Puddin'(6)

The door to the gym opens, and Mrs. Driskil shuffles inside.

“But basically we’re fucked,” whispers Sam before Mrs. Driskil is in earshot.

“Good morning, ladies,” says Mrs. Driskil. “This will take just a moment.”

Mrs. Driskil is a mousy woman who wears long skirts that collect dust along the hem and bulky cat-hair-coated grandpa cardigans with seasonal brooches. With the whiskery wrinkles around her mouth, not only is she a cat lady, she looks like one, too. She’s nice enough, but she keeps her distance, which is exactly what we need in a faculty adviser. Her name might be on all the paperwork, but we’re the ones running this show.

“Hey, Mrs. D,” I say. “Nice sweater.”

“Oh,” she says in a sugary voice. “This was my aunt Dolores’s. We almost buried her in it, but I was able to find her favorite just in time for the viewing.”

Melissa clears her throat. “What a . . . memorable story.”

“So what brings you all the way to the gymnasium?” I ask.

Mrs. Driskil coughs into her fist. “Well. It’s, um, one of your sponsors. They had to back out, and it appears they were your primary sponsor. That sweet little boxing gym. Down for the Count?”

“Wait,” I gasp, feigning surprise. “What did you say?”

“Well, I guess the owner is just having a rough go of it, and he’s cutting costs.” She speaks slowly and loudly, as if I was being literal about not hearing her.

“Okay,” I say. “But can’t we just, like, get another sponsor? My boyfriend’s dad owns a couple car dealerships. I’m sure he could help us out.”

Sam shakes her head.

Driskil rings her hands together. “Well, it’s not that easy. The district bylaws say that a sponsor must be approved before the school year, and that the student is responsible for any additional funding needs. And so I’m afraid that means the cost of travel and accommodations for State and Nationals would fall to you ladies.”

Panic swells in my chest, but I refuse to appear anything less than calm. “Who can even afford that?” I ask.

“Definitely not me,” says Melissa.

Mrs. Driskil continues, “It looks like we have almost half of what we need for State, but if we make it any further than that, we’re going to have to raise funds.”

I sputter for a moment. “But . . . but how much does it even cost to go to Nationals?” The expense of a big trip like that is almost as unfathomable to me as the cost of college.

“Well, it isn’t cheap. At all,” says Sam. “I mean, a single car wash barely paid for just one of our uniforms. Airfare to California is astronomical. We could maybe charter a bus, but the district would have to give us tons of extra time off.”

Silence settles as I let this news sink in.

Mrs. D clears her throat. “I don’t think you should be too worried, girls. You ladies are all so talented, but . . . but Texas is a big state.”

I’m almost impressed. I didn’t think Mrs. D had it in her to make a dig like that. But I’m mostly pissed, to be honest.

“We’ve made it before,” says Melissa. “And we came really close last year. We shouldn’t have to limit ourselves just because some stupid gym flaked on us.”

I nod. “This is our year. I can feel it. And it’s Sam’s last year.” I shake my head. “Hell no. Not on my watch. Ya know, no one talks about the budget when the football team has an away game. If those boys ever made it to postseason again, the whole town would be throwing money and panties at them.”

We wait for Mrs. Driskil to say something, but all she gives us is a look of pity. I’m so angry my fingers are trembling. Maybe if Mrs. Driskil wasn’t so used to people treating her like crap, she wouldn’t let the dance team get treated the same way.

Sam stands up and starts walking to the locker room without waiting to be dismissed, and Melissa and I follow her.

“Girls,” calls Mrs. Driskil. “Girls! I think it’s best we not tell the team for the time being. It might not even be an issue! And I just think it would cause unneeded distress. We ought to discuss next steps.”

The three of us just keep walking.

I spend second period as an office aide. Not because I requested the job, but because my mama did. Actually, she’s more of a smother than a mother, but she’s my smother.

As I try to sneak past her into the copying room, the sound of a thick southern twang stops me. “There’s my Callie Honey. Baby, come here. Give your mama some love.”

I double back and stash my backpack under her desk before plopping down onto the little stool she keeps behind her desk for filing. She pulls my face close to her with both hands and gives me a kiss on the cheek, leaving her mark: Revlon Certainly Red 740, the color my mama has worn every day since her mama took her to the drugstore on her thirteenth birthday to buy her first real adult makeup.

“Has your sister emailed you?” she asks. “I tried to get her on the FaceTime chat, but I can’t make sense of the time zones in Germany.”

“Mama, it’s just FaceTime. Not the FaceTime chat. And no, Claudia hasn’t emailed me.” I don’t tell her that I haven’t emailed her either. It’s not that I don’t love my sister, but we’re busy, and if Claudia’s not answering Mom’s phone calls, I’m sure more than time zones are to blame. Claudia is a student at USC but is spending the semester at the opera house in Dresden. I’m happy for her, but I miss having someone in our house who looks like me. When she left for college, I didn’t anticipate what it might feel like to be the only brown person in our otherwise white household.