Ellie had always thought cheerleaders were just girls with perfect teeth and fake smiles.
Back when she was still sitting in the back of the Kingdom Hall, skirt neatly pressed and smile stitched tight, she used to glance at the ones from school—the ones who passed out invites to dances she couldn't attend, who wore glitter on Fridays and had loud laughs that turned heads. They belonged to a world she was taught to avoid. A world of vanity. Of "bad association." Of girls who cheered for men, wore short skirts, and put themselves on display.
Now she was one of them.
Sort of.
It started the second week of senior year. The school had a new coach for the cheer squad, and they were short on bodies. Someone had dropped out last minute, and flyers were taped up across the gym and locker rooms with neon letters: TRYOUTS REOPENED – NO EXPERIENCE NECESSARY.
Dylan had been the first to say something. "You should go."
Ellie snorted. "Me? In a pleated skirt, screaming in public? No thanks."
But the idea stuck.
She couldn't explain it. Maybe it was the challenge. Maybe it was wanting to prove something to herself. Maybe it was wanting to fly—literally, metaphorically, whatever. She'd been grounded for so long, walking on eggshells, hiding in corners, holding her breath. Maybe now she wanted to be seen.
The gym smelled like sweat and rubber and old polish. She stood in the corner, hands clenched, trying not to bolt. Most of the girls already knew each other—clumps of ponytails and water bottles and girls stretching with impossible grace.
Coach Robbins called them into a circle. She was younger than Ellie expected, maybe late twenties, built like someone who had lived in cleats. Her smile was kind but firm.
"You don't have to be perfect," she said to the group. "You just have to try hard and be a good teammate."
That was all Ellie needed.
The first few practices were brutal.
She couldn't remember counts. Her arms didn't snap fast enough. She was stiff in her jumps, late on her timing, and constantly second-guessing whether it was okay for her to even be there. There were moments she almost quit—like the night she couldn't land a basic toe-touch and cried in the girls' locker room with her hands over her face.
But something inside her kept showing up. Maybe it was because this time, failure wasn't a sin—it was a starting point.
And slowly, something shifted.
Her body began to respond to the rhythm. Her arms hit sharper angles. Her legs stretched longer. She learned the difference between a high V and a broken T, how to spot the flyer on the way down, how to hold her weight tight when lifted.
By week three, Coach Robbins pulled her aside. "You've got the mindset of a base," she said. "Strong. Focused. But you've got the build of a flyer."
Ellie blinked. "Me? Flying?"
"You've got control," the coach said. "And courage."
No one had ever told Ellie she was courageous. Not in a way that felt real. In the Hall, courage meant going door-to-door during snowstorms or refusing birthday cake when everyone else was celebrating. This was different.
This was choosing to rise.
The first football game was a blur of music and nerves and glitter hairspray.
Dylan came, of course. He stood near the back of the bleachers, arms crossed, grinning like he'd just won a bet. Melanie stayed home with the kids, but Anna texted a thumbs-up and a video of her seven-year-old niece trying to copy one of Ellie's cheers in the living room.
As Ellie stepped onto the track with the squad, dressed in red and white with matching ribbons in their ponytails, she felt something unexpected wash over her: pride.
Not vanity. Not sin. Just the sharp, breathless realization that she had earned this.
When the music hit, and she took her place in the pyramid, she didn't hesitate. Her bases locked their hands around her feet, and in one smooth motion, she was up—arms lifted, chin high, heart racing. The stadium lights blazed down on her, and she heard the roar of the crowd, the beat of the drums, the chant she knew by heart.
She was flying.
Not for God. Not for rules. Not for forgiveness.
For herself.
After the game, Dylan met her at the back gate, hoodie in hand, grinning like a man smitten.
"You were incredible," he said. "Like actually badass."
"I almost fell during the pyramid," she said, cheeks flushed.
"But you didn't."
She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Did you think I'd ever do something like this?"
He kissed her forehead. "I hoped you would."
They went home that night in his Jeep, the cool air blowing through the open windows, her hands still covered in glitter. They stopped for greasy burgers and fries, and she stretched her legs across his lap as they ate in the parking lot.
At home, the house was quiet—kids asleep, Melanie reading in her room, the TV murmuring softly. Ellie showered, washing off the sweat and powder and feeling something different under her skin. Confidence. Strength. Joy.
She crawled into bed in an oversized tee, still damp-haired and exhausted. Dylan rolled over, pulling her close.
"So," he murmured, brushing his lips against her temple, "are you going to tell me how it really felt up there?"
Ellie tucked her face into his chest. "Like I owned the sky."
He smiled. "You did."
But beneath it, a shadow lingered.
At practice one afternoon, another cheerleader—a senior named Lexi—asked casually where Ellie lived. "You're not in our district, right?"
Ellie froze. "I live near the edge. With… family."
She said it smooth, practiced. A half-truth.
Lexi shrugged. "Cool. You coming to the homecoming party next week?"
Ellie smiled. "We'll see."
Later, she told Dylan about it.
"You think someone's going to find out?" she asked, nerves crawling up her throat.
"I think we keep playing it cool," he said. "No one's asking questions we can't answer. You're just a girl living her life."
"But I'm not just a girl, Dylan," she whispered. "I'm seventeen. And still technically a runaway."
He cupped her cheek. "No. You're a survivor. And you're flying now. You just have to stay balanced."
So she did.
She kept cheering. Kept smiling. Kept working. Kept showing up for her life—even if it still scared her.
Because flying was never about escaping the ground. It was about knowing it was there—and choosing to lift off anyway.