Puddin''

  I shrug. “In Clover City, every season is football season.”

  She blows her bangs out of her face. “Man, screw the athletics department.”

  “Finally, something we can agree on.”

  Melissa tugs me so far toward her that my whole upper body is lying flat on the ground. My inner thigh muscles sting, but I make no move to let her know that she’s overstretching me, because Melissa knows exactly what she’s doing. She’s testing me, and I’m not about to show any signs of weakness.

  It’s not that I don’t like Melissa. I’ve known the girl half my life, and while neither of us has ever excelled at friendship—especially me—we’ve always done a good job of playing the part for each other. But what Melissa doesn’t get is that in order for me to succeed, she must fail. At least in regard to our school’s dance team, the Clover City High School Shamrocks. We’re textbook frenemies, and I don’t even mean that in a bad way. But next year, only one of us can be captain.

  I rotate my neck, my cheek hovering over the floor. Yep, still smells like balls down here. Hanging just above us are various athletic banners, boasting of district championships and even a couple of state wins, too.

  The biggest banner watching over us, though, is practically a family heirloom. The title of 1992 National Dance Team Champions belongs to none other than the CCHS Shamrocks. Not only was it the only time we won Nationals in any sport, it was the only time CCHS made it to a nationwide competition at all. And the most extraordinary part? The team was led by my mother. It also happened to be the year a huge judging scandal was uncovered in the dance world, on all levels from district to Nationals. Lots of teams were temporarily banned, but I’ve seen the tapes. The 1992 Shamrocks were on fire.

  The Rams, our football team, has one of the worst records in Texas, and still they get a brand-new state-of-the-art indoor training facility, while the Shamrocks, the most winning team on campus, are relegated to practicing in the band room. Like my mama says, if it smells like bullshit, it probably is.

  “Sam is late again,” Melissa tells me over the cacophony of female voices echoing through the gymnasium.

  “You wanna be the one to call her out?” I ask.

  Melissa rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Sam is a senior and our team captain. What Melissa doesn’t get is that Sam is late on purpose. She’s testing us. Melissa and I are both second in command to Sam, as co–assistant captains, which means we are next in line to the throne, but only one will ascend. And I never lose.

  Until then the two of us have to do a pretty decent job of working as a team, at least until Sam is ready to name her replacement.

  But it’s not all competition. Pieces of what Melissa and I have are the real deal. Like when her parents got divorced in ninth grade and she spent three weeks at my house, because things at home were way too lethal. Or the time Mrs. Gutierrez, Melissa’s mom, began speaking to me in Spanish when she found out I was half Mexican. I was a little embarrassed because I can only pick up on a few words here and there and I’m definitely not confident enough to have a conversation. Melissa, on the other hand, comes from a large, traditional Mexican family. In fact, they lived here before Clover City could even be considered Texas. I swear, she could speak Spanish and read English while doing a Shamrock routine at the same time. But when Melissa saw my cheeks flush, she cut in, casually translating what her mom had just said. She never even brought it up after. Just pretended like nothing had happened.

  Melissa pulls me even deeper into the stretch. “We’re supposed to meet with Mrs. Driskil after practice.” I twist my hands free and pop up on my feet.

  “Whatever,” she says. “That woman’s just phoning it in. She doesn’t care about being our faculty sponsor. All she cares about is the stipend from the district.”

  “It’d be so much worse if she actually gave a shit, though,” I remind her. “Remember when she suddenly decided our bikini car wash was inappropriate and she made us do the whole thing in rain ponchos?”

  Melissa laughs. “Okay, that was totally tragic. But it was hilarious when you just cut circle holes around your boobs and ass. She had no idea what to say.” She laughs again, pointing a finger at me as she imitates Mrs. Driskil. “Young lady, your goodies are hanging out.”

  I bump hips with her. “At least my goods are worth seeing,” I say. “Voted Best Ass three years running and Hottest of Them All this year. Don’t you forget it.”

  She rolls her eyes. “Yes, we know. You would never let any of us forget. All hail Callie Reyes’s ass.”

  I grin devilishly and clap my hands together once, silencing the rest of the team’s chitchat. “Y’all! Let’s get this going. Sam’s running a little behind, so we’re gonna start. Melissa,” I call, “cue the music.”

  I begin rotating my hips a little to loosen up. “Okay, ladies, State is in three weeks, and we’ve got some serious ground to cover. We slayed at Regionals, but let’s be real: our competition wasn’t stacked the way we know it will be at State. So let’s run through the routine two or three times, and then I’m going to step out and diagnose the problem areas.”

  The music starts. It’s the perfect mash-up of pop songs everyone knows by heart and EDM that no one has ever heard of. Sam’s got good taste. The opening verse of “Bad Girls” by M.I.A. kicks us off.

  I close my eyes for the first few counts. I can practically feel the San Francisco breeze. I’ve never actually been to San Francisco. In fact the only person in my family who’s been farther west than New Mexico is my older sister, Claudia, who went to San Diego for an opera singing competition when she was still in high school. But since Nationals are in San Francisco this year, that won’t be the case for long. Last year we came in a heartbreaking second place at State, but Copper Hill, the team that took first place, is in total shambles after half their team was caught hazing their incoming freshmen.

  My plan is to at least make it to Nationals, so we can build early momentum for next year. Maybe we’ll even place. And then next year, we’ll be in Miami for my senior year, and I’ll lead the team to first place. I’ll be accepted at the college of my choice, and I’ll get the hell out of Clover City before the ink on my diploma even has a chance to dry. That’s the plan.

  I enter the stage—well, actually the gymnasium floor—in the second wave of dancers. Our first run-through is a little clunky, but it’s only our first go, and yesterday was a conditioning day. Already I can feel Melissa’s frustration mounting. If she had it her way, she’d have torn into these girls already. But that’s also why she’d be a shitty captain.

  “Okay!” I shout the moment the music stops. “That was a decent warm-up, but we gotta pick up the pace. I think some of you are still having trouble with that triple pirouette. Jess, can you get out here and show us how it’s done?”

  Jess, a tall black sophomore and my pick for captain when I’m out of this hell hole, steps forward. She spins and spots effortlessly, which is most likely because she moved here from Dallas, where she went to some fancy-ass ballet school. The rest of us grew up at good old Dance Locomotive, which isn’t really known for putting out quality dancers.

  Jess slows it down and answers a few questions about momentum, hand placement, and spotting before we do our routine a couple more times. After that, Melissa and I sit out and watch, taking notes.

  “I’m still not sure about that jeté combo,” Melissa says. “I just don’t think we can get even height on the jump. I mean, Jess’s jump is way too high. She has to scale that back for the rest of us.”

  This choreography is my baby, and Melissa knows it. “Maybe it’s not about changing the choreography,” I say. “Maybe we just all need to be better. Like Jess.” I turn to her. “And do you wanna be the one to challenge Sam?”

  Melissa shakes her head. “You’re right.”

  After we give our notes, the whole team stands in a huddle before we break for the lockers.

  “Look at all those tight asses!” Sam shouts as she jogs in
to meet us. Sam is the kind of girl who, unlike me, actually looks like she could be related to my blond mom and even blonder little sister, and a small part of me hates her for that. Tall, white, strawberry-blond hair, and a straight frame built for ballet and the type of dresses that just graze your skin.

  Sam squeezes into the circle. “Sorry I’m late, ladies. Had a few captain admin things to attend to.”

  I step aside to give her the floor. The key to a successful transition of power? Always know your place.

  She smiles at me. “Wrap it up, Cal. You got this.”

  Melissa bristles beside me, but I don’t flinch.

  I close the team huddle and say, “Don’t forget. Next week, we’re performing at city hall for the mayor’s American Heroes ceremony. Remember grades, y’all. I don’t want to hear that any of you bitches are on academic probation just before we’re going to State. I don’t care if you have to cheat. Shit. Last week, Jill wrote her vocab words on her thigh.”

  All the girls laugh, but Jill, a short white sophomore with light brown ringlets, just shrugs. “It smudged a little, but I still passed. Apparently fiduciary means relating to or of the legal nature of trust. Not rust.”

  “That’s the spirit!” I say. “Okay, hands in, y’all. On three. One, two, three!”

  “SAN FRAN OR BUST!” we scream in unison.

  I glance up to the bright red banner casting a shadow over us. Watch out, ’92. We’re coming for you.

  As the team heads for the lockers, me, Melissa, and Sam sit on the bleachers.

  “Thanks for taking the lead today, y’all,” says Sam.

  Melissa and I both nod.

  “Hey,” I say, “we might want to look at the jeté. Jess gets such crazy good height. It makes the rest of us look like total newbies, ya know?”

  Melissa turns to me with a bitter smile. “I agree,” she says dryly.

  Sam squints, like she’s running through the combo in her head. She nods. “You’re so right, Callie. We’ll look at it tomorrow.”

  What can I say? Some people are just born to be leaders.

  Sam continues, “So listen, Driskil is about to come in here, and I already know why she wants to talk.”

  “What’s up?” asks Melissa.

  Sam rolls her eyes. “You know that dinky-ass gym that sponsored us this year?”

  We both nod.

  “They pulled their funding.”

  “Oh my God,” I say, “what does this mean?”

  Sam’s normally sunny expression is grim. “Well, Driskil’s gonna try to paint a pretty picture.”

  The door to the gym opens, and Mrs. Driskil shuffles inside.

  “But basically we’re fucked,” whispers Sam before Mrs. Driskil is in earshot.

  “Good morning, ladies,” says Mrs. Driskil. “This will take just a moment.”

  Mrs. Driskil is a mousy woman who wears long skirts that collect dust along the hem and bulky cat-hair-coated grandpa cardigans with seasonal brooches. With the whiskery wrinkles around her mouth, not only is she a cat lady, she looks like one, too. She’s nice enough, but she keeps her distance, which is exactly what we need in a faculty adviser. Her name might be on all the paperwork, but we’re the ones running this show.

  “Hey, Mrs. D,” I say. “Nice sweater.”

  “Oh,” she says in a sugary voice. “This was my aunt Dolores’s. We almost buried her in it, but I was able to find her favorite just in time for the viewing.”

  Melissa clears her throat. “What a . . . memorable story.”

  “So what brings you all the way to the gymnasium?” I ask.

  Mrs. Driskil coughs into her fist. “Well. It’s, um, one of your sponsors. They had to back out, and it appears they were your primary sponsor. That sweet little boxing gym. Down for the Count?”

  “Wait,” I gasp, feigning surprise. “What did you say?”

  “Well, I guess the owner is just having a rough go of it, and he’s cutting costs.” She speaks slowly and loudly, as if I was being literal about not hearing her.

  “Okay,” I say. “But can’t we just, like, get another sponsor? My boyfriend’s dad owns a couple car dealerships. I’m sure he could help us out.”

  Sam shakes her head.

  Driskil rings her hands together. “Well, it’s not that easy. The district bylaws say that a sponsor must be approved before the school year, and that the student is responsible for any additional funding needs. And so I’m afraid that means the cost of travel and accommodations for State and Nationals would fall to you ladies.”

  Panic swells in my chest, but I refuse to appear anything less than calm. “Who can even afford that?” I ask.

  “Definitely not me,” says Melissa.

  Mrs. Driskil continues, “It looks like we have almost half of what we need for State, but if we make it any further than that, we’re going to have to raise funds.”

  I sputter for a moment. “But . . . but how much does it even cost to go to Nationals?” The expense of a big trip like that is almost as unfathomable to me as the cost of college.

  “Well, it isn’t cheap. At all,” says Sam. “I mean, a single car wash barely paid for just one of our uniforms. Airfare to California is astronomical. We could maybe charter a bus, but the district would have to give us tons of extra time off.”

  Silence settles as I let this news sink in.

  Mrs. D clears her throat. “I don’t think you should be too worried, girls. You ladies are all so talented, but . . . but Texas is a big state.”

  I’m almost impressed. I didn’t think Mrs. D had it in her to make a dig like that. But I’m mostly pissed, to be honest.

  “We’ve made it before,” says Melissa. “And we came really close last year. We shouldn’t have to limit ourselves just because some stupid gym flaked on us.”

  I nod. “This is our year. I can feel it. And it’s Sam’s last year.” I shake my head. “Hell no. Not on my watch. Ya know, no one talks about the budget when the football team has an away game. If those boys ever made it to postseason again, the whole town would be throwing money and panties at them.”

  We wait for Mrs. Driskil to say something, but all she gives us is a look of pity. I’m so angry my fingers are trembling. Maybe if Mrs. Driskil wasn’t so used to people treating her like crap, she wouldn’t let the dance team get treated the same way.

  Sam stands up and starts walking to the locker room without waiting to be dismissed, and Melissa and I follow her.

  “Girls,” calls Mrs. Driskil. “Girls! I think it’s best we not tell the team for the time being. It might not even be an issue! And I just think it would cause unneeded distress. We ought to discuss next steps.”

  The three of us just keep walking.

  I spend second period as an office aide. Not because I requested the job, but because my mama did. Actually, she’s more of a smother than a mother, but she’s my smother.

  As I try to sneak past her into the copying room, the sound of a thick southern twang stops me. “There’s my Callie Honey. Baby, come here. Give your mama some love.”

  I double back and stash my backpack under her desk before plopping down onto the little stool she keeps behind her desk for filing. She pulls my face close to her with both hands and gives me a kiss on the cheek, leaving her mark: Revlon Certainly Red 740, the color my mama has worn every day since her mama took her to the drugstore on her thirteenth birthday to buy her first real adult makeup.

  “Has your sister emailed you?” she asks. “I tried to get her on the FaceTime chat, but I can’t make sense of the time zones in Germany.”

  “Mama, it’s just FaceTime. Not the FaceTime chat. And no, Claudia hasn’t emailed me.” I don’t tell her that I haven’t emailed her either. It’s not that I don’t love my sister, but we’re busy, and if Claudia’s not answering Mom’s phone calls, I’m sure more than time zones are to blame. Claudia is a student at USC but is spending the semester at the opera house in Dresden. I’m happy for her, but I miss having someon
e in our house who looks like me. When she left for college, I didn’t anticipate what it might feel like to be the only brown person in our otherwise white household.

  Mama sighs. “How were the girls looking this morning?” she asks.

  I nod. “It wasn’t bad. We’re going to start meeting after school next week to gear up for State.”

  She taps a pen to her lips. “Is that going to interfere with your work schedule?”

  I prop up my elbows on her desk and rest my chin in my hands. “It’ll be tight, but it’s just for two weeks. And everyone at work is cool about dance stuff.”

  She licks the pad of her pointer finger before flipping through attendance sheets. “And what about homework? You won’t be leaving much time for Bryce either.”

  “I’ll make it work with homework, and Bryce will see me when he sees me. It’s not like he stresses out about fitting me into his schedule during football season.”

  “That’s my girl.” She hands me a stack of late slips to stamp. “I’m gonna get with some of the parents and Principal Armstrong about arranging a fan bus down to State. We got to be sure to decorate y’all’s bus, too, with shoe polish and whatnot.”

  My smother would be the ideal candidate for faculty adviser, but seeing as she’s the school secretary and not an actual teacher, her level of involvement is limited to enthused parent. Which is for the best, I guess. Between my stepdad, my sister Kyla, trying to keep tabs on Claudia from halfway across the world, and her job, the woman barely has a moment to shower. I can see her age showing, too, but maybe that’s just ’cause I remember what she looked like when it was just me, my dad, Claudia, and her.

  When I think of her then, I remember her black high-waisted jeans and her thick black belt with its shiny silver buckle and her tight, lacy tank tops. She was like the West Texas version of Olivia Newton-John’s Bad Sandy from Grease. She’d swivel her hips across the kitchen—which always smelled more like her DIY perm than any food we ate—to old Selena songs while my dad made horrible bachelor-type food for us, like hot dogs wrapped in tortillas.

  Now the only self-imposed requirements of my mama’s wardrobe is that it “drapes nicely” and covers up any lumps or rolls she’s found herself with over the last few years. The lipstick, though, still remains.