Finally I reach for the first-aid kit, but find the bottle of ibuprofen completely empty. I reach for the office phone and do what I’ve done anytime something hurts more than I can handle. I call my mom.
She answers after only half a ring. “Millie?” she asks, recognizing the gym number on her cell. “Is everything okay, sweetie?”
I don’t normally call during work, and she’s been a little on edge since the place was vandalized anyway. “I’m fine,” I answer automatically. “Well, no, actually I’m not. My mouth is throbbing, Mom.”
“Is it a toothache?” she asks. “You didn’t crack a tooth, did you? Your grandmother did that once on a piece of hard candy.”
“No, it feels worse than a normal toothache. This is more at the back of my mouth. And Mom, it just hurts so bad. I can barely keep my eyes open.”
“Oh dear,” she says. “That would be your wisdom teeth.”
I don’t know exactly what this means, but it doesn’t sound good.
“Let me call Dr. Shepherd.” Before I was born, my mom was one of Dr. Shepherd’s dental hygienists, and she’s never been shy about calling in a favor.
“Mama, it’s almost six o’clock on a Friday.”
“Well,” she huffs, “I don’t expect that your wisdom teeth know or care what day or time it is.”
“But I’m supposed to go to Malik’s birthday party with Amanda.”
“I’m sorry to break it to you, but I don’t think you’re going anywhere but the dentist today. Just stay put in that back office, and I’ll be up there in a jiff with Vernon so he can lock the place up.”
The moment we hang up, I slump forward, laying my head on the desk, and the next thing I know, my mom is guiding me to her car and I’m mumbling to Uncle Vernon to teach Callie how to close down the gym and then I’m in Dr. Shepherd’s office.
The last thing I remember hearing are the words “emergency wisdom teeth removal” as I lie absolutely helpless with Dr. Shepherd’s fingers in my mouth and a bib around my neck.
Everything after that is fuzzy, like how I imagine it would be to live in a place where snow falls so endlessly you can’t see more than two feet in front of you. Snow in my hair. Snow melting on my cheeks. Snow in my eyelashes. Snow everywhere.
Callie
Twelve
If I didn’t have to bear the brunt of Inga’s wrath, I’d actually respect the woman. When she and Vernon showed up with their two screaming babies, she didn’t even acknowledge me. Her chief concerns were helping Millie to the car and counting the register to be sure I hadn’t stolen anything.
While she did that, Vernon rocked both their twins back and forth in their huge double stroller. I use the word twins generously. Those boys are little screaming demons. I don’t know what kind of contract with the devil Vernon and Inga inked to get stuck with two beet-faced howlers.
“Callie,” says Vernon, “could you double count the register while Inga prepares the deposit sheet?”
“Uh, no sir,” says Inga. “This criminal is not touching our money.” She elbows me out of the way.
“Whatever you say,” I grumble. While I don’t like being referred to as a criminal, it’s kind of nice to come across someone who’s finally saying exactly what she thinks.
Inga snaps her fingers, and over the continuous wailing, she says, “I see fingerprints all over this glass. What have you even been doing all day?” She licks her thumb to count the bills in the register and leans a little closer to me. Too quiet for Vernon to hear, she says, “If your fate had been up to me, I would have thrown your spoiled ass in jail.”
I liberally squirt the glass cleaner all over the counter and look to her. In my most deadpan voice, I say, “You can’t fire me. I work for free.”
Inga snarls and closes out the register. She calls out each of the closing duties and uses the stopwatch from Vernon’s office to time me. For no reason at all. Except that she can. I hate the woman, but I’m also taking notes.
After we lock up, I find my mom outside in her Tahoe waiting for me. I watch as she gets out. I drag my finger across my neck in an attempt to get her to stay in the car, but she’s already bustling over to Vernon and Inga.
“I’m Callie’s mama,” she says, the words spilling out of her like a confession.
“Oh,” says Inga.
Vernon gives her a knowing look. “Babe, you wanna get the boys settled in their car seats?”
Inga nods firmly and walks away, but not before glaring at me from over my mother’s shoulder.
Mama’s face falls into a deep-set frown. “I just want to let y’all know how sorry I am. And so is Callie’s dad, and her stepfather, Keith. We just . . . we didn’t raise this type of girl.”
Vernon glances over her shoulder to where his two hellions scream as Inga buckles them into their car seats. “I’m new to the whole parent game,” he says, “but something tells me that the quicker you figure out that not all your kid’s mistakes are your mistakes, the better.”
Mama’s frown softens. “Wise words from such a new parent.”
Vernon laughs. And I can see now that he might be closer to my parents’ age than I thought. “Well, if my parents had taken all of my screw-ups personally, they’d be repenting for a whole slew of speeding tickets, property damage, and trips to the ER.”
“I’ve gotta thank you, too,” Mama says. “If it weren’t for your mercy, there’s no telling what kind of legal trouble Callie would be in right now.”
“Well, I tell you one thing,” he says. “The girl is passionate. I sure was sorry to drop the gym’s sponsorship.”
“Well, we thank you for your understanding and kindness. Don’t we, Callie?”
No cell phone. No dance team. No Bryce. The only people I’ve gotten quality time with are Millie and Inga. Maybe I would’ve been better suited going to court and serving community service or something. I’m a minor. Aren’t those records sealed or something? No one outside of this awful town would’ve ever had to know.
Mama clears her throat. “Don’t we, Callie?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I say, sounding more like a parrot than a human girl.
The whole ride home, Mama is mostly quiet. It’s not until we pull up to the driveway that she says, “Baby, Vernon was right. You’re passionate. So passionate. Like your mama. You just gotta learn how to direct that passion.”
“You mean you don’t want my passion in life to be smashing windows and vandalizing businesses?”
She tsks to herself as she turns off the ignition, and we head inside.
That night I lie awake in my bed for hours, hoping for sleep. I’m so used to falling asleep scrolling through my feed or watching videos that this silence is something I’m still not used to. The quiet stillness of night means being left alone with my own thoughts. It’s like seeing yourself naked in a mirror with bright fluorescent lights overhead.
When all I’ve got left is what’s in my head, my thoughts spin out. Bryce cheating on me at whatever huge party is happening this weekend. Sam confessing to Melissa that the job of captain was always going to her anyway and that she just kept me in the running to be nice. Whispers as I walk down the hallway about how I was never really that talented or that pretty.
But worst of all is the realization that I’ve spent so long building my life around dance. From the moment I found my mom’s yearbook when me, her, and Claudia moved into that little apartment after she and Dad split up. That picture of her on the football field in her white skirted uniform and matching jacket with its blue-and-red trim and her white boots. I knew I wanted that life. I wanted to wear that uniform. I did everything I could to carry myself to that moment in ninth grade when I auditioned for the team. And so did my mom. Even as a single mother, she sacrificed to send Claudia to voice lessons and me to dance class. She’d buy me new dance shoes, which I was constantly growing out of.
And now my closet is made up of more dance-team uniforms than it is real clothes. Everything from our signat
ure red, white, and blue cowgirl outfits to our shimmering green leotards with Shamrocks written in gold sequins. Because up until a few weeks ago, I defined myself in two ways: dance team and Bryce. Only one of those remains.
I sit up in bed. Maybe if I could just talk to Sam. Maybe there’s some big plan I don’t even know about to get me back on the team next year. It’s a small, stupid hope. But sisterhood. She called us a sisterhood. I barely believed it at the time, but I don’t have much else left to believe in.
I tiptoe down the stairs to the drawer in the kitchen where Keith leaves his work phone. It used to be that’d he’d get calls at all hours of the night. Finally Mama put her foot down and said their bedroom wasn’t big enough for her, him, and the phone. So from the hours of eleven p.m. to seven a.m., this is where his work phone lives. I’ve saved the chance to sneak a call on the phone for something important, and this is important. Keith won’t notice a random outgoing call.
I go into the living room and throw a blanket over my head to muffle my voice.
The line rings six or seven times before a voice answers. “Hello?”
“This isn’t Sam,” I say immediately.
“Callie?” asks Melissa. “Is that you?”
“What are you doing with Sam’s phone? Are you, like, stalking her now? Don’t worry. You’re a real shoo-in for captain now.”
“We’ve been trying to call you. I even went by your house, but your stepdad said you were grounded. And not that it’s any of your business, but I’m spending the night at Sam’s. We’re discussing the future of the team.”
“Oh really?”
“Yeah, the administration is all over our asses,” she says. “We can barely sneeze without them noticing.”
Well, being nice was fun while it lasted. “All over your asses? I got kicked off the damn team.”
She sighs. “That was really shitty, but, like, are you surprised?”
“I’m surprised that everyone let me take the fall on my own.”
She’s quiet for a long moment. “You can’t be calling us, Callie,” she says. “We can’t have you associating with the team. We need the school board to think you were the only one from the dance team there. Especially with State in a few weeks.”
I can barely process all that she just said, but State? How? “Y’all are going to State?”
Her tone changes. It’s that voice she uses to trick Sam into thinking she has everything under control. “The car wash was, like, a super-big success, and Bryce’s dad agreed to triple whatever we raised. He says we can do more car washes if we make it to Nationals, and he’ll triple what we earn every time.”
My shoulders sink. “Oh.”
“I have to go,” she says. “Sam’s coming back.”
“I need to talk to her.”
“No,” she says. “You don’t. The dance team can’t be associated with you. The sooner everyone forgets that you didn’t act alone, the better.”
“But . . . but I didn’t act alone. You were there, too, Melissa.”
“I left,” she reminds me. “And no one cares who was there as long as someone pays the price.”
“I know you’re the one who ratted me out.” It feels good to finally say it out loud.
The phone cuts out. I yank the blanket off my head and squeeze my hands into two tight fists. Oh, I’m passionate, all right. And right now my passion is making Melissa’s life hell. I’m gonna burn it all down.
Millie
Thirteen
I sleep for days. I think. I have vague memories of my parents coming in and out of my room and cotton balls in my mouth and bloody drool. One recurring dream haunts me: an out-of-body experience where I watch myself writing my personal statement for journalism camp. Except every time I finish, the page is blank, like I’ve been writing with invisible ink. And then another where I’m doing my audition tape 100 percent naked.
When I do come out of it, I wake up in a panic. My bedroom is hot with afternoon sunlight. I reach for my phone on my nightstand, but it’s not in the pineapple-shaped charging cradle where I set it every night like clockwork. After taking a moment to rub my eyes and pry myself out of bed, I stumble out into the kitchen, where my mom is chopping celery and simmering chicken stock for chicken noodle soup.
I open my mouth to speak, but my jaw punishes me immediately with a shooting pain. Cradling my cheek, I groan.
My mom spins on her heels. “You’re up! Oh, sweet pea, I could’ve brought this to your room. Do you need something?”
I sit on the bar stool across the breakfast bar from her. “My mouth hurts.” My throat nearly cracks from dryness, and my tongue feels heavy and swollen in my mouth. “What time is it?”
My mom glances at the microwave. “Three thirty in the afternoon. You’ve been out since we got home from Dr. Shepherd’s last night.”
I nod. “Did he give me anything for the pain?”
“Awww, sweetie,” my mom coos. “Yes, he did. And you’re due for a dose in about thirty minutes.” She comes around the other side of the breakfast bar to smooth out my hair a little. “You slept good and hard.”
“I didn’t see my cell phone on my nightstand. Did I leave it at the gym or something? I could’ve sworn I brought it home.”
She reaches into the pocket of her apron. “Well, it was just the weirdest thing. Amanda called the house phone last night and said I oughta take your phone away from you. Immediately. She wouldn’t say why, except that your life depended on it. You know I like Amanda, but she’s a touch dramatic.”
“Huh.” I run my fingers through my hair, trying to detangle some knots. “And you did? Take my phone away?”
“Well, I thought she was just being funny. You know I can never tell when Amanda is joking or not, but she said your social life depended on it.” She chuckles to herself. “So I took it out of your room. I figured better safe than sorry.” She winks as she twirls around to grab a jar of dried parsley off her spice rack.
I hit a button on the side of my phone, lighting up the screen to see that I’m almost out of battery. “I’m gonna go brush my hair and charge this thing for a bit.”
“Okay, sweets, this soup will just simmer for a bit longer before it’s ready. And I’ve got some prescription toothpaste and mouthwash for you when you’re ready to brush your teeth.”
I smack my lips together. If my breath smells half as gross as my mouth feels, I’m in pretty rough shape. “After the soup,” I tell her.
She smiles sympathetically. “I must have dropped at least eight pounds when I had my wisdom teeth removed, so that’s something to look forward to.”
Somehow it always comes back to weight loss. But I’m too uncomfortable and groggy to engage with this right now. “I’ll be in my room.”
Back in my room, I search for a charging cord so that I can charge my phone and use it at the same time. I quickly scroll through my text messages. What could have possibly been so horrible that Amanda would call my mom and tell her to take my phone away?
The first text message exchange is between Willowdean and me.
ME: hey youuuuu
WILLOWDEAN: Millie? Hey
ME: what if there was an app that texted you every day to tell you something awesome about yourself but what if the app was like real stuff like it knew you but not in a creepy robot way
WILLOWDEAN: That sounds awesome, but are you okay right now?
ME: I AM GRAND
ME: like if I were the app robot I would say Willowqueen, you have balls of steel and that makes you awesome have an awesome day love your awesome app robot
ME: so genius
WILLOWDEAN: Balls of steel? Am I being pranked? Did someone steal Millie’s phone?
ME: boop boop beep boop
ME: that’s robot for shhh good night
“Oh my God.” I clap a hand over my mouth. My cheeks burn with instant embarrassment. Balls of steel? I don’t think I’ve ever even said the word balls out loud.
I’ve heard of
this happening. People just totally out of it on painkillers and doing or saying ridiculous things. But I was so tired. I barely even remember coming home last night.
Still, I’m scared to dive into whatever other messes I might have gotten myself into. But it’s a car wreck. And I can’t look away. Plus I’ve got to get into damage-control mode at the very least. What if I said something rude or hurtful? Or accidentally told someone’s secret? Or my own secrets?
I scroll down to the next message. Amanda.
ME: my feelings ache
AMANDA: Huh?
ME: it’s like a stomachache, but with my heart and not the one in my body I mean the feelings heart. the heart-shaped heart not the fist-shaped heart
AMANDA: Millie?
ME: i want you to always feel like we can talk
AMANDA: I can’t believe I’m asking this, but are you drunk?
ME: I like you for always okay but I felt like a bad friend for not knowing that you’re asexual
ME: I had to have my wise teeth taken out but only the very smartest ones and that’s why i missed malik’s party, but it’s okay i told him i wouldn’t be there and that we should kiss for fun
AMANDA: OMG MILLIE WHERE ARE YOU
AMANDA: Throw your phone. Do it. Right now. Throw it as far as you can. THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
I clutch my phone to my chest. Oh Lord Baby Jesus. What did I do? I need to talk to Amanda. I can’t believe I told her my feelings were hurt—when I had no right to even have hurt feelings to begin with! And Malik.
I take a deep breath and hold the phone out in front of me as I click on my message thread with Malik.
ME: no party for me :(
MALIK: Oh ok. Did something just come up? You seemed excited the other night.
ME: I was excited but were you is the real question
MALIK: I don’t get it. Did I do something wrong?
ME: if being cute and wearing your stupid pennies in your stupid loafers and always having a kissable face is wrong then yes you do all the things wrong mister sir