"Anita," April said, "if we actually do this, there probably will be some autopsies." Anita ignored her.
"Then we sew the front back together but at only three points, top, middle and bottom. A single stitch at each point. And remember not to make any sudden moves until it's actually time to do so. Now, when we're all set in the tunnel, and we get the word to go, we drop our pom-poms, grab a handful of material on either side of the center, give a sharp tug, letting our arms momentarily extend behind us and run like hell. We're losing the pom-poms because they could interfere both with our hands grabbing the uniform material and the sleeves sliding freely off over our hands. We'll go from being appropriately attired for cheerleading to running completely naked to midfield before anyone can blink. As the players peel off to head to the sideline, the only remaining attraction on the field will be ten naked women in front of 35,000 cheering fans."
(We played all our home games at the local college's stadium, and as defending conference champions in football-crazy Florida, we could expect an overflow crowd.) When Anita finished unveiling her plan, we sat in stunned silence. Probably, all of us were trying to find reasons that it wouldn't work. No one did. Anita looked around at everyone and said, "Well?"
I really didn't want to do this but knew I would have go along if everyone else acquiesced. If I alone refused, they'd give me no end of grief for being a prude. And I'm not a prude. But I'm no exhibitionist, either. I was sure that someone would object and was worried and puzzled when no one did. So I ended up going through all the preparations with a growing sense of dread, and Friday night found me at the head of the tunnel with butterflies the size of pterodactyls fluttering in my stomach. When the team manager yelled for everyone to go, we dropped our pom-poms, easily tore off our uniforms and ran right out of our shoes as I lead them in a mad, naked dash for midfield.
When I reached midfield and turned to face our sideline, bouncing about and waving my arms in the air, I looked over at the other cheerleaders who had trailed me onto the field and got the nastiest shock anyone could imagine. Every one of them was wearing her uniform and gaily waving her pom-poms. I froze. I stood like a statue as the other girls frolicked around me, not smiling out at the crowd but focusing their disdainful smiles on me. In doing so they probably convinced everyone that this was my idea alone. And they were only indicating their support for my bold public nudity, making me even more the center of attention (if that were possible).
I had never gone into actual shock before, but I think this was definitely it. It was like stalling your car on the railroad tracks with a train coming, being unable to unbuckle your seatbelt and looking out your window to see the headlight of a speeding locomotive about 10 feet from your car. You just know that you are going to die. Anita had even come up with a legitimate reason for us (me) to drop the pom-poms and lose the shoes. And because I dislike any kind of jewelry, I was as perfectly naked as I could be.
The only one.
Despite an almost irresistible impulse to cover myself and race off the field, I was paralyzed with fear and too numb to move. It was one thing to have uneasily agreed to participate in this madness with nine other cheerleaders, but finding myself the only one naked in the middle of the field and in front of a roaring capacity crowd was a nightmare.
My mind was racing at light speed. So many things flashed through it: My ostensible friends who had pulled off a brilliant but vicious prank. From start to finish, each one had played her role flawlessly, with Anita clearly the mastermind. Their feigned reluctance before pretending to agree with Anita's scheme. The detailed plans that were meant for me alone. Their understanding of my personality, knowing that if they all agreed to go along, I was constitutionally incapable of refusing. My pride would force me to join them rather than be taunted as a prude. They had worked it all out beautifully, and I hated each and every one of them with every fiber of my being. Still, I realized I couldn't run off the field. My excruciating embarrassment would be evident to everyone. They would all know that I had been pranked somehow and suspect that I was suffering this breathtaking humiliation at the hands of my fellow cheerleaders. It was better to be thought a blatant exhibitionist than a pathetic loser whose peers despised her enough to do such a thing to her. And I would never give the other girls the sheer pleasure of seeing me cringing in embarrassment as I scuttled off the field with one arm over my breasts and a hand over my vulva. They had set me a monkey trap, using my own pride as the bait, and I couldn't release that bait and free myself.
But security? Where was security? We (as it turns out only I) had relied on them to seize us and escort us off the field. But none of them came for me. It was only later that I learned why. Ms. Carroll, our principal, was down on the sideline to greet the team when they ran out and was standing very near the head of security. When he started to signal his men to charge onto the field, she stopped him, and he waved them back. He turned to her, incredulous, and said, "What? Why don't you want her off the field?"
"Look at her," Ms. Carroll said. "She's terrified. I'm not sure what's going on out there, but it's not going according to plan. This is definitely not what she expected. She'll be punished, of course. She'll be expelled from school, but she'll easily get her GED and go on with her life. She thought this would all be over by now, but I'm going to tack on a little extra punishment that will stay with her every day for the rest of her life. I know her. She's so obstinate and vain that she would never admit that someone got the better of her, but, clearly, someone really, really did. And another thing. Her punishment will be something that she absolutely brought on herself. Leave her out there for the rest of the game."
"The whole game?"
"Until the final whistle. If we're lucky there'll be four or five overtimes."
When the cheerleaders finished jumping around and headed to the sideline, I was jolted from my paralyzing reverie and began to lope after them. The idea of being left out there alone was too much to bear. When we reached the sideline, every one of them, unlike on the field, totally ignored my nudity, not even deigning to gloat (I was sure that would come later). They acted as if nothing were remotely out of the ordinary, and I wasn't about to give them the satisfaction of broaching the subject myself. They were, as usual, briskly efficient. We were adept at making a neat pyramid, and they saw to it that we did so at every opportunity, naturally hoisting their naked head cheerleader to the top, where I'd balance, arms outstretched, for a full minute. They were doing their best to add to my embarrassment, but I refused to crack. Periodically, I looked over at various security guys, but they just stared back at me. It was only when I looked at Ms. Carroll and saw the smug look on her face that I began to understand what was going on. The girls must have been immeasurably delighted that I was not being removed from the field. It gave them so much more time and so many more opportunities to torment me.
As the game progressed, we were winning with ease, but as halftime approached, I recalled with stinging dismay that we would be returning to midfield for about 20 minutes of fairly suggestive dance routines. We were the halftime show. This meant that the field crew would be wheeling out the moveable stage. We had used it on several occasions over the past three years when we danced at halftime. It was about 12 feet tall, 12 feet wide and 30 feet long. It had stair steps on either end and a red velvet skirt to hide the wheels and scaffolding underneath. It looked like some giant, mutant high school cafeteria table. We used the stage for two reasons. It gave us a better surface for executing dance steps (the field could get pretty chewed up by halftime), and it elevated our visibility. And I was going to be up there dancing naked.
When the half ended, I steeled myself. If I could just get through this, the worst would be over. The second half should be much like the first with maybe a couple of extra pyramids thrown in. As we ran out onto the field toward the stage, I reached it first, bounced up the steps and skipped to the center, acutely aware that my breasts were going ahead and dancing without me. As I once again stopped and turned to face our sideline, I glanced over and saw that the rest of them hadn't even broken stride. They had all run right past the stairs and on to the opposite sideline, stopping there and spinning around to look at me. I should have known that they weren't done with me yet, and when I had seen them whispering together before halftime, I should have suspected that they were plotting yet another humiliation.
Gasping at this new, even greater shock, I wheeled to face them. Now, for the first time, they began to openly celebrate their humiliating victory over me. They stood on that sideline, laughing so hard that they had to hold one another up, jeering, mocking, pointing at me and clapping their hands exuberantly. This was exceeding their wildest expectations. What should have been an exquisite but short-lived prank had, thanks to my boundless pride and Ms. Carroll's unexpected collusion, turned into a festival of humiliation, and it wasn't even halfway over yet. It killed me to imagine what they were saying to one another about me as they looked on, exulting in my total nudity and reveling in my equally total humiliation. My bladder gave way, unleashing a stream of pee that I thought would never end. I wondered how far up in the stands that could be seen.
