I know you. Your life has been spent watching what they do and wishing you could be a part of that perfectly painted picture. That girl in the middle never wears the same pair of shoes twice. Don't mind the blisters that have taken up permanent residence on her tired heels and the stress fractures she hides beneath her perfectly sculpted legs. That girl had a name once, but it doesn’t escape my lips anymore. Us cheerleaders have each other’s backs, but we only honor that promise until we step outside that circle of superficial protection. And once we step away from the pack, we become a mutant, and then we’re as ordinary as the rest of the school we try to ignore.
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