Page 8 of Home Field Advantage

“Jesus, Santiago. You’re a jock. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to know words like ‘salacious’?”

“I guess that answers whether you’re still jealous of my SAT verbal score,” he says casually.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do.” I lace my fingers through his, and we fall quiet, and I know we’re both thinking how much easier life would be if we were The Thing everyone thinks we are. But Miguel is gayer than spring break in South Beach and I may be into multiple genders, but that does not include my taken best friend, or any other cis boys, as far as I can tell. So. Here we are.

Maybe someday I’ll have my own Malcolm. A Veronica outside of cheer camp. A pair of incredible arms to hold me that aren’t attached to the most controversial student at Atherton High. Arealrelationship I can be out and proud with.

But then, I’m already going for cheer captain, and how many dreams does one girl get in this life, anyway?

-JACK-

Another day, another infuriating practice of no one giving a shit what I have to say and no one praising a damn thing I’m doing except for Coach Sundstrom’s muttered “Good job today, Walsh” out of earshot of anyone else on the team—a far cryfrom the praise he heaped on at camp. I know he does that on purpose, so he won’t piss off the rest of the guys, and I really fucking hate that I end up preening at those scraps like a stray cat because it’s all I’m gonna get.

I let myself into my new “home” quietly and wave at my mom, who’s sitting at our small dining table and wearing a headset to take customer service calls. She gives a wave back without breaking her rhythm and I disappear into the bathroom and strip off my sweaty clothes.

A good, long shower helps scrub off a little of the maddening memory of the afternoon. It’s also a welcome break from the nonstop texts from Sage and Morgan that I know are meant to keep me in the loop but are starting to depress me. Ordinarily I’d appreciate Morgan’s LARPing drama and I’d be there for Sage’s venting about her parents fighting, but all it does is make me miss everything, and I can’t afford to miss anything.

I can’t afford to miss the inside jokes and knowing exactly where my place was in the cafeteria and who I’d be hanging out with on Friday nights. I can’t afford to miss the old movie theater with reclining seats and the most horribly watered-down sodas and playingDragon Agein Morgan’s basement and swimming in the lake in our sports bras and throwing the ball around with my brothers in the cul-de-sac, nothing but wide-open space except for the Hecker kids driving their bikes around the flat circle. I can’t afford to miss having my own room instead of sleeping on a pull-outcouch in the living room with flimsy blinds that wake me up with too much sun.

I can’t afford to miss any of that because I made my choice and it broke my family in two and took away Morgan and Sage’s best friend and changed everything for everyone I love and I am grateful I am grateful I am grateful.

Iamgrateful, is the thing. I’ve poured my heart into football for so many years, even though there was never a space for me on the team at Butler. As soon as it became clear I was better at throwing, catching, and running than your average kindergartener—hell, than your average elementary school kid—my dad doubled down on the drills, bringing in my brothers as soon as they got old enough to join. Whatever self-consciousness I had that I wasn’t “growing into” liking dolls and princesses and playing dress-up melted away with the knowledge that there was somewhere I belonged, even if it wasn’t where the other girls were.

Then it became a Sunday morning tradition, our version of church. A gathering of us, neighbors, and cousins playing every week, no one saying shit about a second-grade girl playing QB for one side. Summers were filled with football camp, open to everyone because it meant more funding that way. I kept on failing at liking what I was supposed to—the right clothes and hairstyles and music and gender—but it was okay, because I liked something I was really fucking good at.

And then high school hit, and with it the reminder that thiswasn’t a sport for me, even if it felt like the most Me thing in the universe. Maybe theonlyMe thing in the universe.

Our Sunday morning games slowed to once a month, so I got a job at the Hat Hut and sold Jaguars caps until I could pay my own way to a much fancier football camp in Panama City. Technically it was only supposed to be for kids on actual school teams, but Morgan insisted we send in a few videos of me playing to get them to make an exception, and it worked. Then boom—the last day of camp, one of the coaches lets me know he’s in desperate need of a QB who can run and throw like I can, and if my family happened to be picking up and moving to Atherton (because of course he wasn’trecruiting; that would be verboten), he was sure they could find a spot for me.

And now we’re here. The number six. And an upcoming Sunday where the only football that’ll be thrown around in my presence is the one on my TV.

But Friday nights I’ll be under the lights, and that makes everything worth it.

I think.

I am grateful I am grateful I am grateful.

I keep repeating this to myself as I examine my skin to see if any new bruises have shown themselves yet, then pull on a tank top and pajama pants. I am grateful for this opportunity, and I am grateful that my parents are behind me, and I am grateful that they were able to afford a one-bedroom rental on top of their mortgage, and I am grateful I am grateful I am grateful.

I’m grateful enough that I force myself to text my brothers, even though neither one has spoken a word to me since my mom and I pulled away from the house a week ago. They won’t wanna chat—and I don’t either, really—but with the twins, it’s all about meeting them where they live.LOTE?

Busy, Jason responds. It’s more than I get from Jeremy, who doesn’t even bother responding to my offer to play their favorite video game. Under normal circumstances, I’d leave them alone, but I can’t have them icing me out on top of everything else.

This time, I don’t bother texting; I go straight to video chat.

“What?” Jason throws out sullenly. “I told you, we’re busy.”

“You know it’s a video chat, Jase. I can see you’re not busy. You’re sitting at your computer, and don’t pretend you’re doing homework.”

“You’re not here. You don’t know.”

I sigh deeply. He’s not even trying. This is so ridiculous. On a normal evening at six, my brothers definitely aren’t having heart-to-heart chats with Mom, but they’re acting like I stole away the only person either of them has ever loved. In fact, there’s a decent chance that at this hour at home, Jason would be playingLegends of the Empire, like I just offered to.

In fact, it probablyiswhat he’s doing.

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