic eyeliner, was the kind of girl who made life bigger, brighter. Where Harriet was measured, polished, and sometimes too in her head, Finola was wild glitter and impulse, all heart and no filter.

They worked because they were opposites in the best way.

At Harriet's house, the front door creaked open and the two girls burst inside with the urgent energy of a mission. Harriet kicked off her boots in the hallway, already halfway toward her bedroom when Finola shouted after her, "Do not wear anything beige!"

"Beige is elegant!" Harriet called back.

"Beige is boring. You're trying to seduce a soccer god, not host a funeral brunch!"

The bedroom door slammed open, and Finola followed in with a whirl of energy, backpack half unzipped and jacket already halfway off. Harriet had begun flinging clothes across the bed—dresses, skirts, jeans, sweaters, shoes with various heel heights. She stood in the center of the chaos, a hand pressed to her forehead.

"I hate everything I own." she muttered. "I look like a substitute teacher playing dress-up."

Finola dropped her bag and dove into the pile with the precision of someone who took fashion as seriously as breathing. "Okay, no. We're not spiraling. We're editing. Curating."

"Okay.." Finola announced dramatically, holding up a silky dark red top. "This! Pair it with the black leather skirt. You'll look effortlessly hot but not like you tried too hard. Slightly dangerous. Very femme fatale. Perfect for making a soccer boy sweat."

Harriet eyed it, hesitant. "It's... low-cut."

Finola gave her a flat look. "That's the point! You have amazing collarbones and you never use them. Tonight we use them."

Harriet's bedroom looked like a fashion hurricane had torn through it. Clothes were everywhere—on her bed, on the floor, draped dramatically over the desk chair like some tragic couture crime scene. Harriet stood in the middle of it all, half-dressed, fully panicking.

"I swear to God, if I wear this I'm going to give someone a heart attack, Fi." she muttered, staring at the silky red top clutched in her hands.

From her perch on the bed, Finola snorted. "Yeah. Scott St. James. That's the goal."

"No.." Harriet said, "I meant my mother. If she saw me in a top this low-cut, she would—like—levitate. Or summon a ghost to stage an intervention."

Finola collapsed backward into the pillows, laughing so hard her eyeliner smudged a little. "Harriet, I love you, but you sound like someone's Victorian aunt. Come on. It's a party, not Sunday school. You're allowed to have cleavage."

Harriet groaned and flopped down next to her. "I don't even know if I can pull this off. I'm more 'coffee shop cute' than 'sultry temptress.'"

"Lies!" Finola declared, sitting up like a woman on a mission. "You have main character energy! Don't second-guess it."

Harriet stood in front of the mirror, smoothing her hands over the red top for what felt like the millionth time. The neckline still made her nervous—it dipped lower than anything in her closet, and the fabric clung in ways she wasn't used to. Every time she caught her reflection, it startled her a little.

Finola sat cross-legged on the bed behind her, sipping Coke straight from the can, eyes sharp and assessing. "Okay. Hair? Perfect. Makeup? Hot. Top? Saucy but tasteful. Skirt? Criminally short. I approve."

Harriet rolled her eyes but smiled. "You sound like you're dressing a Barbie."

"Please. You're the Bratz doll we never got in stores. A little mysterious, a little misunderstood, probably hides trauma behind her lip gloss."

"I hate you." Harriet muttered, even though she was laughing.

"No you don't." Finola grinned, flopping backward dramatically onto the bed. "God, this is so fun. I live for the pre-party chaos. The nerves, the outfit panic, the 'what if I say something stupid' fear spiral..."

Harriet turned, biting her lip. "Okay but seriously, what if I do say something stupid? Or worse, like... get something in my teeth or laugh too loud or trip over something and fall into a lamp."

Finola sat up, raising one perfectly groomed brow. "Then congratulations, you'll be just like every other hormonal, barely-functioning teenage girl who's ever gone to a party hoping her crush might kiss her."

Harriet groaned and sat down beside her, tugging her skirt a little lower. "Ugh, but what if he does kiss me? Like, for real. What if it doesn't stop at kissing? What if—" She trailed off, cheeks flushing.

Finola perked up instantly. "Wait. Are we talking, like, sex sex?"

Harriet groaned again, this time louder, and buried her face in her hands. "I don't know! It's not like I've planned anything! But I keep thinking... like... what if the night goes that way? What if I do something wrong or weird or awkward and he tells all his friends I'm a total loser?"

Finola blinked, then turned to face her fully. "Loser?! Harriet you're one of the most popular girls in our class! Besides, who cares if you sleep with him.. Not like you're a virgin.."

Harriet hesitated. It wasn't something she talked about. Not because she was ashamed, but because it always made things weird.

"...Yeah." she said finally, quietly. "I am a virgin."

Finola's mouth dropped open. "Really? But—wait—you dated Alex for, like, five months last year!"

Harriet shrugged. "Yeah, and it was fine, but it wasn't like that. We kissed and stuff, but I never wanted to go further. It didn't feel right. Honestly... I don't think I've ever felt that way with anyone before."

Finola softened, her teasing energy dimming a little. "Hey. That's totally okay. You don't have to prove anything to anyone. Especially not some guy at a party."

"I know, I just..." Harriet sighed, fiddling with the edge of her top. "I don't want to be lame. Or have him think I'm some kind of kid. Everyone acts like if you're eighteen and haven't had sex by then, you're either lying or broken."

"First of all.." Finola said, voice firm, "you are not lame. And second, if Scott thinks that makes you less cool, I'll personally throw this can of Coke at his face. You get to choose who you give that part of yourself to. And when. If it's not tonight, then it's not. End of story."

Harriet looked up at her best friend, touched. "God, you're like the big sister I never asked for but definitely need."

"I know. I'm wise. I'm basically the Yoda of slutty teenagers!!"

Harriet burst into laughter as her phone buzzed on the bed. 

Harriet squeaked. "He's here!"

Finola leapt to her feet and shoved her toward the mirror. "One final look. You're glowing. You look incredible. You've got this."

Harriet inhaled, exhaled, and reached for her jacket. "Okay. Wish me luck."

"I'm not wishing you anything. You don't need luck—you've got legs, lipstick, and me on speed dial. Go!"

As Harriet stepped out the front door and spotted Scott's car idling at the curb, heart thudding in her chest, she felt a rush of nerves—but also a strange kind of peace. She might be a little scared. A little unsure. But she was also completely herself.