Reading these messages is like watching the five stages of grief play out, and by the time I get to the end it’s obvious that the team has hit the anger stage and they’re out for blood.
Sorry, I type,just got caught up on all these messages. Maybe we should all take a breather and reconvene in the morning.
JILL: We don’t need a breather. We need revenge.
My phone buzzes over and over again as my text is lost in a sea of new messages.
ADDISON: We can’t let that trashy gym do this to us!
BETHANY: We’ve worked our asses off. This is bullshit.
LARA: I say we let them know exactly how we feel.
MELISSA: Y’all, we gotta be strategic right now. Revenge isn’t getting us anywhere.
I almost jump in to try to defuse the situation with her, but to be honest: I’m pissed as hell, too. And I can’t believe this grody-ass gym is the thing standing in the waybetween us and a shot at Nationals.
I click the cursor in the message box.
Y’all are right. This is bullshit.
SAM: We’re trying to work on solutions. But this might be the end of the road this season, y’all.
JILL: Tonight. Midnight. Wear all black. Meet in the alleyway behind the gym. Bring toilet paper and eggs. They don’t even have to be fresh.
I start a new thread, and this one is just me, Sam, and Melissa.
ME: Did y’all see Jill’s plan?
MELISSA: This could end badly.
SAM: Everyone’s pissed. I think a harmless prank will get it out of their system.
ME: Should we go? Like, is it better or worse for the team leadership to be there?
MELISSA: I think we should let them act on their own.
ME: I don’t know. Will they feel like we’re abandoning them?
SAM: Listen, y’all, it’s my senior year and this season is already going down in flames. I feel like we might as well make it memorable. But either all three of us go or none of us go. Y’all know where I stand.
ME: I’m in.
MELISSA: Guess I am, too. I don’t like this.
Millie
Five
After I get home from closing up the gym, I hang my keys on the hook by the front door. My house smells like someone passed gas and low-fat cheese, which means my mom is probably cooking one of those dishes that she likes to call a sweet little compromise. This usually means zucchini alfredo or mashed potatoes made of cauliflower.
“I’m home!” I call as I brush past the dining room, where Dad is setting the table.
“What’s for dinner?” I whisper.
Dad’s expression is full of dread as he shakes his head. “You don’t want to know.”
“Eggplant parmesan with this dairy-free cheese I found in the refrigerated section of the vitamin store,” answers my mom over the sounds of the kitchen and the television.
