Dying with Her Cheer Pants On

by Seanan McGuire

(They’d all put their names into the sacred gym bag, and when Maddy—who was Squad Leader, even though there was barely any squad left—pulled out Bridget’s name, she couldn’t argue. The gym bag’s word was law.)

I used to do gymnastics at my old school. I’ve never done cheer before, but I’m comfortable with falling from pretty decent heights, and I don’t flinch when people throw me. I was hoping I could sign up for tryouts?”

“if you held a candle to that girl’s ear, it would be the first time anyone ever saw light in her eyes.”

(She had a real fondness for people who were cruel to women, children, or animals. One of Jude’s earliest memories was watching her mother eat a man who’d been running a puppy mill out of his basement.

and that’s enough to make me glad I don’t remember the rest. Who wants to remember their own embalming, anyway? I just wish the amnesia had been nice enough kick in after I woke up eight feet underground, rather than before, since I’d rather not remember that, either.

the Y-shaped incision from my autopsy meant bikini season was definitely going to suck from now on. I fingered the knot below my belly button. Did they have to make the stitches so big and ugly? Maybe I could replace the black thread with something in the school colors—turn it into a fashion statement, instead of an eyesore. Lace-up cheerleaders could totally be the next big thing.

Heather was a special case, and it involved dark magic, which we generally don’t recommend. Colleen actually updated the squad rulebook to include ‘do not practice dark magic or we will kick you out, and also we may let Heather eat you.’”

“We’re a cheerleading squad, not an ancient sisterhood dedicated to fighting the forces of evil,” said Jude, heaping more salad on her plate. “You say ‘potato,’ I say ‘who was it that came home last month needing stitches down her ribs because she had just been attacked by a paper tiger?’”

It’s sort of a miracle that Laurie wasn’t too lazy to go out for the cheerleading squad, except for the part where once you wear the orange and green uniform of a Fighting Pumpkin, you basically have a license to cut class. She became a cheerleader because it allowed her to be even lazier. Now that was dedication.

“Do you work here?” “Oh my God what the fuck,” muttered Marti, slapping her forehead with one hand. Louder, she said, “Jude. He’s wearing the logo of this shit-shack on his left boy-boob. If he doesn’t work here, he’s a murder-hobo, and we need to leave.”

Once you’ve known the terror of large groups of girls in short skirts and spirit bows, you can never truly be free of it.