My (short) cheerleading career

smile, smile.

I have never smiled so much in my life. I smiled until my cheeks hurt and lines bracketed my 13year-old mouth.

I practiced, but I noticed that none of the coaches paid attention to me. I had taken six years of dance and gymnastics classes, but six years of doing routines in some lady’s basement do not a cheerleading tryout make.

Worse, I no longer had the build of my younger, shorter, skinnier self. I now had an average build. I didn’t stand out. I had feathered hair like the other girls (though mine was asymmetrical and plastered flat with Final Net hairspray), green eyeshadow (don’t ask), root beer lip gloss (my idea of fashion) and clothes from two years prior and two inches shorter.

The girls who were getting the attention were slim and pretty, wore the latest fashions and had well-applied makeup. They had no trouble acting enthusiastic and happy. My friend, though stocky and not popular, did a couple flips and became part of their group.

• The day of mock tryouts approached. We were going to perform, one by one, on the auditorium stage. The auditorium doubled as the lunch room, so the smell of Bonne Bell lip gloss mingled with the odor of school food.

Just before the mocks began, the coaches let us rub Vaseline on our teeth so all that smiling wouldn’t cause the inside of our lips to stick to them.

When my turn came, my palms sweating, my mind a blank, I ran out from the wings with a frozen smile and yelled unconvincingly, “Fire up!” Then . . .

Toe touch: I couldn’t do the side splits on the floor, much less in the air.

Herky: I prayed my various limbs were doing their various parts.

Splits: I sank into the splits in one direction, adrenaline getting me lower to the ground than I ever had gotten before. Buoyed by this pleasant surprise, I pivoted to do the splits in the other direction and — something huge in my thigh gave way. I could practically hear the “sproing.” I know my smile faltered, but the silence pressed me on. I stood up for my final trick.

How I got to the side of the stage I’m not sure because I couldn’t feel my right leg. I ran from the wings on my numb leg and, at the last moment, balked. Titters from the crowd. I gingerly performed a roundoff and quit the stage.

My hopes crashing around my ears, I watched the other girls do their routines. I remember one girl leaping up for her toe touch looking even less athletic than I did but with admirable spirit. I knew she wouldn’t make the squad, and it hurt to see.

That was the mock tryout. The real tryout was two weeks away. At this point I should have dropped out. Plenty of girls already had. But I didn’t want to. Like an addicted gambler, I still had an idea that there was some small chance I might make it.

• Tryouts were anticlimactic. I don’t even remember them. What I do remember is sitting by the phone that night in the family den. The coaches had said they would call the girls who made the team. As evening wore on to night, I realized I was not going to get the call. I felt stupid for hoping.

Much later at a pep rally, I watched the cheerleaders and realized I could never do what they did. They smiled and did tricks that were beyond me, looking prettier and more graceful than I could be. Plus, I didn’t care what the ninthgrade boys did on the football field. I didn’t care about football. The trouble was, everyone else seemed to.

Now I have a daughter who wants to try out for cheerleading. Is that good? Is that bad? If she makes it, will that mean more mean-girl pressure than she would ordinarily face? If she doesn’t make it, will she feel like a failure as I did?

I won’t stand in her way. She has to experience it herself. But … I worry.