She Drives Me Crazy(26)

“Cheerleaders are athletes,” I snap.

“Oooooh,” the girls say, trading looks.

“Enough about Scottie’s love life,” says Danielle, who seems like it’s taking everything in her not to blurt out the truth. “We need to focus. Let’s run Marshmallow.”

I play better than I have all season. Danielle’s eyes are shining when I nail my third three-pointer. And sure enough, near the end of practice, Irene and a dozen others show up to watch.



* * *



“You’re a solid actress,” I tell Irene when we walk to her car that evening.

“Mm,” she says disinterestedly. “Wish I could say the same for you.”

“What? My acting’s been great.”

“False. That wink in Senior Horizons was completely over the top.”

“You loved it.”

“Yeah, okay,” she says dryly.

Whatever she says, I can tell she’s as pleased—and as tired—as I am. We get into her car and flop against our headrests, sighing at the same time.

“Coming out is exhausting,” Irene says suddenly.

I look over at her. Her eyes are glazed and she’s breathing slowly.

“For what it’s worth, I think you handled it well,” I say neutrally. “Was anyone a dick?”

“A few people asked how you ‘turned me.’”

“Morons.”

She stretches back, yawning. “I just wish people could be more creative with their ignorance.”

I laugh without meaning to, but I stifle it by turning it into a cough. “Does this mean you have to come out to your parents?”

She answers like she’s swatting a fly. “My parents already know.”

“They do?”

She blinks at me. “Why is that so surprising? Don’t your parents know?”

“Yeah, but … I didn’t realize you were this far along in your, you know, journey.”

“Ah yes, my big fat gay journey,” she says with false reverence. “Just because I didn’t tell our whole school, doesn’t mean I’m not open at home. It’s not just white kids who come out to their parents.”

I set my mouth. “I didn’t say that.”

“And yet your ears are turning red,” she says, eyebrows raised.

“I’m just surprised because … I don’t know, your mom…”

“Has a constant stick up her ass?” Irene rolls her head against the headrest. I notice the damp baby hairs at the back of her neck. “Yeah, she’s a piece of work, but she’s a good person. She donated to PFLAG after I came out.”

I don’t know if I’m pushing my luck, but I try anyway. “So why does she hate cheerleading?”

Irene’s eyes flicker toward me. I try to show that I’m asking sincerely, but I don’t know if it’s working.

“She thinks it’s a dead end,” she says finally. “When I first started cheering back in, like, fifth grade, she thought it would just be another extracurricular, so she was supportive. But then I got serious about it and she couldn’t understand why. She wants everything I do to lead to something in my future.”

“But you want to cheer in college. Doesn’t that count as the future?”

“Yeah, for four years, but then what? My parents play the long game. Especially Mom. She wants me to focus on academics and, like, things that lead to a stable career. She’s an optometrist. My dad’s a researcher at the CDC. They both went to Georgia Tech and they want me to go there, too.” She exhales a long breath. “They think they’re way more progressive than my grandparents, but they’re not. Their definition of success is pretty narrow.”

“And your definition of success?”

She side-eyes me again. “You really think you’re entitled to my personal story, don’t you?”

I shrug. The truth is, I’m starting to build a composite portrait of this girl, and some of the pieces don’t add up. “Fine. Don’t tell me. But I do have something that might brighten your mood.”

She hikes her eyebrows, waiting. I dig through my backpack’s front pocket until I find the check I wrote out last night.

“Here,” I say, handing it over.

She takes it carefully and studies the paper. I try not to think about what it represents: $1,000 of my hard-earned money. Hours and hours of scraping gum off theater seats and pouring sodas for preteens.

But on the other hand, it’s my ticket to ensuring we beat Candlehawk.

“Your signature is atrocious,” Irene says. “This S looks like a bowling pin.”

I ignore the jibe. “You’re good to deposit that whenever. Just, you know. Keep good on your word.”

She looks at me seriously. “I always do.”

“Then we have nothing to worry about, do we?”

Irene sighs and tucks the check into her sweatshirt pocket. “Let’s get the fuck out of here,” she says, and she drives me home.





8


Halloween passes in a blur of candy corn and costumes. My friends and I celebrate at the Chuck Munny, where they’re showing Hocus Pocus on the big screen for three-dollar admission. I secretly hope we might run into Tally—she always loved the Munny and would hang out with me at the concession stand while I worked on slow days—but when I check her Instagram, she’s posting from a haunted house with her new friends.