“Okay. I’ll teach you how to do those kicks,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No way. I can’t kick that high.”
I shake my head. “Kicking high is impressive, but it’s about kicking in unison.” I start pushing on the coffee table. “Let’s get this out of the way.”
He comes along beside me and helps push the table to the wall.
“Okay!” I take his arm and loop it around the back of my waist. His hand curls around the front of my stomach. My breath hitches.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Perfect.” I cross my arm behind his.
He gasps. “I’m ticklish. Embarrassingly ticklish, actually.”
“Note to self.” I smirk. “Okay, so just kick straight out from your hips. We’ll save the fancy fan kicks for later.”
He kicks out clumsily.
“Keep your leg straight,” I say. “But your support leg should be bent a little.”
He tries again.
“Better!”
I kick with him a few times as we alternate. He smells like boy deodorant and sour-cream chips. And somehow, I’m really into it. Boys are straight-up sorcery.
“So you’ve got straight kicks,” I say. “Let’s try changing directions. It’s just a matter of rotating your hips.”
Mitch fumbles a bit as he tries to change kick directions without steadying himself or taking an extra step.
After a while, he collapses onto the couch, a little out of breath, and I plop down beside him.
“That wasn’t so bad!” I say.
“Well, if you count not bad as completely forgetting what the purpose of feet are, I guess I did okay.”
“Let’s take a break from all things dance.” I use the remote to flip through the channels until settling on a marathon of Shark Tank reruns.
“This show is awful.” Mitch shakes his head. “These people come on this show with these awful ideas that they’ve like invested every penny they’ve ever made in, and then that awful bald dude just shuts them down.”
“I love this show. And to be fair,” I say, “that’s not always what happens. Some of these people become millionaires!”
“But most of them leave rejected and knowing they’ve wasted tons of money and energy on a dumb idea like swimsuits for cats.”
“You know,” I tell him, “the idea that cats hate water is a very harmful stereotype about cats, and I reject that.”
He laughs. “I just hate watching people be embarrassed or lose out on something they’d really thrown themselves all in on.”
“I kind of like it. There’s just something about watching other people fail.”
He turns to me but says nothing.
“You’re looking at me like I’m a monster. I’m not a monster, I swear! But we’re all scared of failure, right? Isn’t it comforting to know it happens to everyone?”
“And for some people, on national television.”
I smile. “Well, that’s their gamble. Not mine.”
“Gamble, huh?” he asks, his voice lower now with his gaze fixed on me.
I swallow, but it comes out like a loud gulp.
He leans toward me, not breaking eye contact. “What kind of odds would a guy have if he asked to kiss you?”
I take a deep breath. “I can’t make any promises. But I think the odds would be good.”
His body inches closer to mine as he stretches his arm along the back of the couch. “Still good?” he asks.
I should probably let the moment play out a bit more. But I’ve wanted to kiss him since that day under the bleachers, and I’ve been patient long enough. I don’t wait for him to lean in any farther. I kiss him.
The kiss goes from zero to sixty in a matter of seconds. I pop up onto my knees on the couch and pull his face to meet mine. At first, he lets me take the lead and waits for me to initiate each new touch or deepening of our kiss, but soon he drops the gentleman act and pulls me closer to him.
My whole body is full of heat, and I am lost in this moment. Which is why I gasp and jump back almost a whole foot when my mom and sister come in through the back door.
“We’re home!” my mom calls.
Mitch and I look at each other and share a moment of exhilarated panic. Flushed cheeks. Swollen lips.
Kyla plops down between us. “Why are y’all out of breath?” she asks. “Were you running?”
“Yup,” I tell her. My eyes are locked with Mitch’s over her head. “Just went for a quick run.”
She grabs the remote from the floor. “Mama said the Shamrocks are on soon.”
“Any minute,” Mama says as she settles into Keith’s recliner. She turns to me. “Keith’s cousin and his wife are in town tonight.”
“The rodeo-clown cousin or the accountant cousin?” I ask.
She sighs, rubbing her eyes. “The rodeo-clown cousin. Keith wanted to have them over, but I thought maybe he and I could just go out with them if you could hang back and watch Kyla.”
Kyla crosses her arms. “I don’t need watchin’.”
I shake my head and ruffle my hand through Kyla’s hair. “I don’t mind watching Kyla.”
“Date night!” says Mitch.
Mama laughs. “With a rodeo clown and his fourth wife! Lucky me.” She turns to me. “Thank you, baby.”
I nod. “No prob.”
Kyla flips over to the right channel, and the four of us sit back to watch. I rest my arm on the back of the sofa behind my sister, and Mitch coyly stretches his arm behind mine, tracing circles up the sleeve of my T-shirt. He leaves a trail of goose bumps everywhere his skin touches mine.
My phone buzzes and I find a picture of Claudia and her girlfriend, Rachel, attempting to paddleboard, except that Claudia is mid-fall and she is definitely taking Rachel with her. My super-serious older sister, who never took time out to do anything that didn’t move her one step closer to her dream of becoming an opera singer, is paddleboarding somewhere in Germany with the girl she loves.
Wow, I respond, what possessed your body and forced you to do an outdoor activity?
CLAUDIA: I guess you could say I’m diversifying my interests. You could probably stand to do the same.
I smile to myself and tuck my phone into my pocket.
We watch as the Shamrocks do their routine—the one I spent so many hours perfecting. They’re not perfect. They won’t place. But they’re still good. They don’t look out of place, like they made it there on some kind of fluke. I’m angry all over again about how underappreciated the whole team was and is. And then part of me is sad over the missed opportunity. I look over to Mama and I see it in her eyes, too. She would have done whatever it took to fly out to San Francisco and watch me and the rest of the girls. But instead both of us are here in this living room, watching other people live the life we’d both bet on.
I’m kind of surprised, though. Sitting here, watching my whole team at Nationals without me, isn’t quite as miserable as I thought it would be. I’m glad to be sharing this couch with Mitch, our kiss still fresh on my lips.
On the television, the cameraman focuses in on an immaculately crafted sign made to cheer one of the teams on. The fluorescent letters are piped with glitter and read WHY NOT US? GEAUX SOUTH BATON ROUGE! It’s craftsmanship Millie would’ve appreciated.
If I’m missing anything at all right now, it’s not dance or having a boyfriend or being one of the most popular girls in school. It’s a fat girl who surprised me in ways I could never expect and who I think might just have somehow become my best friend.
Millie
Thirty-Three
Mom is no longer giving me the silent treatment, which is convenient, because she has imposed a new rule stating I’m not allowed to go anywhere with anyone unless she confirms my plans with the other person’s parents. Basically, if you’re trying to read in between the lines, all that means is no more date nights with Malik.
I haven’t had the heart to tell him that I don’t think this will work
anymore, so I’ve done about the worst thing I can imagine and lied, telling him I’ve been busy with family stuff and schoolwork. There are nights when he messages me online and I just let the open messenger box sit there for hours, blinking at me. During the day at school sometimes he’ll ask me if everything is okay, but I just put on my usual positive, cheerful face, except this time it’s nothing more than a costume. “Yes! Of course!” I tell him. “I’m so fine. I’ve just been so busy.”
Since my blowout with Callie and receiving my rejection letter, I haven’t exactly felt like wrangling the whole gang for a sleepover. I’ve spent a lot of time over the last few days wondering why I bother. Sure, I love Willowdean, Amanda, Hannah, and Ellen, but the more I think about it, the more I realize that I’m the only one trying to make that friendship circle happen. Maybe it’s for the best that I just let them all go back to their normal lives and let the slumber party tradition die, just like my short-lived friendship with Callie.
The good news, though, is that school is nearly over, and while Daisy Ranch isn’t what I had in mind for this summer, maybe it will give me a chance to reset and somehow remember the things that are most important to me.
After doing my opening duties at the gym, I pull up outside Amanda’s house to pick her up for school. It’s the end of May, which means the end of the school year is so close, I can practically taste sunscreen.
I turn up the radio to some bouncy pop I know she’s sure to love. I can fake smile the whole way to school so long as I don’t have to talk.
Amanda hops into the passenger seat, and over the music, she shouts, “My parents finally said yes to two weeks at soccer camp! Me, the Kansas plains, and tons of balls!” She pauses. “Soccer balls! Not, like, actual balls.”
I give her two thumbs up and a huge grin before taking off down her street. I’m happy for her, I swear. Amanda’s wanted to go to this camp for years, and it’s not a cheap thing either. But I have to blink aggressively until the sting of oncoming tears is gone. I’ve told Amanda about the Callie situation, but I just can’t bring myself to tell her about the rejection letter. Something about saying it out loud makes it too real.
When we finally make it to school, and I put the van in park, Amanda hits the power button on the radio, enveloping us in silence.
“I better get in for the announcements,” I say.
She hits the lock button on the door. “Not before we talk.”
“I really can’t miss this. It’s an obligation.”
“Millie, I don’t know what the heck is up with you. It’s like some kind of alien has taken over your body and he got the cheat sheet on how to impersonate you, but he’s failing miserably BECAUSE HE’S A DAMN ALIEN.”
I clasp my hands together, my palms slick with sweat, but I say nothing.
“What’s the deal?” she asks.
I shrug. “I really have to go.”
“All right, listen, you’re my best friend. You are literally the only person who I would give my last piece of pineapple-and-ham pizza to even though I really don’t want whatever other kind we ordered. I’ve tried really hard not to be weird about the Callie thing.”
“The Callie thing?” I ask. Is she mad at me too? I guess in a way Amanda also lost a friend when Callie stopped hanging out with us.
“Ya know,” she says, “you basically replacing me with a super-hot ex-Shamrock bad girl. I thought maybe it was like some weird phase, or that once you guys had been friends for a while longer . . . it wouldn’t feel so intense, but . . . and I’m sorry that y’all had a fight, but, like, hello? I’m still here.” She points to herself repeatedly like a flashing sign. “Your longtime BFF is still totally here for you, even if you treated her like hand-me-downs for a few months.”
First, I’m shocked. Replace Amanda? I could never replace Amanda. She is one of a kind. I couldn’t find a match if I searched every corner of the earth. But then slowly I begin to see it from her perspective . . . and oh my word. I’ve been an awful friend. “Amanda,” I finally say. “No, no, no. I could never replace you. I never meant for you to feel that way.”
She shrugs and gives me this sad half smile. “I get that you didn’t mean to, but I still felt that way. Hannah thinks so, too.”
“Hannah too?” That stings.
She nods. “It was like watching you trade up for the newer model who didn’t have an LLD.” She motions to her shorter leg. Then she pauses. “Or wasn’t asexual.”
I gasp. “I would never.”
“I just figured with you going to your hotshot broadcast journalism camp and with your new BFF that you didn’t really need me, and I don’t want that. So I need you to start being mindful of the friends you do have. The ones who aren’t mad at you over a thing that was their own damn fault in the first place.”
The way she says it, that the whole thing at the gym was Callie’s doing, eases the guilt I’ve been carrying. I should’ve told Callie that it was me who identified her, but that doesn’t mean she wasn’t guilty. But none of that matters now. Amanda’s here and Callie isn’t. Amanda’s always been here. “You’re right,” I say. “I just really loved being friends with Callie. She was funny and way different than what I expected, but if I’ve learned anything, it’s that you can’t force someone into being your friend.”
Amanda sighs. “I really did like Callie. Even if she sort of stole my best friend.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I tell her. “And about broadcast journalism camp . . .” I take a deep breath. “I didn’t get in.”
Amanda gasps. “What? How is that even possible? You are literally the most qualified person to do everything ever.”
I shake my head. “I don’t know, but they were not interested in Millicent Michalchuk.” Even though, deep down, I know they took one look at that audition tape and that was it. They didn’t see my talent or charisma. They saw the size and shape of my body.
Amanda’s nostrils flare and she growls a little bit. “Well, I don’t know if I can fix journalism camp, but I can try to fix at least one thing that’s gone wrong.” She pulls her phone from the front pocket of her backpack.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“Calling in the troops.”
As I sit in AP Psych, waiting for the final bell to ring, I read over the note I wrote Malik one last time. I’ve carried it in my backpack for over a week now, but I have to give it to him, and I have to do it today. Waiting any longer feels selfish, especially after talking to Amanda and learning about how she felt like I ditched her. I know this will hurt, but it will only hurt more if I wait.
Malik,
First, I want you to know that I think of you as one of the most important people in my life. The time we’ve spent together has felt like a dream I never thought could come true.
Unfortunately, though, my mom doesn’t think I’m ready for the type of relationship we have. I’ve tried sneaking around and it’s just not something I can do anymore.
Also, I didn’t get into the University of Texas Broadcast Journalism Boot Camp. I can’t say for sure why, but I think I have a hunch, and it definitely wasn’t because of your amazing directorial skills. You made me look better than I could have ever imagined. I guess this means I’ll be headed back to fat camp this summer.
I hope we can stay friends, though, and that you’ll keep in touch while you’re visiting family. You are one of my most favorite people.
Always,
Millie
As he rushes in just before the last bell, I set the note down on his half of our desk. He grins at the folded piece of paper and my bubbly handwriting. Once Mr. Prater dims the lights and turns on the projector, Malik opens the note. I guess it makes me a coward, but I just can’t bring myself to watch him read it.
Maybe working hard and wanting the dream career and that sickeningly sweet rom-com love story isn’t enough.
I keep picturing the wooden toys my mom bought for Luka and Nikolai. It’s the kind of shape toy where you push
a block through a matching hole. The triangle goes through the triangle hole and so on and so on. Last Sunday, I sat there with the boys all afternoon, mesmerized by the small shaped blocks and how, truthfully, they could fit through almost any size hole. Bigger shapes, like the circle, could only fit through the matching shape. No matter how hard Luka or Nikolai tried, the circle couldn’t fit through the star or the triangle or the octagon. It reminded me that no matter what I want to be, to the rest of the world, I will always be a circle.
All throughout class, Malik is completely silent and makes no effort to acknowledge the note. I guess he read it loud and clear. Guilt burrows deep in my chest at the thought of hurting him.
After class is over, I wait for him to leave first. I should give him space for a little while, before I try to pursue the whole friends thing. But once I’ve said good-bye to Mr. Prater, I walk into the hallway and Malik is waiting there. His hair is a little more disheveled than normal, like he’s been running his fingers through it. Other than that, he is completely put together, from his forest-green sweater vest, gingham button-up shirt, and creased jeans down to his penny loafers. Without a word, he takes my hand.
This is the first time we’ve held hands at school. I try not to be giddy, because this is definitely not how I expected this first time to go, but still a little spark of delight lives inside my chest.
“I need you to come with me,” he says.
“Okay?”
Malik leads me by the hand to the AV studio, where we filmed my audition tape.
Inside, he leaves me at the center of the room while he turns on a few lights, and then he paces. I’ve never seen him like this, so intense and deep in thought.
I watch as he paces for a few moments more, and then he stops in his tracks and pulls the note I just gave him out of his pocket. I don’t know what I expect. Maybe that he’ll read it to me? Or try to give it back to me? But instead gentle, soft-spoken Malik rips my note into a million furious pieces.
My eyes widen. “What—what are you—”
“No,” he says. “This is not a note-appropriate situation. This is a conversation. God, Millie, you know I’m not built for confrontation. Did you see just then how much I had to psych myself up? I need, like, a shot of steroids.”