Puddin'(5)

I close my eyes for the first few counts. I can practically feel the San Francisco breeze. I’ve never actually been to San Francisco. In fact the only person in my family who’s been farther west than New Mexico is my older sister, Claudia, who went to San Diego for an opera singing competition when she was still in high school. But since Nationals are in San Francisco this year, that won’t be the case for long. Last year we came in a heartbreaking second place at State, but Copper Hill, the team that took first place, is in total shambles after half their team was caught hazing their incoming freshmen.

My plan is to at least make it to Nationals, so we can build early momentum for next year. Maybe we’ll even place. And then next year, we’ll be in Miami for my senior year, and I’ll lead the team to first place. I’ll be accepted at the college of my choice, and I’ll get the hell out of Clover City before the ink on my diploma even has a chance to dry. That’s the plan.

I enter the stage—well, actually the gymnasium floor—in the second wave of dancers. Our first run-through is a little clunky, but it’s only our first go, and yesterday was a conditioning day. Already I can feel Melissa’s frustration mounting. If she had it her way, she’d have torn into these girls already. But that’s also why she’d be a shitty captain.

“Okay!” I shout the moment the music stops. “That was a decent warm-up, but we gotta pick up the pace. I think some of you are still having trouble with that triple pirouette. Jess, can you get out here and show us how it’s done?”

Jess, a tall black sophomore and my pick for captain when I’m out of this hell hole, steps forward. She spins and spots effortlessly, which is most likely because she moved here from Dallas, where she went to some fancy-ass ballet school. The rest of us grew up at good old Dance Locomotive, which isn’t really known for putting out quality dancers.

Jess slows it down and answers a few questions about momentum, hand placement, and spotting before we do our routine a couple more times. After that, Melissa and I sit out and watch, taking notes.

“I’m still not sure about that jeté combo,” Melissa says. “I just don’t think we can get even height on the jump. I mean, Jess’s jump is way too high. She has to scale that back for the rest of us.”

This choreography is my baby, and Melissa knows it. “Maybe it’s not about changing the choreography,” I say. “Maybe we just all need to be better. Like Jess.” I turn to her. “And do you wanna be the one to challenge Sam?”

Melissa shakes her head. “You’re right.”

After we give our notes, the whole team stands in a huddle before we break for the lockers.

“Look at all those tight asses!” Sam shouts as she jogs in to meet us. Sam is the kind of girl who, unlike me, actually looks like she could be related to my blond mom and even blonder little sister, and a small part of me hates her for that. Tall, white, strawberry-blond hair, and a straight frame built for ballet and the type of dresses that just graze your skin.

Sam squeezes into the circle. “Sorry I’m late, ladies. Had a few captain admin things to attend to.”

I step aside to give her the floor. The key to a successful transition of power? Always know your place.

She smiles at me. “Wrap it up, Cal. You got this.”

Melissa bristles beside me, but I don’t flinch.

I close the team huddle and say, “Don’t forget. Next week, we’re performing at city hall for the mayor’s American Heroes ceremony. Remember grades, y’all. I don’t want to hear that any of you bitches are on academic probation just before we’re going to State. I don’t care if you have to cheat. Shit. Last week, Jill wrote her vocab words on her thigh.”

All the girls laugh, but Jill, a short white sophomore with light brown ringlets, just shrugs. “It smudged a little, but I still passed. Apparently fiduciary means relating to or of the legal nature of trust. Not rust.”

“That’s the spirit!” I say. “Okay, hands in, y’all. On three. One, two, three!”

“SAN FRAN OR BUST!” we scream in unison.

I glance up to the bright red banner casting a shadow over us. Watch out, ’92. We’re coming for you.

As the team heads for the lockers, me, Melissa, and Sam sit on the bleachers.

“Thanks for taking the lead today, y’all,” says Sam.

Melissa and I both nod.

“Hey,” I say, “we might want to look at the jeté. Jess gets such crazy good height. It makes the rest of us look like total newbies, ya know?”

Melissa turns to me with a bitter smile. “I agree,” she says dryly.

Sam squints, like she’s running through the combo in her head. She nods. “You’re so right, Callie. We’ll look at it tomorrow.”

What can I say? Some people are just born to be leaders.

Sam continues, “So listen, Driskil is about to come in here, and I already know why she wants to talk.”

“What’s up?” asks Melissa.

Sam rolls her eyes. “You know that dinky-ass gym that sponsored us this year?”

We both nod.

“They pulled their funding.”

“Oh my God,” I say, “what does this mean?”

Sam’s normally sunny expression is grim. “Well, Driskil’s gonna try to paint a pretty picture.”