Page 51 of Home Field Advantage

The thought keeps me up half the night, and by morning, I know it’s the right move. It was barely worth keeping my family broken up before, but it’sdefinitelynot now. I miss my dad. I miss Jason and Jeremy, even if they’re being assholes. I miss Sage and Morgan. I miss the tire hanging in our yard and having my own room and the Megan Rapinoe poster on my wall (for multiple reasons).

But how do I tell them this was all for nothing?

I have a scout coming. A fuckingscout. How many girls get ascoutwatching them play football, even unofficially? It’s the secret dream I never even bothered telling anyone about, the dream I pretended never existed because it was just too ab-fucking-surd to possibly be real. Hell, even with itbeingreal, I barely told anyone, because it still felt too good be true.

And it was.

I fucking hate this place.

I flex my fingers, stretching them out like a sunburst and curling them in on my palm over and over again, because if I don’t keep my hand busy, Iwillreach out and throw something against a wall. And it wouldn’t be enough. Butler was one thing, because it never gave me the promise of anything. But Atherton did. And that makes it so much worse that the past couple of months have turned into an absolute embarrassment. I cannot wait to get out of here, and I’m starting to think that if it doesn’t happen right now, I’m going to burn this godforsaken town to the ground.

In a flash, I think about leaving Cheer Girl behind, and just as quickly I remember that’s just another thing that’s over, another thing I clearly never had the chance to get right.

I won’t bail on the game, because unlike these pathetic fuckers, I have an ounce of loyalty and class. Besides, it’s not like I can cancel on the scout. The best I can do is show him thatIcan play, even if the team can’t, and maybe I’ll get considered for a one-time kick or something.

My uniform, which usually fits like a glove, feels too tight in every way today, but I can’t stop looking at myself in the mirror, knowing it’s probably my last day wearing it. It’s not coming back with me as a souvenir; even if Coach let me take it, I couldn’t bear to look at it again.

I wonder if the shade of Gator green is something I’ll ever be able to wear again without wanting to puke.

My phone lights up with a text, and I hate the little blip of hope in my brain that expects to see Amber’s name attached to an apology or even aCan we talk?but it’s just another text from Sage cheering me on for tonight.

No, notjust, I remind myself. Sage and Morgan have been as good friends as possible through this entire shitshow; it’s not their fault they kept living their lives without me and having fun at the things we were supposed to do together. It’s not their fault they’ve been trying to watch out for me and I’ve been dismissing all their concerns, or that I gave my fucking heart to a girl who didn’t deserve it.

The wave of missing them hits hard in my chest, adding another layer to my determination to make this my last game. I’m tempted to tell them right here and now, but I can’t stand the humiliation, or the totally irrational part of my brain that worries if they know how big a loser I am here, they’ll decide I’m not worth their time, either.

Tonight, though. Tonight, when it’s all over and I am at my fucking lowest and I need my best friends. Tonight I’ll tell them.

I keep an eye on my phone while I brush my teeth, watch it with laser-beam eyes while I eat breakfast, willing it to light up with something from Amber or even one of my brothers, but nothing else comes.

I take one last look at myself in the mirror, fully dressed in my Alligators uniform from shoulders to toes, and though all I want is to run in the other direction, I set off for school.

With Amber in my first period, I brace myself for the sight of her, but she never shows. At least wondering where she is makes for a welcome distraction from the classmates throwing balled-up pieces of paper at me when the teacher’s turned around with “Catch this!” and “How’s my aim?” and “Gonna scout me?” nastily whispered at me. Whether any of them have notes inside, I don’t bother looking.

Things don’t get better when the bell rings; all the same whispering and pointing is there, even though I’m definitely supposed to be wearing my uniform this time. In fact, the only people being suspiciously nice to me—if you can call flat-out ignoring me “nice”—are the other guys on the team, because they’re too stupid to realize that’s a way bigger giveaway that they’ve got shit planned than just being their usual asshole selves.

By fourth period, I’ve seen every other cheerleader in the junior class, so I know it isn’t a squad thing. Not that I care. Notthat I’m a little worried. If Amber’s proven anything, it’s that she’s always watching out for herself.

I definitely don’t care.

I just need to check the time on my phone.

No unread messages.

Crap.

“Hey.” The voice is low in my ear, the sound of someone pretending to be passing by who doesn’t want to get caught talking to me. I know it well by now, have heard it from a freshman girl here, a soccer player there—the few people in the school who think what I’m doing is cool, even if they know they’re not allowed to voice it. This time, though, it’s a voice I’m familiar with. “You seen Loud?”

“Nope.”

Miguel swears under his breath, but whatever he’s worried about, he doesn’t share, and I don’t ask. Though I don’t need him to tell me that from a “hope to become cheer captain” perspective, this probably isn’t a great day to skip.

I want to think she’s home soothing a broken heart with a pint of ice cream or whatever, but I know better. She’s probably just getting Gator green stripes in her hair.

The telltale rush of air that would accompany Miguel moving on with his day doesn’t come, and even though I wanna take the opportunity to leave him in the dust, my feet won’t make the movements my brain wants them to. It’s like part of me still thinks there must be a decent guy in there, and I don’tknow why. Queer solidarity? Some sort of invisible rainbow-striped bond?

“Listen, I wanna help.”

Oh, maybe that’s why.

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