“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.