“Oh, come on, you idiot! That's where the guy with the freakin’ axe is!”

Ranko groaned, leaning back on her couch and slapping her forehead with her palm before motioning to the little television set on the opposite side of her tiny living room with her hand. “I swear, these girls deserve to get hacked to bits. Freakin’ morons!”

Shiori Nagata laughed with her friend, tossing a kernel of popcorn at her from the other side of Ranko’s threadbare couch. She brushed a few loose kernels from the front of her blue Minato Athletics tee shirt onto the lap of her black jeans, and from there to the floor. “Oh, hey! Look at this creepy farm house in the middle of nowhere with no phones and no neighbors for fifty kilometers in any direction! Nobody has heard from the last five people who owned this joint, but that’s fine. Let me just move my kids in tomorrow!”

“I mean,” Ranko said with a chuckle, throwing another kernel of her own, “if the rent is cheap enough, maybe…”

Ranko's fellow cheerleader and martial artist giggled brightly. “I can't watch this crap anymore. I'm gonna get some more pizza. You want anything while I'm up?”

The redhead sighed, the mirth fading from her cheeks. She hated being waited on, in her own home, especially by her guests. At half past nine on a Wednesday night, she should have been four songs deep into her second set at the Phoenix, not balefully gazing up at her friend in the hopes of being fetched a can of soda or another slice of shrimp pizza.

“You don't gotta be my damn maid, Shi’ri. I can get stuff.” She glared disdainfully at the pair of aluminum crutches leaned against the end table closest to her seat. Carrying things in her hands while using the crutches was a near impossibility, so she was grateful for the number of long dresses with pockets she owned. The pockets were usually enough to transport a can of soda or a small packaged snack, and the long skirts hid the unsightly metal hinged brace that stabilized her left knee, which was kept locked at its full extension as often as possible.

“Look, dipshit. I'm here. I’m up. I got two legs that work. Don't be a dummy. Whaddya want?” Shiori opened the refrigerator, peering into it as she called out her response.

Ranko sighed heavily. “You didn't even wanna hang out, did you? Akane just asked you to come sit with me while she's at class, and take care of me, didn't she?”

Ranko's friend scoffed. “Oh, come on, Ran-chan. Don't be like that! I've been promising you I would come over for movie night for months.” She smiled, handing an unopened can of grape soda down to the redhead whose left leg was still extended onto the living room coffee table. “That said, don't be surprised if Crash spontaneously offers to hang tomorrow night, and Kumi wants to do an anime marathon on Friday.”

Ranko growled lowly. “Dammit, Akane! I told her, I'm not an invalid. I can function just fine. She don't gotta keep lining up babysitters for me.” She stood on her right leg, stuffing one of her crutches under the left armpit of her mint green dress and bracing her weight on it. “I'm gonna go pee now, unless you think I need some help with that?!”

Shiori shook her head with a wave. “Nah. That, I think I'll let you handle on your own.” As Ranko hobbled into the bathroom, Shiori turned her attention back to the television. A few moments later, a loud bang sounded behind her, and she jumped, needing a moment to realize it wasn't the murderer on television behind her, but something of far greater importance.

She hopped up, knocking on the bathroom door gently. “You okay in there, Ran-chan?”

“Yeah,” came the dejected reply from behind the bathroom door. There was another bang, quieter this time. “There just isn't enough room in here to work these fucking things.”

A moment later, Shiori heard the toilet flush, and the door opened. She walked alongside Ranko back to the couch, not touching her, but remaining ready to assist if needed. Ranko let herself flop heavily to the couch, unable to sit gently without the ability to bend her knee, and lifted her leg with her hands back onto the table.

She glared at the crutches, grabbing one and hurling it to the floor in frustration. “Fuck! I hate these fucking things. I'm not doing a month on them. No way. I swear, Shi’ri, I'm gonna land that damn quad in three weeks, come hell or high water. Your friggin’ hero Mieko Suto couldn't do it a second time, but I will, so help me gods.”

Shiori sat next to her friend, clasping her shoulder with her hand. “No, Ranko. You're not. You remember what the doctor said. Don't be stupid. I know it sucks and I know you're disappointed, but a month of shitty horror flicks beats the hell out of being laid up for life, doesn't it?!”

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Besides,” she continued, returning to her feet and retrieving the crutch Ranko had thrown. “If you let yourself heal and get right, you can still land the quad in college. We’re counting on it! In fact, your whole college plan depends on it. You worked so hard for that scholarship, so don't fuck it up by being impatient!”

Ranko sighed sadly, slumping back onto the couch. “It's not just for me, Shi’ri. I promised you I'd win them another Invitational when you gave me the squad. I promised them. They're counting on me, and I don't wanna let them down after they put their trust in me.” Indeed, the idea of people believing in her was still a relatively new concept in the young redhead’s life, and she was still extremely sensitive to any risk of disappointing someone who had bet on her in even the smallest degree.

“Ranko…” Shiori bit her lip, slouching a bit. “Lemme ask you this. The girls on the squad all are your friends, right?”

Ranko nodded. “Yeah. I’d say so. I hope so, anyway.”

Shiori walked over to the kitchen counter, picking up a tall plastic trophy, gold in color, featuring a featureless figure executing a high side kick. She'd brought it to Ranko that evening, as she and Akane had already been at the hospital during the award ceremony at the end of the martial arts tournament, and Shiori had stayed to accept it on Ranko’s behalf. Because the strike to her knee that had incapacitated her and ended the match was illegal per tournament rules, Kuno had been disqualified and Ranko awarded the master division championship by default. For her part, Ranko wished Shiori had kept the damn thing at home for a while longer. The last thing she felt like was a champion. She could barely dress herself.

Shiori held up the trophy for Ranko to see. “These things are great. They look pretty on shelves and they give people a sense of pride. But let me ask you. If I marched all thirteen of the girls up here right now and asked them, would you rather win a cheap trophy that won't even be yours to keep, if it means Ranko maybe maims herself and ruins her music career, or come in dead last at the Invitational and have your friend be okay long-term, how do you think they'd answer?”

Ranko sighed. “That's not the point, Shi’ri. They put their faith in me.”

Shiori nodded. “Did you train them? The way you worked with us last year? Are they any good?”

The cheer captain nodded emphatically. “Maybe even better than we were last year.”

“Then,” Shiori asked, tipping her soda can slightly in Ranko's direction, “don't you think maybe it's time you put a little faith in them? They can still win, and you can still help. You're just gonna have to lead from the side and not from the front this time.”

“I'm not that kind of leader,” Ranko whined. “That was more your strength than mine. Hey, would you help? You could come back with me and help coach. Get them ready.”

Ranko’s friend shook her head. “No. I'm not doing that. Not because I'm not willing to help you, but because you don't need me to. You can do this, and win or lose, you should do it. It's your responsibility, and your right, as captain, and all of those girls know it. Every one of them would follow you into hell, Ran-chan.”

“Which is why I'm so worried I might lead them there,” the redhead mumbled glumly.

Shiori waved her off with a quiet scoff. “Don't be stupid. They'll be fine. Besides, they've got that song you wrote. Which is awesome, by the way. I hope the school keeps it and uses it as a fight song. I mean, hell, you’ll probably be their most famous alumna the day you get your diploma.”

Ranko nodded. “Hey, that's true! Maybe I could just sit in a chair and sing, and then at least I'd be helping!”

Shiori shook her head vigorously. “Sorry. Invitational rules say if you're on stage and you don't dance or do any stunts, they dock the squad points. The best thing you can do is give them a tape, give them the choreography, and get the hell out of the way and trust them to go nail the routine.”

Ranko’s friend sighed sympathetically, remembering her own ankle injury that had cost her the opportunity to perform at the All-Tokyo Cheerleading Invitational in her freshman year at Yusue High School. “I know it sucks. Cheerleaders stand on the sidelines all year and root for everybody else, and the Invitational is the one time a year when we get to be the stars, and now I'm asking you to be, well, a cheerleader there, too. But you gotta know it's the smart play, right? And you're so much better off than any other girl in your situation. For most cheerleaders, that's the one time all year the audience will be cheering for them rather than with them. But you? How many of your tour shows have already sold out?”

Ranko blushed, answering meekly. “Fourteen, I think?”

She sighed shamefully. Shiori was right. She'd gotten off easy compared to how bad the injury could have been. If Kuno had kicked her even ten percent harder, she almost certainly would have had to cancel the entire tour and spend the next year in physical therapy instead.

“See, Ranko?” Shiori nudged her friend’s shoulder gently. “Suck it up, sugar. You'll be back to hearin’ ‘em screaming your name again in no time. But, for now? I'm telling you, as your friend, your former captain, and the babysitter your wife nominated for the evening: plant your narrow little ass on that couch and eat your fucking pizza.”

She laughed heartily, tossing her redheaded friend the remote control. “And, for fuck’s sake, pick a different movie.”