I was born with wings — a natural performer. When I was an infant, the nurses gathered around my body, cooing at my wet flesh and clumped eyelashes. I soaked in the attention, smiling at the eyes overhead. 

I was five when I entered competitive cheerleading. I was flexible, energetic, and small, even for a toddler. There was a lot to love about cheer. I remember stepping into those baskets for the first time, completely unaware of what would happen — of how it would feel. Two girls, older than me by a couple of years, stood on either side of my shoulders, squatting with their hands interlocked to create a surface to stand on. They counted me in, instructing me to dip on count and stand fast and hard as they launched me into the air. I was horrible my first time, thrashing and yelping ten feet above ground, but I swear — for a split second, it felt like I could fly. 

From then, I was hooked. I failed to develop a self-preservation instinct, but excelled in every other respect. My unfurling feathers brushed against the stars, whispering promises of dreams and hope. I threw myself into stunts time and time again, my blind faith ever-present as I plummeted down. I got a lot better — fast.

I knew who I was and what I liked at a young age — and it was to be watched. Cheerleading, to me, was a manifestation of all I wanted to be, the epitome of sensuality and magnetism: of divinity. There was a point in my life I would’ve done anything for it. 

My coaches started rubbing Vaseline into my teeth by the time I was eight. The magical thing about cheerleading is that to be the best, you don’t have to be the sharpest girl on the floor or have the highest jumps, or the tightest tumbling. What you needed was the “it” factor. You can’t just pull the skill — it has to be fun, confident, and effortless. You had to smile. Vaseline helped a lot of girls. It was harmless, but it tasted gross. I hated the feeling of the jelly on my gums, the slight taste of petroleum on the back of my upper lip. I couldn’t even close my mouth. So instead, I smiled. 

It was three o’ clock on a Sunday, and my gym was performing at a pep rally — no judges, no arena — just the fans who showed up to see us perform. I rubbed the Vaseline into my mouth with a grubby finger as I touched up in the locker room, hissing through my teeth as I smiled into the mirror. The jelly gave my smile a gloss under bright lights. I liked how it looked. I rolled my shoulders back and joined the team outside.

We performed flawlessly for the first half of our routine. The deep bass of the music reverberated into our sprung floors, creating an atmosphere that enveloped us into the nine rolls of blue. It was just us, the steadily screamed eight counts, and the heat between our sweat-coated bodies. It felt as if I could move between the heaven and earth, unburdened by weight, or fear, or the flesh that bound me to soil. And beyond us, there were the fans. It’s not like it really mattered — I always blacked out on the floor — I couldn’t see anything. But I knew they were there. The parents and boyfriends and other cheerleaders, gasping as I plummeted towards the corners of the floor, my feet barely landing as I flew to my next mark. I could feel their eyes on me. It was fucking magic. Even now, after everything, I wouldn’t trade the feeling of performing for anything. 

But as we stepped into our final stunt, I felt a misplaced hand under the ball of my foot, the pressure of the push uneven. I knew I would over-rotate. 

I fell hard, the side of my face cracking into a kneecap. From there, it was pretty much black. The music stopped, the sound of chatter and screaming little girls pressing against my eardrums. I tasted iron. I laid still for a second, clutching the side of my head. I remember my teammates begging me to get up, to be okay.

And I was. I knew I was. I just wanted to look pretty by the time I got up. 

“It’s okay, I’m good,” I whispered, my hand still covering my face. “Give me a second.” 

I took a breath. I turned over, blinking as I adjusted to the fluorescent light overhead. 

I smiled as I sat up. My teammates gasped, watching in horror as the blood collected in my gums mixed into the petroleum jelly. In all honesty, it was funny. I laughed as I swallowed the red, licking the surface of my teeth and bracing for the taste. I apologized for my levity, and laughed again. It spilled out of me, the giggles escaping my mouth like a deranged animal. The amalgamation of the pain in my temple and the euphoria of performance threw me into hysteria. It felt good. I began to take pleasure in the pain I could endure. 

The pattern continued as I glided through the next thirteen years of cheerleading. In freshman year, I took a field hockey stick to the eye before driving to cheer practice, my heartbeat throbbing under my eyebrow as I held my weight on my arms. A week before our provincial championships, a girl had fallen hard on my collarbone, lodging the small pendant of my necklace into the nape of my neck. I winced as I pulled it out, pressing a napkin to the wound a minute later. No matter how bad the injuries got, I never stopped. And I always smiled. 

I’m afraid that there was a time in my life when my love for cheerleading was less about winning, or the performance, or skills, or camaraderie — it was about pain. The need for some sort of intense sensory experience, and the euphoria that followed — cheerleading gave me that. In some sick way, I think getting hurt and getting over it proved that I had what it took. 

My senior year of high school, my team secured a fully paid bid to worlds, meaning we would be competing in Orlando, Florida, with hundreds of other high-level athletes. We had gone almost every season — but we had never won. I wanted to win. I needed to win. 

I trained late after practice in our gym, the lights flickering as I promised myself one last tumbling line. The succession of my footwork was still inconsistent, and I would rather drive a finger into my eye than be the reason we didn’t place. I inhaled from my lips and allowed the air to fill into my diaphragm, sprinting towards the corner of the floor. 

I felt my ankle crack from under me as I made impact. My knees buckled, the sound of my scream filling the empty gym as I clutched my leg to my chest. My third ankle break. I estimated a six week recovery time. Three if I powered through it. Maybe less. 

My coach kneeled next to me as I collected the moisture from my cheeks, helping me calm my hyperventilation. We drove silently to the emergency room, the traffic lights painting the interior red and green. I asked him to not tell the rest of the team. I told him I could speed up the recovery process. He nodded, telling me he would call my mom when I got there. 

It wasn’t as bad as we thought — just a lateral fracture. I was supposed to be in a boot for a couple of weeks. I could still compete if I wrapped it. 

“Baobei,” my mother called as she crashed through the automatic doors. She kneeled in front of me, her nose running and her cheeks red.

“Don’t cry, it’s okay. I’m okay. Just a minor fracture.” I said with a smile, hugging her. It didn’t provide the comfort I thought it would. 

She shook her head, placing a hand above her forehead. “You can’t keep doing this,” she inhaled, her breath shaking. “You’re going to die doing this, do you understand?” 

“Mama, I’m not going to die, it’s just a fracture —” 

“You think I like seeing you like this?” She interrupted, her usual soft cadence replaced with the sharp anger behind every word. The people sitting around us turned their heads. I could feel us being watched. 

“You are always injured. You’re bloody all the time. You hit your head four times a week. All of the broken bones, the bruises — for what? A plastic trophy? You’re my little girl.” Her eyebrows tensed, deepening the crevices on her forehead. “You cannot fly. You don’t have wings. Whether you like it or not, you are a human. Please, you can’t keep doing this.” 

I closed my eyes, unable to stomach the pain of watching the most important person in the world cry. “I’ll stop. After worlds. One last run, and I’ll be done.” I said, swallowing the lump in my throat. And as always, I pulled my lips into a smile and held to my word. 

Angels were created with purpose. To be beautiful, yes, but more so to carry out the divine will of God. To human knowledge, they don’t have parents, or lovers, or children — they only have their wings. As much as I’d like to parade as one, I’ve never been one of them. 

I’ve spent two years as another washed-up ex-athlete. It’s not quite as sad as I thought. I have time to throw myself into my studies, flip off tables after a few drinks, and reminisce on the glory days. I am learning who I am in the absence of an audience, taking pains to write in the mental solidarity of bustling cafes, basking in the anonymity of dancing in crowded pits, the bass vibrating beneath my feet. 

Still, every now and then, I catch a glint of myself in the mirror, the old familiar ache in my ankles, a droplet of blood running down my scraped knees, and suddenly, I feel it again: the echo of movement between realms.