Flying is my favourite. There’s nothing like the moment your feet leave the ground and the world disappears for a breath of air. That second where gravity forgets you exist, and you’re just free… untouchable. Like maybe all the pain and bills and grief down below can’t reach you up there.
As the team begins assembling, Coach blows her whistle and shouts for us to circle up. I stand shoulder to shoulder with my squad, clapping my hands, radiating sunshine. Because that’s who I am.
Daisy Sandoval: Psychology major. Cheerleader. Optimist. Chronic overachiever. The girl who always has snacks in her bag,a first-aid kit on hand, and a smile for everyone. The girl who can hold her world together with sheer force of will. Who can pay rent, take extra shifts, and still hit every mark on the routine like it’s nothing. No one sees the cracks. Not Ezra, not Talia, not my professors. And especially not my drunk of a father who hasn’t been sober a day since my mom died. And that’s exactly how I like it. I’m not broken. I’m bright. I’m the sun. And I don’t burn out.
“Focus up, sunshine,” Ezra sing-songs from behind me. “You’re two seconds behind, and it’s throwing off my entire centre of gravity.”
I spin on my heel with a grin. “Maybe if you didn’t do that dramatic shampoo commercial hair toss every time we hit a pyramid, we’d all be better off.”
Ezra gasps, full drama, one hand clutching his chest. “You love my hair toss. It’s iconic. It’s theatrical. It’s?—”
“—Distracting,” Talia yells from across the gym with her hands on her hips. “Reset! From the top!”
Ezra winks at me, his green eyes glinting with mischief, and mouths,“She’s scary,”before spinning into position beside me. I bite back a laugh and pop back into formation. We run the same routine again. Step, kick, twist, catch. The routine blurs into sweat and rhythm, our bodies moving as one. My thighs burn, my lungs ache, and my face hurts from smiling too hard through it all, but it’s the kind of ache that feels good. Here, in this sweaty gym with blaring pop music and scuffed floor lines, I feel untouchable.
When we finish, the whole squad collapses to the floor in dramatic groans and gasps. Sweat drips down the back of my neck as I lie back on the mat and close my eyes.
Ezra flops down beside me like a dying Victorian heroine. “Tell my story,” he wheezes.
“You flipped once.”
“And what a flip it was,” he croons. “May I rest in glittery peace.”
I giggle, unable to help it. “You’re so dramatic.”
He smirks. “You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Talia walks over, her high chestnut brown ponytail swinging with her steps. “You two done playing dead?”
Ezra points at her without lifting his head. “I’m not playing dead, I am dead, and I’m going to haunt your stanky-ass locker.”
“Rude. Mine smells like peaches.” She huffs.
“Then I’ll make it smell like the despair I’m currently feeling with this damn routine you’re killing us with.”
“Mmhm.” She smiles. “I earned this cheer captain title, and I don’t plan on being an easy captain because my two best friends are whiny bitches.” She laughs and tosses a water bottle at him, misses, and then hands one to me with a little squeeze to my shoulder. “You good, Daze?”
“Perfect.” I beam, throwing in a thumbs up for extra sparkle.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Liar.”
“Sunshine never lies.”
“Sunshine lies so much,” Ezra mumbles into the mat.
We all burst into laughter, half brought on from the sheer exhaustion of yet another brutal practice with Talia directing us like an army instead of a squad.
By the time we shower and change, the sky outside the gym is fading into cotton-candy hues. Talia insists on a ‘post-practice snack run,’ so we end up crammed into a booth at our favourite diner, sticky menus open and laughter echoing. Ezra orders three milkshakes—one vanilla, one strawberry, and one ‘mystery flavour.’ Talia keeps stealing my fries, so I retaliate by sticking a ketchup packet to her elbow. Moments like this make me forget everything else.
“Okay,” Ezra says between mouthfuls of whipped cream. “If you were a flavour of milkshake, what would you be?”
“Vanilla bean,” Talia answers confidently.
“Boring,” he scoffs.
“Uh, no, it’s classic.” She retorts.
