I have a deep, abiding love for routines. Or maybe routine isn’t the right word? Plans! I love plans. I love opening my day planner and knowing just what to expect. Which is why I am delighted to be sitting at the front desk of the gym, doodling in the square for next Saturday.
Slumber Party Numero Three @ Amanda’s ☺
Callie plops down on the stool beside me after putting some towels in the dryer. “That is one intense calendar,” she says.
“Slumber party at Amanda’s,” I tell her. “Next Saturday! You have to go.”
She groans and lays her head down on the glass.
I lay my head down, too, so we’re at eye level. “Is that a yes?”
“That’s a I’m-a-moody-flake-and-will-let-you-know-at-the-last-minute.”
I pick up my head. “I’ll take that as a probably.”
Callie groans again.
“Is everything okay?” I ask. Callie is a generally fussy person. But today it feels like there’s just something weighing on her.
She props her chin up on her knuckles. “What does that even mean?” She doesn’t say it in a rude way, though. “I shouldn’t complain about this to you.”
“Sure you should,” I say. “Try me.”
She pulls her phone from her back pocket and silently looks something up before holding it out for me to see.
“Girls in bikinis washing cars?” I ask.
“It’s not just that,” she says, and scrolls to another photo.
A few pretty girls sit behind a fold-out table with a bake-sale sign taped to the front. “A bake sale in the school courtyard?”
She shoves her phone back in her pocket. “The state dance competition is next week. And as of last night, they raised enough to cover the deficit from the gym’s sponsorship. And . . .”
“You’re not going,” I finish for her. I can’t help but think it’s partly my doing.
She lays her head down on the glass counter again and shrugs. “I’m gonna have to clean this thing for the billionth time. Might as well get my face print on it.”
I laugh. “You remind me so much of Inga.”
“What? No! Don’t say that.”
“She is my aunt, you know.”
Callie sits up. “That doesn’t mean the woman isn’t totally bananas.”
“I’m sorry you’re gonna miss the dance competition,” I say.
“Normally I would say they don’t stand a chance without me. Usually that’d make me feel better even if it weren’t true. But . . .” She shakes her head. “I know they’ll be just fine, and that somehow sucks even harder.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” I tell her.
“It’s not just that,” she says before lowering her voice a few octaves. “I didn’t act alone. You know what I mean?”
I nod.
“The whole team is going way far out of their way to make sure it looks like that, though. I mean, I heard two sophomores say they heard I was high on pain pills or something and that’s why I did it.”
“Pills?” She doesn’t respond. “Why did you do it?”
Her gaze drifts like she’s looking past me. Through me. “It was stupid. I thought it was stupid to begin with. But we were so pissed. It was supposed to be a harmless prank with toilet paper and eggs, but . . . anyway, it’s done.”
“I’m sorry about that.” I know her punishment is earned, but I still hate to see her miss out on something she worked so hard for.
She shrugs. “Not your fault,” she says. “Right?”
I can feel my face getting red as I remember the exact moment I identified her to Sheriff Bell. That gosh-darn C necklace. “Yeah, I guess so.”
Then Mitch comes out from the locker rooms and I slink back a little so that maybe he and Callie will talk. It might brighten her day. Who knows? I remember he and Will sort of had something going on for a little while, and of course I’m happy to see her with Bo. But there’s just something about Mitch that makes me want to see him get a happily ever after, too. And what if Mitch’s happily ever after just so happens to be Callie?
“Where are you going?” whispers Callie.
I can hear the nerves in her voice and it almost makes me squeal. Oh my goodness! They’d just be the cutest.
“I’ll be right back,” I call in a singsong voice.
She turns and nearly spits at me. “You literally have nowhere else to be right now.”
I hold up my hand and wave with my fingers as I slip into the office. I watch through the blinds on the door as she hands Mitch back his membership card. The two of them maybe exchange all of three words before he leaves, and that’s it. The perfect moment I delivered to her on a silver platter is wasted.
She storms back to the office, and I swing the door open to meet her.
“What the hell was that about?” she asks.
“I thought I’d give you two a moment,” I say.
“A moment for what?”
“To, ya know, connect.”
She rolls her eyes. “Just because that slumber party wasn’t a total shit show doesn’t give you license to meddle in every crevice of my life, okay? And Mitch? Totally not my type.”
Not her type. I know exactly what that means. But I still want to hear her say it out loud. “Not your type?” I ask. “And what exactly is your type?”
Her lips spread into a thin, tight line. “Not Mitch.”
“Okay,” I say, choosing to let it go.
We finish up our closing duties in silence, and as I’m locking the door behind us, her phone pings. Callie checks her phone and groans. Again.
She mumbles something that I can’t quite make out.
“What was that?” I ask.
“My mom is wondering if you can give me a ride home.”
I grin. “I’d be happy to.”
Once we’re in the minivan, I turn on the ignition, buckle my seat belt, and check my mirrors. I look to Callie.
“What?” she asks.
“Seat belts save lives,” I say.
She sighs loudly and reaches across her shoulder to click her seat belt.
“Let’s motor!” I check both ways before pulling out onto the road.
She gasps. “Wait!”
I slam on the brakes and look both ways feverishly. “Was it a cat?” I swear, I live in fear of the day I accidentally hit an animal with my van.
“No, no,” she says. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just realized I forgot some stuff at school. Could you swing me by there for a few minutes?”
I glance at the clock on the dash. “Sure thing,” I say.
While I wait outside the school for Callie, I text my parents to let them know I’m running a little late. My mom responds with a frowny face and promises she’ll leave a plate for me in the fridge.
I watch my clock as ten minutes pass. Then twenty. Just as we’re approaching the thirty-minute mark and I’m getting ready to turn off the car and go in search of her, Callie sprints out the main entrance and straight for the van.
I lean across the console to hold the door open for her. “Hey!” she pants. “Sorry. Couldn’t find my, uh, geography workbook at first.”
“I hope you found it.” I don’t bother hiding the annoyance in my voice.
She holds both thumbs up. “All good.”
As I approach the light at the end of the street, I take the turn opposite of my house and head into the older part of Clover City, where Callie lives. I’m a little peeved with how she just took her sweet time looking for her book, but I’m determined to be her friend. “So, now that dance team is out of the picture,” I say, “what are you gonna do when you’re done working off your debt at the gym?”
She squirms in her seat a bit and glances in the side-view mirror at the empty road behind us. “Well, I guess I’ll try to get my job back at Sweet 16. They let me take off the last few months for the competitive dance season.” She sighs. “The employee discount on clothes was pretty great.”
I nod. “Makes sense.”
“But I don’t know. I guess you could say everything was sort of riding on dance. I thought maybe it’d get me into college and—I know this is crazy—but I thought I could try dancing for a professional sports team. Like with the NBA or something.” She rolls her eyes. “Those girls are barely paid anything, but I would’ve made it work somehow. And sometimes you even get to travel with the team.”
“That would’ve been pretty amazing,” I say.
“Well, that dream is sort of shot. It’s not like I can go to another high school or something. We just have the one.”
“So was dancing your passion? Like, the thing you want to do no matter what?”
She thinks about that for a long minute. “I’m really good at it. It was nice to have built-in friends . . . if I can even call them that anymore. And I liked being a co–assistant captain and telling people what to do. I like being looked at—that sounds gross, but I don’t mean it like that. I just—”
“You like the spotlight?” I offer.
“Yeah.” She nods.
“Well, if you’re open to other options, I’m sure there are lots of things you’re good at that would include bossing people around and being the center of attention.”
She taps her pointer finger against her lips. “Well, that makes me sound like a bitch.”
I laugh a little.
She shrugs. “But I’ve never really been bad at anything either.”
Most people would mistake Callie’s honesty for ego. And trust me. She’s got plenty of ego. But there’s something more to it. Something that feels like self-awareness. And I like it. Because I think maybe Callie would probably admit her flaws in the same way she recognizes her strengths.
She shimmies her shoulders, like she’s shaking off whatever thoughts she’s just lost herself in. “What about you? You gonna work at this gym your whole life or what?”
I tap the brake as we roll up to a stop sign. I turn to her as the car in front of me waits to go. I’m not ashamed of my dreams. But something in me has always felt like the more people you share your hopes with, the flimsier they become. Suddenly everyone else is poking holes in your future until there’s not much left to hope for at all.
“I have plans,” I finally say.
“Oh really?”
“Yes,” I say. “I have plans.”
“And what exactly do your plans entail?”
I pull up in front of Callie’s house and put my parking brake on. After unbuckling my seat belt, I turn to face her. “It all starts this summer. The first domino in my plan.”
And then my plans spill from my mouth like a faucet turned all the way on. I tell Callie about the broadcast journalism camp at UT Austin this summer and how I’m going there after graduation, too. I tell her my five-year goals and my ten-year goals and my lifetime goals. I tell her absolutely everything.
And then I sit back and wait for her reaction.
“Wow,” she says, but her tone is hard to decipher, like she’s impressed but doubtful. “You really do have plans.”
“So what do you think?” I know she’ll be honest with me.
“What do I think?” she sputters nervously. “Well, I’m not, like, some professional future-plans analyzer, but it sounds . . . good?”
“Just good?” I ask, trying to mask my disappointment.
“Well.” She pauses. “I don’t really know much about TV anchors or anything like that, but I bet it’s a really tough industry. And you’re . . .” She waves her hand around like she might just magically find the right word.
“And I’m what?” My voice carries some bite.
“Well, you’re on camera all the time, right?” She looks down at her feet and swallows loudly. “People are just super shallow.”
“You don’t think I can be on camera?” I ask, my voice cracking. I knew that bringing this up to Callie was a gamble. But her doubt hurts. I know that in the world of TV, I will face this same hesitation at every turn, so I do my best to numb myself to it. But still, I feel it. I can’t help it. Disappointment washes over me until I’m just submerged in it. I close my eyes and exhale, counting to five.
“That’s not what I said.” Her voice is quiet.
I open my eyes and turn to her, doing all that I can to quiet my feelings. “Sometimes it’s about what you don’t say,” I tell her. “First you were surprised to know that I knew how to work all the equipment at the gym. Maybe it’s equally shocking to learn that I want to be on the news.”
She shakes her head. “You should do whatever you want, okay?” She pulls her backpack into her lap. “What does it even matter what I think? It’s not like we’re friends.”
I hold a breath in to stop the tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. Who am I kidding? I can’t numb myself. I feel it all. Every dang thing. “Yeah,” I say. “I guess we’re not.”
She hops out of the car. “Thanks for the ride.”
I wait for her to go in through her front door, but she’s halfway up the sidewalk when she turns around and raps her knuckles on my window for me to roll it down.
“Did you forget something?” I ask, wiping away an angry tear.
“Listen, Millie.”
Here it is. The moment where she tells me to face reality. To grow a thicker skin. Fat girls don’t report the news. I shake my head. I’m done hearing from people like her about what they think I’m capable of.
She drops her backpack in the grass and says, “I actually think you’re really fucking cool. And that’s totally not what I expected to think about you. My whole life is a mess right now, so maybe I’m not the person you should be listening to, but I think you can do anything you want. I don’t say things to make people feel good. I say them because they’re true.”
I’m taken aback. It’s one of those rare moments in my life when I actually have no words. “Thank you? I think?”
“You’re welcome,” she says gruffly. She scrubs her hands over her face. “And I’m sorry about what I said at the gym awhile back in front of Mitch, and I’m sorry if I looked like I doubted you today just now. But people are assholes, Millie.” She points to herself. “I am an asshole! And . . .” She takes a deep breath. “I guess my first instinct was to discourage you because . . . well, I guess I wanted to protect you from assholes like me. But that just made me an even bigger asshole, because I shouldn’t be standing in your way. I should be telling you to do whatever the hell you want.”
“Which means we’re friends?” Doubt rings in my voice.
She nods quickly and laughs a little frantically. “Yeah. I think so.”
I smile a little. I’m glad that she considers me a friend, but I’ve also spent my entire life living under the umbrella of my overprotective parents, and if friends are the family you choose, I choose not to be friends with people who try to hold me back. “I don’t need you to protect me,” I tell her.
“Good.” And then she adds, “I don’t think you’re weak, Millie. Not at all. I just . . . I’m starting to realize that I’m the kind of person you should be protected from. I’m the jerk or the bully or whatever.”
“You don’t have to be”—I clear my throat—“an a-hole, as you put it.”
She picks up her backpack and shakes her head. “That’s what you keep telling me. Maybe someday it will stick.”
When I get home, I sit in the driveway for a minute to text Malik. My mind is absolutely spinning, but somehow I still find myself focused. I have tasks that need accomplishing. I need help, and the only way to get it is by asking for it.
ME: I need your help with something.
MALIK: Is it legal?
ME: I am a strictly by-the-books kind of girl.
MALIK: Dangit. I was hoping to make my criminal debut.
ME: Do you have any access to the AV equipment at school?
MALIK: Do I have access? DO I HAVE ACCESS? I am access.
ME: You? Me? Sunday afternoon? A room full of AV equipment?
MALIK: Sounds like a date.
When I get to school on Tuesday morning, it takes me a moment to realize there’s something different about the main hallway where the front office is, like my eyes are adjusting to a bright light.
It’s green. The whole hallway is green.
“What is this?” asks Amanda as she plucks a green sheet of paper off the wall.
“I have no clue.” But my stomach grumbles with unease.
The first bell rings, but no one in the hallway really makes any move to get to class. Amanda and I stand there as I read over her shoulder.
THE SHAMROCK SECRET SHIT LIST
- Jill Royce has a raging crush on her stepdad.
- Hayley Walker pooped in the community pool on Jefferson the summer after eighth grade but blamed it on Janelle Simpson.
- Addison Caliro stole her mom’s oxy and sold it to Mr. Graham, the tennis coach, who’s in rehab now for a prescription drug addiction.
- Whitney Taylor created the anonymous Twitter account that slut-shamed Chelsey Lewis until her parents sent her to private school.
- Lara Trevino took her parents’ car for a joyride and ran into a cop cruiser. When she got caught, she pretended to be sleepwalking.
- Jess Rowley saves her toenail clippings and catalogs them by year.
- Bethany Howard is obsessed with eating her own earwax and once even ate her brother’s earwax off an old cotton swab to see if it tasted different.
- Gretchen McKinley purposely walked into a door and broke her own nose so she could get a nose job before tenth grade.
- Zara Espinosa flushed a cherry bomb down the toilet in the library. Not only did the toilet explode, but the priceless art on loan from the Dallas Museum of Art, which was housed on the other side of the wall, was also destroyed.
- Emma Benjamin wanted to impress her senior friends by forking a rival team’s football field, but she got too drunk and just ended up forking our own field, which resulted in a forfeit during the historic season when the football team was just one game away from qualifying for District playoffs.
- Natalie Forrester sells her little brother’s Adderall to a select few faculty members in exchange for good grades.
- Samantha Crawford accidentally ran over the former school mascot Penelope the goat with her dad’s truck, hid the body in an oil field, and then blamed the Marble Falls High School cheerleading team. As retaliation, the CCHS cheerleading team kidnapped the MFHS’s prized iguana, who was never returned.
- Melissa Gutierrez replaced her sister’s birth control with aspirin after they got into a fight. Not only did her sister get pregnant, but she got kicked out of the house too.
“Oh my gosh,” I gasp. “Penelope.”
Amanda nods. “That was all over the local news. She was so cute with her fake little ram horns and football jersey. This is nuts.”
I take the paper from her and tear a fistful off the wall before shoving them into the nearest trash can.
My heart slams against my chest. This is all my fault.
Callie did this. It must have been her. And she did it because she thinks someone on the team sold her out.
I should have told her it was me. I should’ve just put it out there in the open. But now she and I are friends—real friends. And all these girls . . . their secrets. If Callie wasn’t the villain before, she definitely is now.