Saturday, after the cheerleading squad cheered at the New York Sharks game, one of the flyers revealed that, because of other things going on in her life, she’s going to be taking time off from the squad.
I hugged her goodbye and told her I’d miss her but secretly I spent the entire subway ride home—a long one, as the game was in Queens—trying not to let my nearly uncontainable glee show on my face, because naturally I am the obvious choice to replace her.
Then I remembered that there are tryouts for the squad next Thursday, and since then I have been consumed with fear that people smaller than me will show up and make the squad and that I’ll get passed over for flyer status.
The solution, of course, is that I’ll have to go to the tryouts, get the names and addresses of all the people smaller than me, and arrange for them to meet with unfortunate accidents.
Because I’m going to be a flyer if it kills me.
Or, more accurately, if it kills others.
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