Puddin'(4)

“But the band room has no space! What have they even done to deserve an indoor training facility? And it’s not even football season.”

I shrug. “In Clover City, every season is football season.”

She blows her bangs out of her face. “Man, screw the athletics department.”

“Finally, something we can agree on.”

Melissa tugs me so far toward her that my whole upper body is lying flat on the ground. My inner thigh muscles sting, but I make no move to let her know that she’s overstretching me, because Melissa knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s testing me, and I’m not about to show any signs of weakness.

It’s not that I don’t like Melissa. I’ve known the girl half my life, and while neither of us has ever excelled at friendship—especially me—we’ve always done a good job of playing the part for each other. But what Melissa doesn’t get is that in order for me to succeed, she must fail. At least in regard to our school’s dance team, the Clover City High School Shamrocks. We’re textbook frenemies, and I don’t even mean that in a bad way. But next year, only one of us can be captain.

I rotate my neck, my cheek hovering over the floor. Yep, still smells like balls down here. Hanging just above us are various athletic banners, boasting of district championships and even a couple of state wins, too.

The biggest banner watching over us, though, is practically a family heirloom. The title of 1992 National Dance Team Champions belongs to none other than the CCHS Shamrocks. Not only was it the only time we won Nationals in any sport, it was the only time CCHS made it to a nationwide competition at all. And the most extraordinary part? The team was led by my mother. It also happened to be the year a huge judging scandal was uncovered in the dance world, on all levels from district to Nationals. Lots of teams were temporarily banned, but I’ve seen the tapes. The 1992 Shamrocks were on fire.

The Rams, our football team, has one of the worst records in Texas, and still they get a brand-new state-of-the-art indoor training facility, while the Shamrocks, the most winning team on campus, are relegated to practicing in the band room. Like my mama says, if it smells like bullshit, it probably is.

“Sam is late again,” Melissa tells me over the cacophony of female voices echoing through the gymnasium.

“You wanna be the one to call her out?” I ask.

Melissa rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Sam is a senior and our team captain. What Melissa doesn’t get is that Sam is late on purpose. She’s testing us. Melissa and I are both second in command to Sam, as co–assistant captains, which means we are next in line to the throne, but only one will ascend. And I never lose.

Until then the two of us have to do a pretty decent job of working as a team, at least until Sam is ready to name her replacement.

But it’s not all competition. Pieces of what Melissa and I have are the real deal. Like when her parents got divorced in ninth grade and she spent three weeks at my house, because things at home were way too lethal. Or the time Mrs. Gutierrez, Melissa’s mom, began speaking to me in Spanish when she found out I was half Mexican. I was a little embarrassed because I can only pick up on a few words here and there and I’m definitely not confident enough to have a conversation. Melissa, on the other hand, comes from a large, traditional Mexican family. In fact, they lived here before Clover City could even be considered Texas. I swear, she could speak Spanish and read English while doing a Shamrock routine at the same time. But when Melissa saw my cheeks flush, she cut in, casually translating what her mom had just said. She never even brought it up after. Just pretended like nothing had happened.

Melissa pulls me even deeper into the stretch. “We’re supposed to meet with Mrs. Driskil after practice.” I twist my hands free and pop up on my feet.

“Whatever,” she says. “That woman’s just phoning it in. She doesn’t care about being our faculty sponsor. All she cares about is the stipend from the district.”

“It’d be so much worse if she actually gave a shit, though,” I remind her. “Remember when she suddenly decided our bikini car wash was inappropriate and she made us do the whole thing in rain ponchos?”

Melissa laughs. “Okay, that was totally tragic. But it was hilarious when you just cut circle holes around your boobs and ass. She had no idea what to say.” She laughs again, pointing a finger at me as she imitates Mrs. Driskil. “Young lady, your goodies are hanging out.”

I bump hips with her. “At least my goods are worth seeing,” I say. “Voted Best Ass three years running and Hottest of Them All this year. Don’t you forget it.”

She rolls her eyes. “Yes, we know. You would never let any of us forget. All hail Callie Reyes’s ass.”

I grin devilishly and clap my hands together once, silencing the rest of the team’s chitchat. “Y’all! Let’s get this going. Sam’s running a little behind, so we’re gonna start. Melissa,” I call, “cue the music.”

I begin rotating my hips a little to loosen up. “Okay, ladies, State is in three weeks, and we’ve got some serious ground to cover. We slayed at Regionals, but let’s be real: our competition wasn’t stacked the way we know it will be at State. So let’s run through the routine two or three times, and then I’m going to step out and diagnose the problem areas.”

The music starts. It’s the perfect mash-up of pop songs everyone knows by heart and EDM that no one has ever heard of. Sam’s got good taste. The opening verse of “Bad Girls” by M.I.A. kicks us off.