Cole Beauchamp
We wanted to be cheerleaders
During football season, we track the cheerleaders’ every move as they razor their arms, leap into pike jumps and herkies, smiling despite the sub-zero temperatures and their pleated miniskirts, bare legs. We copy their hair – feathered at school, high ponytails for games – and mimic how they stand before a touchdown – hands in prayer position, fingertips resting on their lips. On sleepovers, we practice the cheers but our voices are timid, our arms sluggish, jumps barely off the floor. We catch each other as we careen into sofas, collapse into each other’s arms, giggling.
During basketball season, we shout ourselves hoarse as the cheerleaders cartwheel and handspring through half-time, shake their butts and pom-poms, flash Chlorox-white teeth. Their voices ricochet off the gymnasium walls as they finish in gravity-defying pyramids.
During try-out season, I keep practising but all Bethany wants to do is deconstruct John’s latest TikTok vids – “That’s about me, right? Right?” Linda’s ping ponging about whether she’ll still get an A in Biology after that pop quiz.
On the day, I am the only one who makes it.
At lunchtime, Bethany looks like she’s been sucking on lemons. "Oh. We thought you'd want to sit with your new friends."
“You’re my friends,” I say. Linda looks at the floor and I turn at Bethany. It’s always Bethany, with her big house and absent parents, with her Drunk Elephant skincare and credit card. Her eyes are like flint. On Monday, I join the cheerleader's table.
During the summer, my stomach churns as I’m wolf-whistled by men old enough to be my father during bake sales. “Take it as a compliment,” breezes Cassy, the cheerleading captain. When I complain about paying for our uniforms and cheerleading camp while the boys are fully funded, the other cheerleaders roll their eyes. “You’re so negative! Lighten up!” I learn to use my elbows at the car wash fundraisers, when hands linger longer than they should, in places they shouldn’t. “Careful you don’t get a reputation for being a b-i-t-c-h,” spells out Maggie. Jennifer teaches me to Vaseline my teeth for an extra glossy smile.
During football season, we fight over which socks to wear and whose turn it is to run the hot chocolate stand. We try not to slip on the ice in our smooth-soled saddle shoes, smile and cheer and jump until it's over and we stick our numb, nearly frostbitten thighs under the hand dryers in the bathroom.
During basketball season, we fight over who gets to be top of the pyramid and flirt with the opposite team's players to keep our boys keen. We smile at ex-friends who don’t smile back. We wave at younger girls who ape our every move, enjoying the attention while secretly hoping they find someone else to admire.
Cole Beauchamp (she/her) is a queer writer based in London. Her stories have been in the Wigleaf Top 50, nominated for awards and shortlisted for the Bath, Bridport, Oxford and WestWord prizes for flash fiction. She's been widely published in lit mags including New Flash Fiction Review, Ghost Parachute, The Hooghly Review, Gooseberry Pie and others. She lives with her girlfriend and has two children. You can find her on bluesky at @nomad-sw18.bsky.social
