Page 23 of Home Field Advantage

I look down at Cara, who’s striking a fierce pose with her hands on her hips and her hair in a tight bun. I don’t have to glance around the room to realize it’s quieted down. People are watching us, and what’s more, no one’s asking what’s going on, which means this isn’t a new conversation for Cara—she’s been peddling a plan around.

A plan everyone must be on board with.

A plan that’s going to make her look like a leader.

A captain, even.

You don’t have to help them, I tell myself.You just need to know what’s going on so you can get everyone to chill out. It’shelpingJack to agree to take part in whatever shit they have planned. This isnotjust about keeping an eye on the race for captain.

When I put it that way, I can pretty much believe it.

“Of course I’m in,” I say casually, giving my arm a good stretch. “Let’s talk after practice, okay?”

For the first time since she approached me, the hard set to her jaw lifts and she finally looks like the girl I used to spend endless afternoons with making up new choreography for Ariana Grande and Beyoncé.

It’s a good face to see again.

And all I had to do was agree to destroy the girl I like.

Apparently, I’m not doing a great job hiding my angst, because my mom calls me out as soon as I get home from practice and crankily slam the front door behind me. She’s back on the night shift, which means we’ve got a couple of hours of overlap before she leaves for the hospital.

“You seem… less than cheery, dear daughter.”

“I feel less than cheery,” I grumble, taking a banana fromthe bowl on the little peninsula in our kitchen and yanking down the peel as if Cara would be able to vicariously feel my wrath.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I take a huge bite. “No,” I lie as I chew.

“Let me rephrase. Let’s talk about it! What’s going on, sweetheart?” She hops up on one of the two stools that line the breakfast bar, which serves as our dining set, and smooths her hand over the top of my head.

The banana is soft, but swallowing feels like choking down a rock anyway. “Have you ever dated someone all your friends hated?”

She snorts. “You mean your father?”

“That doesn’t count,” I say, although I guess it sort of does. My parents were high school sweethearts, but as I got older, my mom confided more and more that it wasn’t all that sweet a romance. Not that I couldn’t guess considering he abandoned us a couple of years later.

“There was a woman, for a little while, when you were still in day care and I’d gone back to school. Aunt Lily despised her, because she was always insisting I get a babysitter so we could go on dates. I obviously couldn’t afford that, so I’d beg Lily or my mom to watch you, constantly.”

“Hey, I thought they loved watching me.”

“They did! Of course they did. But they also thought if this woman—Rowena was her name—was going to be in mylife for real, she needed to accept that my beautiful daughter was going to be a significant and constant presence. It hit me when Lily said that Ro really didn’t get that, how she was picking out the parts of my life—of me—she wanted to enjoy. And if she couldn’t appreciate that, or appreciateyou, then she wasn’t the one for me. Especially since things were only going to get more complicated once we finished school and weren’t surrounded by quite as liberal an environment.”

“So Lily was right not to like her.”

“In that case, yes. But she also disliked that guy Jeff I went on three dates with a few years ago because she thought his sideburns were too long, so she’s a bit of a mixed bag.” She takes a clementine from the bowl, and I watch her dig in with her stubby purple nails. “Is this about Miguel?”

My mom is the only person in the world besides Miguel’s mom and his boyfriend, Malcolm, who knows that Miguel and I are both queer. But she’s worried throughout this entire fake relationship that I was going to catch feelings Miguel couldn’t reciprocate, and since talking to my mom about my hookups has always felt like a step too far into awkward, she doesn’t know about anyone else I’ve been with.

“Sort of? I mean, not about him, but it does involve him. And also someone else.” I break off another piece of banana and roll it gently between the tips of my thumb and forefinger, even though I know it’s gonna leave that gross banana residue.

“Can I have a little more detail, please?”

I smile wryly. “I’m living the dream, Ma. Cheerleader snagged the quarterback.”

“What a wonderful cliché you are,” she says, handing me a clementine segment. I pluck it between my pinkie and ring finger, my other fingers still holding the piece of banana, and admire the little fruit cocktail in my hand before shoving it all into my mouth. “A well-mannered, classy cliché.”

“Or am I?” I pull out my phone with my fruit-residue-free hand and show her a selfie Jack and I took on the couch. “That’s the new quarterback.”

---