Puddin''

  After Bobby heads back to class and Mrs. Bradley tasks me with some filing to fill the rest of my free period, she rolls on her chair over to me with her legs crossed. “That was awful sweet of you to have Callie over with your friends on Saturday night.”

  “Oh, we had a great time!” And it’s not a lie. I don’t think. . . . Mrs. Bradley and I don’t talk about much else besides the weather or little bits of teacher gossip, but with Callie working at the gym, we’re sort of in new territory.

  “I don’t want to go on making excuses for her,” she tells me, “but it’s been hard for her lately.”

  “She’ll be fine,” I promise her. “I don’t know Callie very well. Not yet. But you raised a fighter, Mrs. Bradley.”

  She smiles faintly. “Maybe too much of a fighter.”

  “Excuse my change of subject, but I am just dying to know. What shade of lipstick is it that you wear?” I’ve always found something about Mrs. Bradley’s lipstick a little bit intoxicating, and now that the application deadline for broadcast journalism camp is approaching, I’m having to think seriously about my audition tape, which means putting the finishing touches on my on-camera look.

  “Oh, baby,” she says, holding her hand over mine. “Revlon Certainly Red 740. I swear if I ever get a tattoo—which I’m too chicken to ever do—it would be this little tube of lipstick.” She pulls it from the pocket of her skirt. “It’s been everywhere with me. The year the Shamrocks won State when I was just a young thing. Every date I’ve ever been on. High-school graduation. Two weddings. Three baby births from two different daddies. Divorce court. Far too many funerals.”

  She holds the tube out for me to examine, and I take it in my hand. A black tube with a gold strip around the center.

  “I tell you,” she says, “love comes and goes, but lipstick is forever.”

  Something about her words makes me feel all swoony inside. “It’s just the perfect shade,” I tell her. “But what will you do if they ever quit making it?”

  She laughs, but it comes out like a guffaw. “Die, of course.”

  I chuckle.

  She shakes her head. “I’ve got my babies to live for, I suppose. I would survive.”

  I hand the lipstick back after jotting down the number, name, and brand on a scrap of paper. We both go back to our filing and our usual talk of the weather and teacher-lounge politics.

  As I’m leaving, she tugs me once more by the hand. “Don’t take this as me asking you to be friends with my Callie, because trust me, she would hate nothing more than me interfering in her personal life. But just know that I wouldn’t be opposed to y’all girls getting together again.”

  I nod confidently. “Me too, Mrs. Bradley.”

  As I’m walking to second period, dreaming of AP Psych with Malik after lunch, I see Callie from across the hall and wave. She stands in front of her locker with her backpack slung over one shoulder, and she’s wearing a pair of leggings and an oversized tank top that says GO CLIMB A CACTUS. To say it’s on brand would be an understatement.

  She grins and nods back, and for a minute I’m surprised. I guess deep down I thought that when we finally did acknowledge each other at school, she would ignore me. But she’s not, and it puts a lightness in my step.

  And then I hear it. Oinking. Quiet at first, but then louder. Closer.

  My stomach drops and my legs turn to concrete, like I’m having a nightmare and instinct says to run, but my body is frozen. I suck in a breath, hoping that somehow I will just disappear.

  “Hey, fatass,” says Patrick Thomas. I don’t even have to turn to know it’s him. “Have you thought about life as a phone sex operator? You keep doing those morning announcements all sexylike, and I might forget what you look like long enough to trick myself into thinking you’re hot.”

  I stop. It’s always been the oinking. I expect that now. And the name-calling . . . well, it’s vulgar, but it’s not new. But the way he just . . . he just made me feel like a piece of meat.

  My gaze meets Callie’s. I’m not waiting for her to rescue me or something like that, but for a brief, desperate moment, I’m hoping against hope that she’ll say or do something. Just so that maybe I’ll know she’s not the same girl who’s played along with the oinking and name-calling since grade school.

  She doesn’t look away, and her expression is fierce. But she says nothing. She does nothing.

  So I do.

  I spin on my heel. I refuse to let this guy ruin my day.

  “Good morning, Patrick,” I say in my most preciously polite voice. “How are you doing today?”

  His vicious expression falters, and all that’s left is surprise.

  The guys around him roll their eyes and brush past him, but Patrick Thomas is left standing there in front of me all alone. And he’s completely disarmed.

  He sputters, “Uh, f-fine.”

  I grin. “Good to hear it.”

  And for one brief moment, Patrick Thomas and I are just two human beings on God’s green earth sharing polite small talk. He’s not a monster and I’m not his prey. I think maybe Patrick Thomas sees that, too.

  He pushes past me, and I turn to head to class.

  I smile back at Callie again, but she closes her locker and speeds off to her next period.

  Callie

  Twenty

  During my office-aide period on Thursday, Mama asks me to run around and pick up all her attendance sheets, since her normal aide is absent.

  It used to be that a chance like this to freely roam the halls for an entire class period would be the perfect excuse to rendezvous with Bryce in a utility closet. But now it’s just like a torture parade around campus so that people can get a better look at the girl who trashed a local business and screamed like a banshee when her boyfriend tried to break up with her.

  Yesterday I started my period three days early, so I sprinted out of class to the nearest bathroom. While I was in the stall, I watched through the cracks as two sophomores came in and hovered at the sinks, reapplying lip gloss.

  “I saw Melissa posted Shamrock Camp sign-up sheets,” said the first one.

  Shamrock Camp was always one of my favorite times of year. Two weeks every summer, and anyone could sign up. We’d have long eight-hour days of grueling workouts and training. At the end of the two weeks, we’d host tryouts. In reality, though, the tryouts started the first day of camp, and the actual tryout was just a formality. At camp, it only takes a few days for the herd to thin.

  “She totally lucked into that captain spot for next year,” said the second one.

  I nodded along. These girls may be sophomores, but they knew what they were talking about.

  Through the cracks, I watched as the first girl scooted in closer to her friend. “Well, I heard Callie Reyes was high on pain pills when she trashed that gym. They were all just going to TP the place, but then she was on this, like, drug-induced warpath and no one could stop her.”

  “That girl was serious goals.”

  The first one shook her head. “If goals equal having a public meltdown.”

  The two started to laugh but stopped abruptly when I flushed my toilet and yanked my shorts up before pushing my stall door open. I took my time washing my hands, and instead of reaching for a towel, I flicked the water off my hands in their general direction. “Boo,” I said.

  Both girls skittered off, and the second one even shrieked, like I might turn into a pill-popping crazed cannibal.

  After retrieving the last attendance sheet from the freshman hall, I turn the corner into the social studies hall to find Melissa and Sam huddled together, with Jill at the other end of the hall, hanging up posters.

  “Hey,” I say. The word falls flat on the ground like a single forgotten penny. My eyes meet Melissa’s, and all I can think of is that middle-of-the-night phone call when she answered Sam’s cell. The two of them have treated me like the plague since I took the fall for the team, but this is the first time that there’s no noisy hallway to h
ide behind. This time, if they want to ignore me, they’ll have to do it to my face.

  “Oh, hey, Callie,” Sam says. “How have you been?” she asks sympathetically.

  I don’t take kindly to pity, but it feels nice that for the first time, someone is actually acknowledging how awful this is for me.

  “Fine,” I say.

  Melissa stands with her arms crossed just a foot behind Sam. I sneer at her, but she doesn’t budge.

  Sam reaches out and takes my hand. “We just want you to take care of you,” she says. “That’s all that matters right now.”

  My brow creases. Take care of me? “I’m good,” I say. “Great, even. Just sort of hoping there’s some way we can get me back on the team next year. I mean, all this will blow over soon enough.” I just need some other big drama to come along, and then I’ll be old news.

  She glances over her shoulder. Jill’s looking at the freaking roll of tape like it’s chemistry.

  A little too loudly, Sam says, “Don’t you worry about the team, sweetie. We’re all rooting for you to take this chance to turn your life around.” She pulls me in for a hug, but my whole body is stiff against her.

  “Excuse me?” I whisper.

  “We really miss you and all,” she says, her voice hushed. “But we sort of just, like, need you to keep your distance. For the sake of the team.”

  I step back, my mouth agape.

  “It was so good seeing you,” says Melissa. “You’re looking so much better these days.”

  My gaze skips back and forth between the two of them. I don’t know if they started the rumor about me that I heard from those dumbass sophomores, or if that was just a fluke. But either way, Sam and Melissa are doing everything they can to make sure people think I acted alone.

  I shake my head furiously. “You know what? You’re both trash,” I say. “And that team is nothing without me. Every time either of you fail, know that I am watching and I am absolutely delighted.”

  I don’t even bother with the rest of the attendance slips. I take what I have back to the office and tell my mom I have some monster cramps so she’ll let me hide out behind her desk for the rest of my office-aide period.

  I’m done letting this shit happen to me. I’m done lying down and taking it. Not only did Melissa rat me out, but now she and Sam are trying to ruin whatever reputation I have left. But two can play that game.

  The last Saturday before the start of every school year is a sacred day in Shamrock history. It is the day that the incoming team captain hosts a massive sleepover for the entire team. On the surface, it sounds like a silly party—the type of thing wet dreams are made of. But in truth, it is the night when new members of the team commit themselves to the Shamrocks and we begin the transition from a bunch of girls in matching costumes into a sisterhood of girls who have one shared goal: to be the best.

  Because no good thing comes without sacrifice, every incoming Shamrock is required to commit one secret they’ve never told a living soul to the Shamrock Bible—a five-inch-thick green-and-gold scrapbook. The outside of the thing is hideous. Chipped sequins, years-old chunks of hot glue, stray feathers, and an excess of glitter paint. We stopped trying to make the thing pretty years ago, and these days, we only concentrate on keeping it in one piece.

  The Shamrock Bible is the deepest of all Shamrock secrets. It has existed in some form since the team was started in 1979 and contains every rule and routine and a secret from every member of the team. The current Shamrock Bible dates back to 1995.

  The night I went to my first Shamrock sleepover, Isabella Perez, a senior, was hosting.

  After her parents went to bed, Isabella led us all up to her attic, where she and the other girls lit a circle of candles. I remember feeling like my heart was going to beat right out of my chest.

  The entire team sat in a circle. It was the first time I remember being aware of Melissa. She sat next to me. Earlier in the night, she’d been absolutely giddy about her braces coming off the day before school, but now she was quiet and reverential, even. We all were. For us, this was church.

  Isabella spoke of the power of sisterhood and how the Shamrocks were the longest-standing all-female team on the Clover City High School campus. “Singular talent has no place here,” she said. “As of today, you are one piece of a much larger machine, and the only way that machine works is through the power of trust and sisterhood.”

  In that moment, I could’ve been joining a synchronized golfing team. It didn’t matter. Whatever she was selling, I was buying. And maybe dance was just the vehicle to get me what I was really hungry for: friends. All my life, my mother had talked about her years as a Shamrock and the friendships she made. Her bridesmaids? Shamrocks. Outside the delivery room while she was in labor? Shamrocks. Holding her hand at divorce court? Shamrocks. Crying tears of joy while I stood by her side at her second wedding? Shamrocks.

  Isabella unveiled the Shamrock Bible and began to pass it around. “No feelsy bullshit secrets allowed,” she said. “Hard facts. We want truth. Being a Shamrock comes with lots of benefits. Sisterhood. Eternal popularity. Legacy. But all that comes at a price.”

  Sam sat on the opposite side of me, and when it was my turn to write my secret down, she nodded encouragingly and smiled. “At least your secret won’t be lonely. Mine’s just a couple pages back.”

  “Can I see it?” I asked.

  “Later tonight,” she promised.

  “Really?” Melissa asked.

  “Really,” Sam said. “Once you commit your secret, the book is yours to devour.”

  I was mystified by this one silly fact. Everyone would see my secret, yes, but I would see everyone else’s.

  I wrote my secret. Sam and Melissa watched as I did. And then it was Melissa’s turn. When she was done, she passed the book on and said, “You saw that, huh?”

  I nodded.

  “I guess it’s not a secret anymore,” she said.

  “It is,” I told her. “It’s a secret I’ll keep forever.”

  It takes me almost a week to pull off my plan. The key was to only make a handful of copies every time I was in the front office. The green copy paper is the kind of thing my mom would notice if suddenly a big chunk of it went missing. But it has to be green. I thought about maybe skimming a little off the top of every color in the copy room, but the green paper is something I feel adamant about.

  Millie has noticed I’ve been up to something, too. Yesterday at work, she got a peek at the thick stack of green paper in my backpack.

  “Oooo!” she said. “Is that a craft project I smell?”

  I shook my head. “Are your crafty spidey senses tingling?”

  She pursed her lips and pretended to be suspicious, shaking her pointer finger at me. “You can’t hide a crafting habit from me. If you’re a secret crafter, mark my words, Callie Reyes, I’ll find out!”

  I laughed. “Trust me,” I said. “None of my secrets have a damn thing to do with crafting.”

  Millie

  Twenty-One

  I have a deep, abiding love for routines. Or maybe routine isn’t the right word? Plans! I love plans. I love opening my day planner and knowing just what to expect. Which is why I am delighted to be sitting at the front desk of the gym, doodling in the square for next Saturday.

  Slumber Party Numero Three @ Amanda’s ☺

  Callie plops down on the stool beside me after putting some towels in the dryer. “That is one intense calendar,” she says.

  “Slumber party at Amanda’s,” I tell her. “Next Saturday! You have to go.”

  She groans and lays her head down on the glass.

  I lay my head down, too, so we’re at eye level. “Is that a yes?”

  “That’s a I’m-a-moody-flake-and-will-let-you-know-at-the-last-minute.”

  I pick up my head. “I’ll take that as a probably.”

  Callie groans again.

  “Is everything okay?” I ask. Callie is a generally fussy person. But today it fe
els like there’s just something weighing on her.

  She props her chin up on her knuckles. “What does that even mean?” She doesn’t say it in a rude way, though. “I shouldn’t complain about this to you.”

  “Sure you should,” I say. “Try me.”

  She pulls her phone from her back pocket and silently looks something up before holding it out for me to see.

  “Girls in bikinis washing cars?” I ask.

  “It’s not just that,” she says, and scrolls to another photo.

  A few pretty girls sit behind a fold-out table with a bake-sale sign taped to the front. “A bake sale in the school courtyard?”

  She shoves her phone back in her pocket. “The state dance competition is next week. And as of last night, they raised enough to cover the deficit from the gym’s sponsorship. And . . .”

  “You’re not going,” I finish for her. I can’t help but think it’s partly my doing.

  She lays her head down on the glass counter again and shrugs. “I’m gonna have to clean this thing for the billionth time. Might as well get my face print on it.”

  I laugh. “You remind me so much of Inga.”

  “What? No! Don’t say that.”

  “She is my aunt, you know.”

  Callie sits up. “That doesn’t mean the woman isn’t totally bananas.”

  “I’m sorry you’re gonna miss the dance competition,” I say.

  “Normally I would say they don’t stand a chance without me. Usually that’d make me feel better even if it weren’t true. But . . .” She shakes her head. “I know they’ll be just fine, and that somehow sucks even harder.”

  “That makes a lot of sense,” I tell her.

  “It’s not just that,” she says before lowering her voice a few octaves. “I didn’t act alone. You know what I mean?”

  I nod.

  “The whole team is going way far out of their way to make sure it looks like that, though. I mean, I heard two sophomores say they heard I was high on pain pills or something and that’s why I did it.”