Page 55 of Home Field Advantage

God, I want to show them all so badly.

Another thing I really wanna do? Skip this farce of a pep rally, where I’ll not only undoubtedly be ignored again but forced to watch the girl I like be one of the people doing the ignoring. But I don’t wanna give anyone the satisfaction, so when the bell rings and the announcement ushers us toward the gym, I square my shoulders, push past everyone who’d rather pretend I didn’t exist, and go take my spot at the back of the line.

I expect the guys to avoid eye contact entirely, so I’m not prepared when they’re suddenly all smiles, holding up their hands for high fives and saying shit like “Heard Terry Lawrence is gonna be at the game—that’s awesome.” They’re nothing but snake-oil grins and obvious fronts, and you can tell which of them think they’re charming enough to pull it off.

Imagine Dan Sanchez thinking I believe there’s any friendliness behind that fist bump. Im-fucking-agine.

And still, I return it, because instinct. Because they’ll make it worse for me if I don’t, and yes, there is a “worse” in there somewhere. Because even if they’re built to give up, I’m not.

One by one, the players get called into the gym, names echoing in the air like they’re meant to be remembered, even if they won’t do anything to earn it. I wish my name could getburied in the middle, sandwiched between the applause of Matt Devlin and Lamar Burke, but the QB goes last, because in any other world, the QB is the star, the one you clap for the loudest.

I take a deep breath and let my mind float to the things that bring me peace. Lifting in my grungy little gym at home with the quiet buzz of grunting and clanking iron. Sage’s lemon meringue pie. Marathoning ESPN Classic when I’m sick. Looking up at the stars while listening to Hayley Kiyoko. Every single suit worn by Cate Blanchett inOcean’s 8. Playing ball with Jeremy and Justin in the cul-de-sac.

The last one stings, but not as badly as it used to. They’ll have to forgive me when I return home and bring Mom with me. They’re my brothers. They have to.

Turns out, that tiny ribbon of fear snaking through my ribs that worries they won’t is the perfect distraction. Before I know it, “And finally, your quarterback, Jaclyn Walsh!” rings out loud enough to shake the walls.

I try not to wince at my full name—the one I’ve asked every single person in this school to stop using, to no avail—and jog into the gym. The cheering is considerably quieter, the crowd less animated, but none of it matters, because there is a single flash of lightning drawing absolutely everyone in the room’s attention.

Amber McCloud is doing a solo tumbling run. It’s fucking incredible, watching her defy gravity, her legs slicing through the air like a single tanned blade. And when she’s done, shebarely takes a breath before snatching up the megaphone and shouting “Give me aJ!”

The crowd, too stunned to do anything other than respond on autopilot, goes ahead and gives her thatJ.

And anA.

And aC.

And aK.

And then she’s off again, cartwheeling and flipping like her life depends on it, bringing the entire room to its feet.

I know that if I look at the rest of the squad, I’ll see a group of girls that absolutely wants to strangle her with their pom-poms. And if I look at the team, I’ll see something similar.

But I can’t look anywhere except at Amber, her chest heaving with exertion, her face flushed and glistening with sweat, and her eyes—her eyes looking right back at me, soft and sorry and hopeful and just inches above where her teeth worry the lower lip of her nervous pink mouth.

As apologies go, it’s not a bad one.

But it doesn’t change anything, literally or figuratively. I look away, get in line, and wait for this to end so I can focus on absolutely nothing but the feeling of the Gator grass beneath my feet one last time.

Chapter Twelve

-AMBER-

Okay, so, it wasn’t all fixed with Grand Gesture #1. That’s okay. Even though the rest of the squad looks like they want to pour fire ants down my spankies, and Jack is determined to freeze me out with enough ice power to rival the North Pole, I feel good. Like I did the right thing. Like I showed what’s important to me. Like I stood behind the squad (who they should be, at least), the team (who they should be, at least),andmy girl (who I’d like to be, at least).

At least I know my mom would be proud.

And it helps me breathe a little easier to see that Miguellooks like he might be too, if the fact that he sneaks me a tiny smile is any indication. I don’t think I can go through with the rest of this if I don’t have him in my corner.

For the rest of the pep rally, I fall perfectly in line, ignoring the glares from the contingent of girls determined to embarrass Jack at every corner. Of course, Crystal and the rest of the seniors don’t look too thrilled with me either—that wasn’t exactly a sanctioned move—but I hope they at least get why I did it.

And if they don’t, they will soon.

Still, when the marching band is done with their performance, Dan Sanchez and Matt Devlin have made their nauseating speeches about how they’re going to crush Kennedy High (oh, are you, now?), the step team’s brought everyone back to their feet, and we’ve done our final routine, Crystal yanks me by the arm and pulls me over to the side. “Ammo. What the hell?”

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the football players file out, and once more I quickly catch Jack’s eye before she leaves. “Is that not what we rehearsed?” I ask innocently, turning back to Crystal.

“Amber.”

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