My best friend is trying to back out on me and I refuse to let it happen. As we stand on the campus quad just a few hundred feet from the gymnasium, I try to talk sense to her.

“This is a new start,” I remind Trishelle for what must be the millionth time. “You’ve got to tryout for the cheerleading team, or you’re just resigning yourself to another four years of who you were in high school. Besides, if you don’t go to tryouts, I’m not going to auditions.”

Trishelle and I are friends from high school, but we’re both trying to start fresh now that we’re in college. Neither of us had successful high school experiences, but college is supposed to be different.

We’re going to blossom, dammit--we’re going to do all of the things that we were too scared to do back then.

She’s supposed to go to cheerleading tryouts and I said I would go to acting auditions. But now my best friend is trying to back out on her end of the deal.

“Fine, Anna. I guess I’ll go make a fool of myself,” Trishelle finally agrees (thanks to my vigorous pep talk and refusing to take no for an answer), taking a big breath and adjusting her shorts. “Let’s just get this over with.”

“That’s what I like to hear. Sort of,” I say.

We continue on to the gymnasium, a massive concrete and glass building in the center of campus. Banners featuring the school’s basketball stars hang from the rafters. Once inside, Trishelle signs in and gets her number, and then we’re both on our own— her to go stretch and me to sit in the bleachers with a collection of nervous moms, boyfriends, sisters, and a few stage-dads who are so adorably freaked out that I can’t stand it.

I sit alone— which is cool with me. I’m perfectly happy to go to restaurants, theaters, and, I suppose, cheerleading auditions by myself. I’ve never understood why it worries so many people; solitude isn’t my preferred state of being or anything, but I’ve never been uncomfortable by myself. Maybe it’s a throwback to my childhood— kidney insufficiency means I spent a lot of time in hospital rooms alone despite the best intentions of nurses, other patients, and my parents. A transplant finally solved the problem, thought it a) left me with two insane scars and b) meant that someone had to, you know, die so I could have the transplant.

A therapist once told me that’s part of the reason I’m so hyper-responsible and anti-risk; I feel like I owe it to my donor to not mess up my life. Like, say, by auditioning for theater and totally humiliating myself and—

This isn’t the time, Anna. Focus on Trishelle.

Tryouts begin, and the stage-dads can’t sit still— they stand up and sit down over and over, hands to their chests or on their hips, like they’re playing a solo version of musical chairs. There’s lots of cheering among the audience, so I shout for Trishelle when it’s her turn to take a basic tumbling pass. She nails it, obviously, since round-off back-handsprings are something she’s been doing since first grade.

Trishelle was always a good gymnast, but for some reason the cheerleader mean girls never took to her. The way they treated her when we were in high school was sickening…

And that’s why my stomach is so nervous right now. I so badly want to see her do what I know she’s capable of, and it’s making me anxious and clammy.

Suddenly, the doors to the exterior of the gym open up, and a barrage of guys walk in. They’re sweaty and grass stained, and I guess that they’re from the football team— we saw them practicing outside on one of the fields as we were walking up. Plus, it’s fairly easy to spot a football player: Huge, muscular, and arrogant. They sit at the back of the bleachers, which means they’re only a few rows behind me.

“Not a double d cup in sight,” one of them says, sounding disappointed.

“That girl is hella flexible though,” another one says, and I hear some grunts of agreement. They go on like this for a while, picking their way through each and every girl auditioning, using their numbers to identify them. It’s a level of sexism I thought only existed in movies, but I remind myself that there are douchebag guys everywhere, and that if I cause a scene it’ll only distract Trishelle.

She wants this.

And so I want it for her, even if she’ll be cheering on these a-holes if she gets the gig…

The newbies are moving on to more difficult tumbling passes, and it’s obvious they’re using sudden death rules— people are dropping out, unable to complete the requested feats. Trishelle is still going strong, though, and I smile to myself when I notice that the vets running the audition have stopped doing passes alongside her. They’re talking in small groups like they’re just bored with the whole event, but I suspect it’s because they know they can’t hold a candle to Trishelle as a gymnast, and don’t want a side by side comparison.

Finally,Trishelle is the only one left and my heart soars. I cheer loudly for her, as do a few of the other people in the stands— now that she’s the clear winner, they’re all a lot more willing to appreciate her undeniable skill. I’m glowing with pride.

“Chick is good but unfortunately she’s built like a thirteen year old boy,” one of the guys behind me snorts.

Now I’m glowing with rage.

I stand up and spin around. “Seriously?” I say to the group of them in a sharp whisper. “Seriously, you’re shit talking a girl who looks like an Olympian because her tits aren’t big enough?”

The guys look stunned, like they didn’t realize anyone could hear them— or, more likely, didn’t realize anyone would dare speak up against them.

I’m so enraged I keep going. “For fuck’s sake, have you ever considered the possibility that she’s not trying out for your personal beauty pageant, but because she’s an athlete? Have you ever thought about the fact that maybe women don’t exist solely for your pathetic sexual needs?”

There’s a chance I’ve gone to level eleven pissed off at this point.

The guys are smiling and nudging one another, but it’s pretty damn clear they’re at least shocked, and maybe a little bit embarrassed. Except for one guy— the one at the end. He’s sitting with the other guys, and yet, he doesn’t seem to really be with them.

He’s not nudging or laughing or snorting with them, but rather, just staring at me. There’s something appraising about his eyes, something critical and intense, and somehow it unnerves me.

“What’s your name?” he asks. The guys around him fall silent, and it’s clear to me that he’s an authority figure in some way— they’re minions, and he’s the king.

“Anna Milhomme,” I say, although then I wonder why the hell I even told him. What right does he have to demand I identify myself to him and why did I think I should oblige his request?

“Pay no attention to my friends here, Anna Milhomme,” he says, and there’s nothing apologetic in his voice. There’s nothing at all in his voice. It’s calm, and cool, and low, and I can’t get a read on him.

“If they can keep their voices down and their comments civil, it will be a lot easier,” I say. But I don’t spin back around— I can’t spin back around, because his eyes are on mine and they’re holding me prisoner here.

“Why aren’t you trying out for the squad, Anna Milhomme?” he asks, blending my first and last name together so that I sound like someone with a single long, exotic type of name.

“Because I’m not a cheerleader.” I feel my cheeks reddening at the suggestion that I could be, though.

“Neither is your friend. She’s an Olympian or something.”

I fold my arms, annoyed— but in some ways, this is easier. I know how to be annoyed. I don’t know how to be frozen by a guy staring at me. “I have no transferrable skills when it comes to cheerleading.”

“Except being as hot as any girl down there,” he says.

I blink, because he’s said it in such a calm tone that I’m not totally sure it’s a compliment. Wait, no, it isn’t really a compliment at all— because he’s implying being attractive is a skill, and it’s not, it’s learned, and it’s stupid, and…

I like knowing he thinks I’m hot. And I don’t want to be pleased, but I am.

Or maybe the guy is fucking with me, toying with me, because he can see that he is in a different league from me. Thus, he knows intuitively that I am probably going to melt at the mere suggestion that he is interested.

And I am melting a little, despite myself.

Perhaps it’s because he’s so undeniably good looking, with muscles that I want to run my fingers over and gray-blue eyes. I steady my breath, not wanting him to see how he’s flustered me with his words and his looks and that hard stare.

Someone behind me applauds, and I jump at the sound. I turn to see that tryouts are ending— numbers are being called, and the applause was one of the stage-dads celebrating his daughter’s acceptance onto the squad. Trishelle is sitting cross-legged on the floor with all the other new girls, and I see they’re all clutching hands with heads bowed in (I suppose) prayer. She’s number twenty-seven, and I hold my breath, almost forgetting about the guy behind me, even though I’m pretty sure I can feel his eyes boring into my back.

Five girls are called, six, seven, eight. There are only about ten spots. I press my lips together, come on, Trishelle, come on, come on, come on—

“Number twenty-seven!” the veteran cheerleader calls out. Trishelle stands and very calmly walks to join the other girls who have made it— but I know she’s exploding inside, just like I am. I jump up and down, pumping my fist in the air for her, and she flashes me a quick grin before hugging the other lucky new members. The knot of worry in my heart is unwound, and I turn back to face the football players.

They’re gone. My eyes widen, and I see that they’re just now exiting the building. The guy who called me hot— I didn’t even get his name— is at the back of the group, and flicks his eyes back to me with that same intense expression. I feel something in my waist clench, and my breath shortens. He tips his head toward me a little in farewell, then follows the rest of them out the door. I stare, trying to regain my balance, trying to figure out what this means.

Was he seriously into me the way it seemed?

Or was it all just some strange college football ritual—humiliating girls for sport?

Movement around me— the auditions are over and people are shuffling down to the gymnasium floor to celebrate or console auditioners. I try to push the guy from my mind and hurry down to hug Trishelle tightly. She’s flushed with exertion and excitement when I reach her, and hugs me so tight that her ribs carve into my stomach.

“I’m so proud of you!” I squeal, and she bounces up and down in front of me. “Let’s go celebrate, okay?”

“Apparently we’re all going to some yogurt place— the whole squad, I mean,” Trishelle says in a whisper, like she’s afraid if someone overhears it won’t be true. “You should come!”

“Yeah, sure. You were amazing, Trish. That tumbling pass, the last one? Holy shit,” I say, grinning.

I stick by her side as the people who didn’t make the cut filter out, and registration papers are handed out to the new girls. Within a few minutes, arrangements for transport to the yogurt place over on the west side of town are being made. Neither Trishelle nor I have cars, since we’re freshmen and can’t apply for parking spots, so we shoot our hands up when an older girl asks who else needs a ride.

“Okay, and then there’s Trishelle and— oh, is this your friend?” the girl asks, her bright green eyes falling on me. She’s gorgeous in a crazy supermodel kind of way— like, so good looking that it makes me snicker at the girls we considered beautiful back in high school.

“Yeah, this is my friend. And roommate,” Trishelle says.

“Cool! Well, this is really just a bonding thing for the team. Sorry, sweetie,” the girl says. She’s smiling, and it’s a nice smile— but there’s something hard underneath it.

“Oh,” Trishelle says, faltering. I don’t mind being alone, but Trishelle does— and being in a room of strangers she’s supposed to make small talk with definitely qualifies as “alone” as far as she’s concerned. She gives me a panicked look, and I smile.

“No problem,” I say, loud enough that the other cheerleaders can hear me, but actually speaking to Trishelle— no problem. This is cool. You’ll be fine.

“Alright, let’s go! Touch up lipstick, please, before you hit the doors. Remember that you’re always representing the team now, ladies,” the girl— the head cheerleader, obviously— says, and the rookies practically dive for their bags.

“See you back at the apartment,” I say, then hug Trishelle quickly before leaving. Only as I step outside does it occur to me that Trishelle isn’t the one who ended up being alone.

I am.