“Bryce,” I say, overenunciating his name, “is actually right here.”

“So you guys are at the library or something, right? Because I know your mom and Keith aren’t even home from work yet.”

“Actually, we’re in my room doing homework.”

“With the door open, I hope.”

“Dad, no one’s home. If I want to have sex with my boyfriend, do you think it matters if the door is open or closed?”

Bryce’s face turns ghostly white.

Dad huffs. “Why do you have to go and point out logic like that?”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Just . . .” He clears his throat. “Make sure you’re careful and all that.”

“I’ve been on the pill since I was—”

“Yup. Okay. I hear ya. Loud and clear. Message received. Good job.”

“The dance team lost funding,” I blurt out before realizing I hadn’t even told Bryce yet.

“You didn’t tell me that,” says Bryce.

I glance at him apologetically before continuing to fill him and my dad in simultaneously. “We’ve got State in two weeks, which we can barely cover, and Nationals after that, which isn’t even an option at the moment. And we actually have a shot at going all the way this year.”

“Oh, baby,” he says. “Maybe I could talk to my boss and see if they could throw some sponsorship dollars your way, or maybe I could even cut a check to make a tiny dent.”

I smile. “Thanks, Dad. I’m going to brainstorm some options and see what we can do.”

“What happened for you to lose a sponsor? You girls getting into trouble?” he jokes.

“This dumb, dinky little gym offered to sponsor us for the first time this year, and they just bailed on us right in the middle of the competitive season.”

“Can they even do that?” he asks.

“What are we gonna do? Bully them into giving us the money?”

He grunts. “That’s pretty much what you and your sisters do to me and your mother.”

“Not funny,” I tell him.

“A little funny.”

“Maybe a smidge funny.”

“Well, you let me know if I can help, okay?” he says. “And your birthday, too. I need ideas. Unless you want another transistor radio with a wind-up flashlight on the end.”

“I think I’m good.”

“That was a great gift,” he says, defending himself. “A good thing to keep in your trunk for emergencies.”

My dad has a love for all things simple and utilitarian. In fact, I think I’ve gotten him the same mustache comb for three Christmases in a row, but he doesn’t mind since it’s one less thing he needs to replace. “Dad, I don’t have a car.”

He chuckles. “Prepare for the life you want, mija, not the one you have, right?”

I roll my eyes even though he can’t see. “I’ll send a list,” I tell him. “And I’ll call Abuela. Love you.”

“To the moon,” he says before hanging up.

Bryce clears his throat. “What was your dad saying about me? I think that guy hates me.” It’s a fleeting moment of weakness from Bryce, who is very used to receiving male approval.

“He doesn’t hate you,” I say. “He just doesn’t know you.”

“You’re right. Everybody loves The Bryce.” He laughs to himself. “By the way, did you say the dance team is broke?”

“Well, yeah. We’re kind of screwed.” I crawl onto the floor next to him, and he practically pulls me into his lap. I tell him all about my shitty day and how unhelpful Vice Principal Benavidez was and how Down for the Count just pulled the rug right out from underneath us. I find myself tearing up a little, which only makes me angrier. “I really hate to ask this, but do you think your dad’s dealership would think about sponsoring us?”

Bryce’s brow furrows. “My dad’s old-school, ya know? He still thinks cheerleaders and dance teams only exist for the sake of halftime shows. He doesn’t really get the purpose of a competition that doesn’t involve one team scoring points against the other. He’s pretty set on his football sponsorship.”

My shoulders slump as I nod. I hate being compared to the cheerleading team. Our cheerleading team is noncompetitive, which means they live for football and basketball games. I don’t mind doing halftime shows, but when it comes down to it, those things are just extended practice times for us. While some cheerleading teams kick serious ass, ours seems to exist for the sole sake of giggling and chanting for boys fumbling around with balls. The Shamrocks exist to win.

“But I guess I could ask if he wants to sponsor another team,” says Bryce. He doesn’t sound confident, but I appreciate the effort.

“Really?” I ask. “You would do that?” If anyone can afford it, it’s Mr. Dooley. Despite the handful of cars in his garage, he has a chauffeur drive him around from morning until night. When we were in elementary school, before his driver upgraded to a huge luxury SUV, Bryce’s dad would come through the pick-up/drop-off line in a limo.

He shrugs. “I’ll just have to catch him at the right time. He’s been weird lately. Wants me to start spending more time at the dealerships, figuring out how things work. Hey,” says Bryce, cradling my chin in his hand. “I know what’ll make you feel better. Or at least distract you for a little while.”

“Yeah?” The pit of my stomach hiccups as he spreads kisses along my jaw, both of us leaning back onto the floor. Instead of returning to my research, Bryce and I take advantage of my seldom-quiet house.

After Bryce leaves, I fall asleep on the end of my bed with my American Lit reading assignment clutched to my chest. When I finally wake, I feel groggy and heavy. The sound of my sister shouting at Shipley, our pit mix, and the smell of my mother cooking dinner flood my senses.

“Callie!” calls Kyla from the other side of the door. “Mama said you would help me with my reading homework!”

“After dinner!” My door begins to inch open, and I throw a pillow at it. “After dinner!” I shout again.

Kyla pushes the door open anyway and sticks her head in. Her long blond hair is split into two French braids. Over Christmas, she had a growth spurt, and even though she’s only eleven, she’s nearly taller than me. “Is that a hickey on your neck?”

I throw my second and last pillow, but this time I hit her right in the face. “I’m telling Mama!” she growls before slamming my door shut.

I groan and plop back down on my bed, letting my brain slowly come back to life as the sleepy fog evaporates. I reach for my phone and find an alert telling me I have eighty-seven missed text messages.

HO-LY SHIT.

I open my messages and find one long thread with at least half the dance team on it. As I skim through, I find that news of the sponsorship fiasco has spread to the rest of the team. Melissa. She probably spilled the beans.

HAYLEY: We worked so hard for this. I haven’t eaten bread in three months.

ADDISON: Why should we even bother practicing anymore?

JILL: And what’s the point of even trying to compete at State if we can’t go to Nationals? GREG BROKE UP WITH ME BECAUSE HE FELT LIKE I WAS TOO BUSY WITH THE SHAMROCKS.

GRETCHEN: Greg was a punk anyway, BUT THIS IS STILL BULLSHIT.

WHITNEY: I missed my grammy’s funeral for Regionals!

BETHANY: The football team gets a new training facility and we can’t even afford to compete?!

ZARA: Does this mean I can eat carbs again?

SAM: Zara, no one said you couldn’t eat carbs.

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!