Dennis Slate is good looking, and has Tyson’s stature; he was a pro football player in the nineties, according to Wikipedia. There are dozens and dozens of family photos available on the internet, most of them shots of him coaching his sons’ little league teams. There are also dozens and dozens of quotes that seem innocuous at first glance, things about his intensity, his willingness to do whatever it took to win, his unforgiving nature…all qualities that, when you pair them with a murder investigation, are eerie.
I hear Tyson’s name from the television, and I look up to see the camera is now panning across the cheerleaders, lingering a little too long on their chests. “Oh, hey— we’ve heard some rumors that the pretty cheerleader on your screen has captured Tyson Slate’s heart— maybe we’ve found the reason for his increased spirit right there!” one of the commentators jokes in that elbow-nudge sort of way. I audibly gasp when I realize that the camera has stopped roaming and zoomed in tight on Trishelle’s face.
“Seriously?” I mutter, even though there’s no one there to hear it. I know, technically, that it doesn’t matter— that whatever Tyson and I may or may not be, Trishelle definitely isn’t his girlfriend. But still, it hurts to see someone else get the title, even when I don’t want it. I mean, the last thing I need is cameras zooming in on me, labeling me. I’ve never wanted to be on stage, much less on national television. They prattle about Trishelle for a moment, then about Tyson for a while.
By the time Trishelle arrives home it’s the back side of dusk, and I’ve fielded a few flirty messages from Tyson. He and I can’t meet up tonight— he has a meeting with the coaches, and I have a paper to work on (which admittedly, I’d have blown off for the evening, but staying home is probably for the best). Trishelle has a party to get to, of course, and I darkly wonder if she’s relieved to see that I’m wearing pajama pants and clearly don’t plan to go with her.
“Did you watch the game?” she asks eagerly as she chucks her purse on the kitchen counter and begins to strip off her cheer top. The uniforms, which always seemed glamorous in high school, look heavy and cardboard-like up close.
“I did,” I say. “It was a good game.”
“And did you see me? And hear what they said about me?” she asks, her voice echoing out from the bathroom. Even without seeing her face, I can tell she’s practically glowing.
“I did. They said something about you and Tyson Slate, right?”
“Exactly!” she says, popping her head out the bathroom door. She’s re-curling her hair using that wand thing that I always burn the crap out of myself on. “One of the football team managers is notoriously bad for letting stuff slip to the press, so I mentioned to her that Tyson and I were sort of an item.”
“But…you aren’t,” I answer, wondering if I sound half as annoyed as I feel.
“Well, we kind of are. I mean, he got me on auction night and came back here with me. I don’t know—I thought that maybe if something like this leaked, it’ll kind of break the seal, you know? Like, it’s out there, so what’s the harm in making it reality?” She ducks back into the bathroom for the last few words, and I hear the hiss of a can of styling spray.
“That makes complete and total sense,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Are you being sarcastic? I can’t tell when I can’t see your face,” she calls.
“No,” I answer. “It’s a fantastic plan, Trish.”
“Now you’re definitely being sarcastic,” she says, and leans around the door to stick her tongue out at me. It’s charming— it’s old Trishelle, and there’s a pang in my heart.
I can’t believe she stooped so low as to start a rumor about her and Tyson being an item. Part of me wants to tell her the truth right now, tell her that he and I have been hooking up.
But I don’t know if it would damage our friendship, and I don’t even know how Tyson would feel about me letting the cat out of the bag. He likes that we’re a secret, and I kind of do too.
I don’t want to be under a microscope…
“Hey,” she shouts when I’ve assumed the conversation is over, “when is your audition again?”
“Whoa. I thought you’d forgotten,” I say.
She steps out of the bathroom, a shinier, glossier version of how she looked a few moments before. “Of course not! I’m excited for you. Becoming a cheerleader has changed my life, and I think getting into the theater program will change yours.”
I nod, swallowing the urge to tell her that I hope it doesn’t change me quite as much as it’s changed her, then say, “They released the scenes we can choose from today. You only have to read one. There’s a funny scene where the character is shopping— sort of a disaster, comedy of errors type thing, a dinner party scene where the character is a hostess, and then a dramatic snot-crying sort of love scene.”