Page 37 of Home Field Advantage

I shrug, words coming out of my mouth I can’t seem to stop. “Or maybe we hang out with your mom. Y’all get along, right?”

Amber snorts. “Yeah, we get along great, but—” She stops at a red light and turns to me. “You’re serious? You wanna come over and meet my mom?”

So help me God, I do.

And that’s how I know I’m in deep.

Heidi McCloud just might be my favorite adult on the planet.

First of all, she says, “Sothisis the girl,” with a wink at me that makes Amber blush to the heavens, which is just about my favorite thing that’s happened since I moved to Atherton.

Second of all, she’s queer. Hermomis queer. When we somehow get onto the topic of haircuts, she laughs and says something about how she has the stereotypical “bisexual bob” like it’s nothing, like I must’ve met so many openly queer adults before, like it’s no big deal to live in Northwest Florida and have a job and a kid and justbe bi.

It must be weird for Amber, being out at home but completely in the closet at school. Not that I’m super out at school either, but I don’t exactly pass for straight unless you’re determined to be clueless as hell; even my grandparents have finallystopped asking when I’ll meet a nice boy. Nothing about her gives off vibes until she wants to, though, and turning it on and off frankly sounds exhausting.

“You sure you don’t want any more?” Heidi asks, tipping the pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream we’ve all been sharing in my direction. It’s the green kind, for Gator Day, which was a little horrifying until Amber rolled her eyes and told me her mom has a different flavor for every day of Spirit Week and calls it her “favorite excuse of the year.”

“I’m good, but thank you.” Truth is, I don’t really like ice cream, but she was so excited to serve it to us and I loved the idea of being doted on by a girlfriend’s mom so much that I swallowed it down anyway. I feel like I’ve just drunk icy mouthwash. Amber shakes her head, though it’s obvious she wants more. From several references at Gutter Kittens and tonight, I’m guessing homecoming and the accompanying dress have something to do with cutting herself off.

We haven’t actually talked about the dance, but there isn’t really anything to say—she and Miguel mentioned going together the other night at bowling, Malcolm pretended (?) to be sad about missing out, and I didn’t say a word, because it’s a dance and those are extremely not my thing. Technically, my presence would be required as quarterback, but oh right, no one gives a shit about me, so I get to stay home and watch ESPN Classic while everyone else squeezes into dresses and uncomfortable suits and ties.

I definitely don’t want to be doing that.

I definitely haven’t pictured rocking my own suit, Amber on my arm in a dress that shows off lots of glowing skin, swaying against me at slow dances. Maybe sneaking kisses in the corner. Maybe taking some pictures to send to Sage and Morgan or even post online. Maybe hanging out with Miguel and Malcolm and having as good a time as we had the other night. Maybe having the room stop and toast to our win the night before and the quarterback who led them to victory. Maybe sneaking into her room together afterward and leaving that suit on the floor.

Whew, good thing I have not imagined that atall.

“We have to go strategize for the rest of Spirit Week,” Amber says apologetically to Heidi, tugging me out of the tall seat at their breakfast bar. “Thanks for the ice cream, Mom.”

“Ah yes, strategizing for Spirit Week,” Heidi says dryly. “I believe that’s how you were conceived.”

“Oh myGod, Mom.” Amber’s cheeks flame as she yanks me toward her room. “You are not allowed to talk to any of my friends ever again!” she calls over her shoulder.

“Leave the door open, honey!” Heidi calls back sunnily.

“We can’t even get pregnant!” Amber slams the door behind us, but it’s more for punctuation than anything else. She cracks it open a second later, and her mom makes a satisfied noise from the kitchen before retiring to her own bedroom with the door fully closed.

“Sorry, she’s the world’s most embarrassing human.” Amber rubs her hands over her face. “Just ignore everything she ever says, ever.”

“So you didn’t bring me here to get me pregnant?”

“Oh shut up.” She grabs a pillow from her bed and whacks me with it. It’s one of many—her bed is one of those froufy things with big pillows and smaller pillows and smallest pillows, and it looks very, very comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. But even with her mom’s door closed, it’s impossible not to be hyperaware that she’s all of fifteen feet away; their apartment isn’t that much bigger than ours. “There—you’ve met my mom and seen my house. Is it everything you dreamed it would be?”

“Kind of, yeah,” I admit, taking myself on a little self-guided tour of her room. It makes me miss having my own space at home—my trophy shelves and posters and sketches from before Jason decided it wasn’t cool to want to be an artist.

Amber’s room is as peppy as she is in the halls, full of pictures from cheer camp and games, selfies with Miguel, Cara, and other girls from the squad, and one sweet, framed, slightly faded photo that’s clearly of her and Heidi when Amber was a little kid.

“That was my grandma’s favorite picture,” says Amber, watching me pick it up. “She died just before I started high school. She and my mom didn’t get along that well, so I didn’t see her much. But that picture always made her smile, so I took the frame from her house when we went to clear it out.”

“That’s sweet.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

I snort and keep browsing. Everything is just as it should be in a cheerleader’s room—pom-poms hanging from the slatted closet doors and a fresh mint color on the walls that’s not unlike the ice cream we just ate. A couple of YA books on her shelves that have cheerleaders on the cover, one of which looks super gay that I may have to ask to borrow later. Her desk is a mess of everything but homework and her floor is neat as a pin. It’s exactly what I would’ve guessed her room looked like based on our first meeting, but not what I would’ve imagined now that we’ve spent time together.

“It’s brutally extra, I know.”

Yesfeels like the wrong response, but it’s true. Where’s the girl who likes the ridiculous décor of Gutter Kittens? Where’s the fierceness of the girl who lied to Foster just a few hours ago? Where does she fit in to the feather boa artfully wrapped around the bulletin board covered with Gator paraphernalia?

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