Page 13 of Home Field Advantage

“Is his mom hot?” Jack murmurs to me.

“Very,” I mouth, and she smothers a laugh behind her hands, disguising it as a cough.

“And no one can really screw up bacon,” Miguel repeats firmly, never one to allow his life lessons to be interrupted, “Maggie’s hash browns are always underseasoned and somehow manage to be both burnt and raw at the same time.”

He’s not wrong, and it truly is a mystery of science. But before anyone else can confirm or deny, Cara somberly says, “Robbie used to get the Super Combo Breakfast Platter,” and it shuts everyone’s laughing right up.

“Oh man, yeah, he did,” Dan Sanchez murmurs, and the rest of the table nods.

Jack’s eyes widen as she looks to me for help. “Guess it’s truly the breakfast of Alligator champions,” I say cheerfully. “Even if Maggie has not mastered hash browns.”

No one laughs except Miguel, and a couple of people toss glares at Jack. I claw my fingers into Miguel’s sweatpants-covered thigh, and he squeezes my hand. At least one person here knows everyone’s being utterly ridiculous. “Really, you should try the Western omelet,” Miguel suggests to Jack, as if changing her order will somehow sufficiently preserve Robbie’s memory. “That’s really good here.”

It’s not. Maggie puts in too many tomatoes and it always ends up a little watery. But Jack nods, and that’s the order she gives to the waitress.

“I’m gonna have the Super Combo Breakfast Platter,” Dan declares. “In honor of Robbie.”

“Me too,” says Lamar, and Matt agrees, and so forth down the line until every football player’s doing it except for Jack, and Miguel, who hasn’t ordered yet. But he mumbles that he’ll have it too, even though he hates Maggie’s hash browns and thinks her cheese grits are a microaggression against all people of color and anyone else with working taste buds. I feel mildly betrayed on Jack’s behalf, but if she feels the same, it’s impossible to tell, because you can’t meet someone’s eyes who refuses to lift them from the table.

Talk shifts to Robbie then, and though Miguel easily joinsin—or at least he makes it look easy, though it’s probably killing him—I can’t even bring myself to fake interest. It’s bad enough that I brought Jack here; to skip out on “Remember that time Robbie” and “It was hilarious when Robbie” Hour would be a sin worse than dropping a top girl on her butt. I do my best to give context to Jack every now and again, but it’s clear as she pushes food around on her plate while barely eating any that she’s checked out.

Finally, once I’ve shoveled my food down my throat without really tasting it, I declare I’ve gotta go home.

“It’s not even one thirty!” Cara whines, as if her parents wouldn’t absolutely flip if they knew she was out right now. No one sneaks out of the house with the agility of our best flyer. “Don’t be a party pooper. Your mom never cares when you stay out late.”

“My mom might not, but my trig homework does,” I reply with a sad face. “I gotta get up early to do some makeup work.”

Now it’s Miguel’s turn to dig into my thigh. I’m stealing one of his best patented excuses for when he needs to get away for a date he doesn’t want anyone to know about. I don’t say anything to him, though—just leave money on the table and ask Jack if she wants a ride, like she’s not obviously dying to get out of here. She agrees as if the idea only just occurred to her, and we head out even while Cara yells, “Boo, you whore,” at my back.

This time, we don’t exchange any words on the ride home,but when I pull up in front of her building, I say, “Okay, that did kind of suck. I’m sorry.”

She shrugs. “I should’ve known it’d be as bad as I thought. Or I guess maybe it wasn’tasbad—nobody spit in my food.”

“Progress!” I cheer, and she snorts. “Though I couldn’t help but notice you ate ketchup with your eggs, which is so much worse than spit.”

“Don’t you dare blaspheme my favorite vegetable.”

“Ketchup?”

“Salad of champions,” she declares solemnly, and I don’t know whether to laugh or hurl. “And hey, thanks for trying tonight, even if it was kind of a bust. And, uh, thank your boyfriend, too. He’s the only guy on the team who’s been halfway decent to me.”

It’s the first time in a year that the truth about me and Miguel has danced on my tongue. There was nothing to tell Veronica, since we knew absolutely nothing about each other outside of cheer world and had no plans to change that. But whether it’s Jack’s rare laugh, or her strength and drive, or the shyness so at odds with this massive thing she’s doing here, somewhere along the line the name “Cheer Girl” went from pissing me off to curling my toes. And now I just… feel like I want to know more. And for her to maybe really know me, a little.

But I swallow it down, because as much as I hate this, Miguel’s secret is wrapped up in the lie too, and I can’t break his trust like that.

“I will,” I force out, wishing I could apologize for what must seem like messing with her head.

I expect her to let herself out of the car then, but after a few beats of awkward silence, she speaks again. “I know you’re doing your best at this whole ‘cheer’ thing, and I appreciate it. Guess I’m just beyond help.”

“You arenotbeyond help, four-eyes,” I say. “It’s gonna get better. You’ll see.”

“If you say so.”

“It’ll make a difference when you start winning. I know I sound like a broken record, but I really do believe that.” I think. I’m pretty sure I believe it, anyway.

“Except that winning could also make it worse, right? I see what you were saying now about the sanctification of Robbie Oakes. Maybe it’s just not possible for me to replace a dead guy. Sorry if that sounds insensitive,” she adds quickly. “I hadn’t realized he was a friend of yours, too.”

“He wasn’t,” I say, glad there’s at least one secret Icansafely tell her tonight. “I mean, that’s between you and me—and Miguel—but… yeah. You don’t ever have to worry about Robbie love coming from this direction.”

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