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“Jo, you’re a cheerleader,” he says promptly.
“I’m a...I’m...a...” you mumble, totally dazed. You weren’t a cheerleader! You didn’t play any sports since you were a little girl.
“You are a cheerleader,” he repeats again, louder.
“I’m a...c-c-cheer...c-cheerle...”
All of a sudden, in your confusion, you recall new memories: spending summer after summer at cheer camp, doing your routines at halftime during the football games, your mom driving you to your first practi-
“You are a cheerleader Jo. You are.”
“I...I am a cheer...c-cheerleader...”
Your brain feels like it’s melting It couldn’t be true...could it? If you weren’t, why do you remember making yourself look pretty before games, flirting with the football players, or practicing tumbling for hours? Your head hurts at these questions, and whole body undergoes some changes, your waist slimming down as you lose a lot of weight. Most notably, your bubbly ass isn’t so bubbly anymore...not that it ever was bubbly...right? You were...a flyer...you think, so you had to be light... “You are a cheerleader,” he says, swinging the pendulum faster. “Don’t deny it.”
“Yes...I am a cheerleader,” you say briskly, nodding your head. It was true. You were a flyer on your school’s varsity team for four years, one of the best. You wished you were named captain over that bitch Diana Harlow, but it didn’t bother you too much. You’ve been cheering for as long as you could remember. It’s a big part of who you are.
“Good girl,” Kurt says. “And...you’re a ditz.”
“A d-ditz? No w-way!” You protest. You were one of the top 5 smartest students in your entire grade! You’re off to the Ivy League next year!
“Oh, but you ARE a ditz!”
“I...I am...n-not...” you stutter, losing the ability to resist that suggestion. You know you aren’t a ditz, but if you were really being honest, you weren’t one of the top 5 smartest, but definitely top 20. Getting into Yale was a bit of a miracle, after all...
“Don’t kid yourself Jo. You’re a ditz.”
“Uh...I-I...”
You do your best to stand your ground, but you just can’t. Your memories begin to change incredibly quickly, but one sticks out. You remember just missing honor roll thanks to a few Bs and that one C on your report card your first semester of freshman year, and you wished you made it just so you could show everyone that Jo Peterson wasn’t a total-
“Ditz, Jo; say it to me. You are a ditz.”
“I’m a dit...dit...” you say, not quite able to finish the word. By now, your memories of being in Student Government, honors classes, and in Yale’s latest admitted class have all faded. You’re going to community college. You spent high school slacking off, partying, and having a lot of sex with so many different guys. You were an easy girl, after all...
“I am a ditz...” you say submissively, lowering your head. You were the most scatterbrained, air-headed person. Of course, it was who you were, but the amount of times somebody got on you for using too many “likes” and “ums” or forgetting things or for how high pitched your voice was, it really irked you. You wished you were smarter...a lot smarter...
“Of course, you don’t mind being a ditz.”
“Oh!” You say, roused. “I, like, don’t mind being a ditz!” There was so much relief in that statement, since it was the truth. You didn’t care how many “dumb blonde” jokes came your way; you loved your self in all of its ditziness!
“You’re just a dumb blonde cheerleader,” he says, swinging the pendulum slower and slower. “And you are in the locker room right now in full uniform.”
“I’m just, like a dumb...blonde...cheerleader...” you repeat, happily. “And I’m in...like...the locker room...in my uniform...”
Looking down, it was true: you were in your cheer uniform, pom poms and all, in the locker room. The memory of the man calling your name completely from your memory. You forget why you are even here until-
“Jo!” Shouts a girl’s voice. “Come on! The pep rally starts in 5!”
“Like, I’m coming!” You shout, ready to do one last routine before your graduate!
“I’m a...I’m...a...” you mumble, totally dazed. You weren’t a cheerleader! You didn’t play any sports since you were a little girl.
“You are a cheerleader,” he repeats again, louder.
“I’m a...c-c-cheer...c-cheerle...”
All of a sudden, in your confusion, you recall new memories: spending summer after summer at cheer camp, doing your routines at halftime during the football games, your mom driving you to your first practi-
“You are a cheerleader Jo. You are.”
“I...I am a cheer...c-cheerleader...”
Your brain feels like it’s melting It couldn’t be true...could it? If you weren’t, why do you remember making yourself look pretty before games, flirting with the football players, or practicing tumbling for hours? Your head hurts at these questions, and whole body undergoes some changes, your waist slimming down as you lose a lot of weight. Most notably, your bubbly ass isn’t so bubbly anymore...not that it ever was bubbly...right? You were...a flyer...you think, so you had to be light... “You are a cheerleader,” he says, swinging the pendulum faster. “Don’t deny it.”
“Yes...I am a cheerleader,” you say briskly, nodding your head. It was true. You were a flyer on your school’s varsity team for four years, one of the best. You wished you were named captain over that bitch Diana Harlow, but it didn’t bother you too much. You’ve been cheering for as long as you could remember. It’s a big part of who you are.
“Good girl,” Kurt says. “And...you’re a ditz.”
“A d-ditz? No w-way!” You protest. You were one of the top 5 smartest students in your entire grade! You’re off to the Ivy League next year!
“Oh, but you ARE a ditz!”
“I...I am...n-not...” you stutter, losing the ability to resist that suggestion. You know you aren’t a ditz, but if you were really being honest, you weren’t one of the top 5 smartest, but definitely top 20. Getting into Yale was a bit of a miracle, after all...
“Don’t kid yourself Jo. You’re a ditz.”
“Uh...I-I...”
You do your best to stand your ground, but you just can’t. Your memories begin to change incredibly quickly, but one sticks out. You remember just missing honor roll thanks to a few Bs and that one C on your report card your first semester of freshman year, and you wished you made it just so you could show everyone that Jo Peterson wasn’t a total-
“Ditz, Jo; say it to me. You are a ditz.”
“I’m a dit...dit...” you say, not quite able to finish the word. By now, your memories of being in Student Government, honors classes, and in Yale’s latest admitted class have all faded. You’re going to community college. You spent high school slacking off, partying, and having a lot of sex with so many different guys. You were an easy girl, after all...
“I am a ditz...” you say submissively, lowering your head. You were the most scatterbrained, air-headed person. Of course, it was who you were, but the amount of times somebody got on you for using too many “likes” and “ums” or forgetting things or for how high pitched your voice was, it really irked you. You wished you were smarter...a lot smarter...
“Of course, you don’t mind being a ditz.”
“Oh!” You say, roused. “I, like, don’t mind being a ditz!” There was so much relief in that statement, since it was the truth. You didn’t care how many “dumb blonde” jokes came your way; you loved your self in all of its ditziness!
“You’re just a dumb blonde cheerleader,” he says, swinging the pendulum slower and slower. “And you are in the locker room right now in full uniform.”
“I’m just, like a dumb...blonde...cheerleader...” you repeat, happily. “And I’m in...like...the locker room...in my uniform...”
Looking down, it was true: you were in your cheer uniform, pom poms and all, in the locker room. The memory of the man calling your name completely from your memory. You forget why you are even here until-
“Jo!” Shouts a girl’s voice. “Come on! The pep rally starts in 5!”
“Like, I’m coming!” You shout, ready to do one last routine before your graduate!
What do you do now?
Create your own Path!