Page 35 of Home Field Advantage

I, of course, am wearing my jersey, exactly as the apparently bullshit team email sent out by Dan Sanchez last night reminded us to do.

At least I look good in the jersey, which is extremely cold comfort as everyone points and snickers at me everywhere I go.

It’s not fair to be mad at Amber. She’s been working toward becoming captain for years, and the only thing that might kill that dream faster than coming out is for everyone to know who she’s really been making out with. And it’s not fair to be mad at Miguel, who has his own shit to deal with.

But I’m so fucking sick of being alone, and those stupid little clothespins and stitched-on alligators are pushing me toward the edge.

“You know it’s Gator Day, not game day, right?” some girl I don’t even know calls at me. “I know you’re excited, but jeez.”

“Careful,” a dorky-looking boy I’m confident I could rip limb from limb stage-whispers back at her. “You might forget for two seconds that she’s the quarterback. We can’t have that.”

Oh yes, because I wear this jersey with so much pride. Try harder, loser.

Still, I’m this close to chucking it into my locker after next period and just walking around in my sports bra. It’d probably be less embarrassing.

You know what? Fuck it. That’s exactly what I’m doing.

I whip off my jersey before I can give it another thought, and stuff it into my locker. It’s not like my sports bra is much more revealing than half the crop tops girls wear to school here, or even the cheerleaders’ uniforms. And if they’re gonna whisper about me anyway, let them do it about something on my terms, not a stupid prank my supposed teammates pushed me into.

I put all my irritation into the satisfying slam of my locker door, but the catharsis is short-lived when I turn around to find Vice Principal Foster standing a few feet away, a deep frown wrinkling her face. “Ms. Walsh. A minute?”

I resist the urge to shudder off the “Ms.” and square my shoulders as I walk over, which is maybe not the wisest move, since it pushes out my chest. “Yes?”

“A hallway is not the place to change your clothes, as I’m sure you are aware.”

“Oh, I’m not changing,” I clarify, gesturing at my closed clocker. “I’m dressed.”

If possible, her expression turns even stonier. “Undergarments are not appropriate school attire, Ms. Walsh.”

“You can really just call me Jack,” I tell her, because if I hear “Ms. Walsh” one more time, I’m going to scream. “And I’m pretty sure I’m every bit as covered as they are.” I gesture to two girls pretending not to watch us from behind a notebook, one of whom is wearing a top short enough to show off a belly chain (ew). The other one’s neckline is so low, there’s almost as much of her bra showing as there is of mine, and hers isn’t exactly plain black cotton from Target.

Foster refuses to turn her head, though; we both know she won’t like what she sees. “The point stands that you are not wearing clothing, M—”

I cut her off before she throws out theMword again. “How about we say I’m wearing a crop top without a bra underneath? There—everybody wins.”

Somewhere in the corner of my mind I think about how Morgan would melt into the floor if they heard me now. The thought makes me smile.

It is a very bad time to smile.

“That’s enough,” Foster snaps. “You football players all think you can get away with—” She breaks off, even thoughit’s obvious to both of us what she was going to say. I guess accusing a team of murder, even if it’s just a saying, is maybe a little classless when one of them died.

Now we’re just at an awkward standoff with everyone watching, which is exactly when Cheer Girl shows up, the clothespins on her stupid alligator shirt clacking in time with her steps. “Hi, Ms. Foster!” she says brightly, smiling to show her perfect teeth. There’s something different about her, and I realize it’s the first time I’ve ever seen her outside of class without at least one other cheerleader around. I wonder what excuse she made to free herself from the pack and come over here. “I was just coming to pick up Jack to bring her to the locker room to get her special QB gator polo.”

If ever there were four words that made no sense together, it’s “special QB gator polo,” and from the expression on Foster’s face, she’s aware of it. But Amber is Amber, and she’s impossible to say no to or even question, especially when she has the Cheer Girl Charm turned all the way up—I should know. Foster is gonna crack.

But not without putting up a fight first. “Is that so?” Her thin eyebrows shoot skyward. “Because I was just informed she was wearing ‘a crop top without a bra underneath.’”

Amber rolls her eyes in a way that suggests she and Foster are having a laugh at my expense. “I keep telling her she’s not half as funny as she thinks she is, but you know football players.…”

“Mm-hmm. Get her dressed, Ms. McCloud,” commands Foster, and then she heaves a heavy sigh like we might bethemost annoying children she has ever encountered, and continues on down the hall to find her next lucky delinquent.

“You really—”Shouldn’t have, I start to say to Amber, even though I can’t ignore that part of me likes how she came to my “rescue,” but she doesn’t let me get a word out.

“Come on.” She yanks me toward the locker room, muttering under her breath. I can make out “wearing a fucking bra in the fucking hallway,” but it all gets unintelligible from there.

“You seriously have an extra one of those shirts in there?” I ask as she literally shoves me inside.

“No, I don’t,” she snaps. “And we’re not exactly the same size, so I can’t just give you mine. You’re welcome for buying you some time to figure out a solution rather than letting Foster bench you for homecoming.”

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