Puddin'(14)

“He doesn’t hate you,” I say. “He just doesn’t know you.”

“You’re right. Everybody loves The Bryce.” He laughs to himself. “By the way, did you say the dance team is broke?”

“Well, yeah. We’re kind of screwed.” I crawl onto the floor next to him, and he practically pulls me into his lap. I tell him all about my shitty day and how unhelpful Vice Principal Benavidez was and how Down for the Count just pulled the rug right out from underneath us. I find myself tearing up a little, which only makes me angrier. “I really hate to ask this, but do you think your dad’s dealership would think about sponsoring us?”

Bryce’s brow furrows. “My dad’s old-school, ya know? He still thinks cheerleaders and dance teams only exist for the sake of halftime shows. He doesn’t really get the purpose of a competition that doesn’t involve one team scoring points against the other. He’s pretty set on his football sponsorship.”

My shoulders slump as I nod. I hate being compared to the cheerleading team. Our cheerleading team is noncompetitive, which means they live for football and basketball games. I don’t mind doing halftime shows, but when it comes down to it, those things are just extended practice times for us. While some cheerleading teams kick serious ass, ours seems to exist for the sole sake of giggling and chanting for boys fumbling around with balls. The Shamrocks exist to win.

“But I guess I could ask if he wants to sponsor another team,” says Bryce. He doesn’t sound confident, but I appreciate the effort.

“Really?” I ask. “You would do that?” If anyone can afford it, it’s Mr. Dooley. Despite the handful of cars in his garage, he has a chauffeur drive him around from morning until night. When we were in elementary school, before his driver upgraded to a huge luxury SUV, Bryce’s dad would come through the pick-up/drop-off line in a limo.

He shrugs. “I’ll just have to catch him at the right time. He’s been weird lately. Wants me to start spending more time at the dealerships, figuring out how things work. Hey,” says Bryce, cradling my chin in his hand. “I know what’ll make you feel better. Or at least distract you for a little while.”

“Yeah?” The pit of my stomach hiccups as he spreads kisses along my jaw, both of us leaning back onto the floor. Instead of returning to my research, Bryce and I take advantage of my seldom-quiet house.

After Bryce leaves, I fall asleep on the end of my bed with my American Lit reading assignment clutched to my chest. When I finally wake, I feel groggy and heavy. The sound of my sister shouting at Shipley, our pit mix, and the smell of my mother cooking dinner flood my senses.

“Callie!” calls Kyla from the other side of the door. “Mama said you would help me with my reading homework!”

“After dinner!” My door begins to inch open, and I throw a pillow at it. “After dinner!” I shout again.

Kyla pushes the door open anyway and sticks her head in. Her long blond hair is split into two French braids. Over Christmas, she had a growth spurt, and even though she’s only eleven, she’s nearly taller than me. “Is that a hickey on your neck?”

I throw my second and last pillow, but this time I hit her right in the face. “I’m telling Mama!” she growls before slamming my door shut.

I groan and plop back down on my bed, letting my brain slowly come back to life as the sleepy fog evaporates. I reach for my phone and find an alert telling me I have eighty-seven missed text messages.

HO-LY SHIT.

I open my messages and find one long thread with at least half the dance team on it. As I skim through, I find that news of the sponsorship fiasco has spread to the rest of the team. Melissa. She probably spilled the beans.

HAYLEY: We worked so hard for this. I haven’t eaten bread in three months.

ADDISON: Why should we even bother practicing anymore?

JILL: And what’s the point of even trying to compete at State if we can’t go to Nationals? GREG BROKE UP WITH ME BECAUSE HE FELT LIKE I WAS TOO BUSY WITH THE SHAMROCKS.

GRETCHEN: Greg was a punk anyway, BUT THIS IS STILL BULLSHIT.

WHITNEY: I missed my grammy’s funeral for Regionals!

BETHANY: The football team gets a new training facility and we can’t even afford to compete?!

ZARA: Does this mean I can eat carbs again?

SAM: Zara, no one said you couldn’t eat carbs.

Reading these messages is like watching the five stages of grief play out, and by the time I get to the end it’s obvious that the team has hit the anger stage and they’re out for blood.

Sorry, I type, just got caught up on all these messages. Maybe we should all take a breather and reconvene in the morning.

JILL: We don’t need a breather. We need revenge.

My phone buzzes over and over again as my text is lost in a sea of new messages.

ADDISON: We can’t let that trashy gym do this to us!

BETHANY: We’ve worked our asses off. This is bullshit.

LARA: I say we let them know exactly how we feel.

MELISSA: Y’all, we gotta be strategic right now. Revenge isn’t getting us anywhere.

I almost jump in to try to defuse the situation with her, but to be honest: I’m pissed as hell, too. And I can’t believe this grody-ass gym is the thing standing in the way between us and a shot at Nationals.

I click the cursor in the message box.