The Cheerleaders(49)

There’s an edge to her voice, as if she’s worried that whoever inseminated me has come back for round two. She comes into the kitchen, several strands of hair falling out of her bun.

She stops short when she sees Ginny, who looks equally uncomfortable.

“This is my friend Ginny,” I say. “She’s on the dance team.”

My mother does a little head tilt. “Hello, Ginny.”

“Hi, Mrs. Rayburn.”

“It’s Carlino,” my mother says, and even though her voice is gentle, Ginny’s face turns a deep shade of red.

It hits me, why Ginny is so embarrassed; she told me my mother had given her a ride home from gymnastics once, when her father never showed up to get her. It looks like my mother doesn’t even recognize her.

“I was going to order a pizza,” Mom says. “You’re welcome to stay, Ginny.”

Ginny’s eyes flit to me, as if she’s asking if it’s okay. I give her an encouraging smile, but she says, “I’m supposed to eat with my mom tonight. Thank you, though.”

My mother moves along to her office and luckily Ginny misses the way my mother looks her up and down, the ghost of a frown on her face. I walk Ginny to the front door, Mango weaving between our legs, afraid we’re going somewhere and leaving him behind. I can’t stop thinking about Ginny’s face when she talked about getting on the police database. The way she seemed to come alive at considering doing something so obviously illegal, when less than a month ago she was too scared to talk to me on the bus ride home.

“What is it?” Ginny asks. “You’re looking at me weird.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “You’re good at this stuff. It’s like you’re secretly a badass.”

She just shrugs. But as she waves goodbye and heads down the driveway, I catch her smile before she turns her back.

I watch her walk all the way to her mom’s car, wondering what happened to the girl on the bus.



* * *



—

The long weekend is washed away by my teachers’ revenge for the days off—five-page papers in both English and history, a take-home test for pre-calc, and several practice quizzes for chem, thanks to my deplorable average. We have a three-hour dance team practice on Saturday to make up for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and Sunday is spent icing a pulled hamstring.

Monday morning, my mother comes into the kitchen while I’m eating breakfast. She watches me as she guides an earring into her ear. “Would you be able to stay at Rachel’s or Alexa’s Friday night?”

I let my spoon rest against the side of my yogurt container. “Why?”

“Tom and I are going to the PBA annual dinner and we won’t be back until late. Your brother is staying with Grandma Carlino. I’m assuming you don’t want to go with him.”

Tom’s mother is nice enough, and she always has her freezer stocked with our favorite ice creams—Rocky Road for me, Cookie Dough for Petey—but I’m too old to sleep on a pullout bed with my little brother while our parents are out partying until two in the morning.

“Can’t I just stay here?” I ask. “I’m sixteen. I can handle it.”

“You just told us a little while ago that you don’t feel safe here alone.”

“Fine,” I say. “I’ll talk to Rach.”

“Thank you.”

My mother is turning on her heel when I think of something. “Mom. Who’s going to be at the station if everyone’s going to the dinner?”

“Not everyone is going,” she says, still battling with the stubborn earring. “Mike will be around if anything comes up.”

I turn back to my yogurt. Use the head of my spoon to put pressure on a stray strawberry until I crush it, staining the surface of the yogurt red. When my mother leaves the room, I text Ginny.





I send the text off, throw out what’s left of my yogurt, and finish getting ready for school.



* * *



—

It’s evident during homeroom that homecoming fever is setting in. The game and parade are still more than two weeks away, but people are lobbying for homecoming court already. Campaigning was outright banned when I was a freshman, after a group of seniors on the guys’ soccer team made a calendar out of seductive photos of themselves, and one fell right into the lap of Mrs. Zhang, the student council advisor.

Mrs. Barnes announces that student council is having an open meeting for anyone who wants to participate in class Spirit Night, and also, the library is reopened.

At lunch, Rachel is absent from the table. I slide onto the bench next to Alexa.

“Where’s Rach?”

“Getting extra help,” Alexa says, kneading a pouch of low-fat ranch to get the dregs onto her salad. “She has until Friday to drop pre-calc, and she’s freaking out.”

Behind us, there’s a commotion. A pack of senior guys is horsing around. One of them drops a carton of punch; it forms a red river on the tile. Mrs. Brown shouts at them to clean it up or someone is getting sent to the ISS room.

Joe Gabriel bends down to mop up the fruit punch, but the guys are still hanging close by, sneaking glances at us.

I turn to Alexa. “Why are they hovering?”