“There is nothing good about mornings,” she says, her voice muffled by what sounds like a pillow. “But at least you got the beautiful thing right. Smart? Talented? Kind? I’ll work on those.”
“All mornings are good,” I tell her. “It’s those afternoonsthat ruin everything.” I chuckle at myself, but Amanda’s silence is evidence that she doesn’t find my humor cute. “Daily affirmations. I read about it last week. You speak the things you want to be. I figured it’d be easier if we affirmed each other. Spice things up!”
“I can play this game,” she says. “I just say good things for you to be.”
“Pretty much.”
“You are a plate of hash brown. You are a waffle. You are a cinnamon roll.”
“Amanda!” I roll my eyes. “Take this seriously.”
“What? I’m hungry and no one is taking that seriously.” She huffs into her receiver. “Are you on your way?” she asks. “Get out of my room, Tommy!” she growls. “Sorry. My brother.”
“Be waiting for me outside. I’ve got morning announcements.” I grin. “Be there in ten. And maybe we can stop for breakfast.”
“I’m awake, Mom!” she shouts again. “Please hurry,” she whispers into the phone.
“You owe me three affirmations!” I remind her as I press down harder on the gas. A friend in need is a friend indeed.
Callie
Two
Melissa and I sit on the floor of the gym, facing each other with our legs spread and our feet touching. Our hands clasp together as we stretch, pulling each other back and forth. She sits up, and her dark burgundy ponytail on the very top of her head swings forward as she pulls me toward her. I’m trying really hard not to breathe in, though, since the gymnasium floor seriously smells like balls.
“Our after-school practices next week were bumped to the band room,” I tell Melissa.
She looks up from her stretch. “Are you shitting me?”
“Nope. Coach Spencer is scrambling because the football team’s indoor facility isn’t done yet, so they’re moving everyone’s practices around so the team can have the gym and the weightlifting equipment.”
“But the band room has no space! What have they even done to deserve an indoor training facility? And it’s not even football season.”
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. Lotsof 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, comesfrom 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.
