I’m in San Francisco. The whole team is buzzing with energy. Of course we all want to win the big prize, but at this point the fact that we’ve even made it all the way to Nationals is a dream so surreal none of us can quite believe it.
I groan into the carpet.
Except I’m not in San Francisco. I’m lying facedown on my bedroom floor, counting carpet fibers with my eyelashes. I have literally nothing scheduled for the foreseeable future. No dance practice. No loser sleepover party or whatever the hell it was. No job.
I’ve even studied. FOR FINALS THAT DON’T START FOR TWO MORE WEEKS. I have a research paper on natural selection due next week, and I turned it in nine days early. My teacher asked if it was a prank. I assured him it was not.
“Callie!” my mom calls from downstairs. “You’ve got company!”
“I don’t have any friends,” I call back, but my voice is muffled by the carpet.
After a moment, there’s a faint knock on the door. “Come in.”
The door creaks open.
“Whoa,” says Mitch. “Quite the situation we have here.”
I flip over onto my back.
I’m wearing a holey T-shirt, my most stretched-out sports bra, and paint-splattered jean shorts from when my mom decided she wanted to redo the bathroom but took nine shades of blue to find the perfect shade. Basically, I’ve sort of ghosted Mitch since he gave me a ride home, because I just have zero will to be around anyone right now.
“Well, I saw the national dance-team competition was on ESPN 2. You weren’t answering my texts, and I thought you could use some company.” He pulls a bag out from behind the door. “And as many obnoxiously flavored chips as I could find.”
I sit up. I still don’t really feel up for hanging out, but I’m not going to send him home and ruin the only decent friendship/unlabeled sort of romantic thing I have going. “You got any Flamin’ Hot Cheetos in there?”
“If they sell it at the Grab N’ Go, I’ve got it.”
I squint at him for a long moment. “How do you feel about hate-watching this dance competition?”
“You’re looking at a Guy Fieri hate-watching pro here.”
“Well, let’s hope we get ESPN 2.” I hop up and swipe the bag from his hand and race down the stairs as he follows me.
I stop abruptly halfway down the stairs and spin around. He stops short just a step above me, and my nose is practically pressed into his chest.
“Sorry,” I say. “I just wanted to say thanks for coming over.”
“Why be miserable alone when we could be miserable together? With chips?”
I smile.
“Baby,” Mama calls from the kitchen, “Kyla and I are running some errands. Y’all okay by yourselves?”
I look up to Mitch, our bodies pressing together with every exhale. “Yeah,” I say. “We’re good.”
Yeah, if we don’t kiss pretty soon I’m going to explode.
Which is why it makes no sense when the two of us settle on opposite sides of the couch, just about as far away from each other as we can manage. My first physical interactions with Bryce were usually lubricated with alcohol, so these skittish butterfly feelings I’m having right now are not something I know how to combat.
I flip through the channels until landing on ESPN 2, which is definitely not part of our basic cable package, but something Keith must have snuck in when my mom wasn’t paying attention.
I dig through the bag of chips and pull out some pineapple-and-ham-pizza flavored ones. “I want this to be my job,” I say. “Coming up with ridiculous chip flavors.”
Mitch laughs. “I can’t believe someone gets paid to do that. I would want, like, holiday-themed chips. Like Thanksgiving dinner or hot dog with all the fixings for the Fourth of July.”
“Oooh! Or like pumpkin-spice chips for Halloween.”
“Oh, gross. You lost me there!”
I toss the Grab N’ Go bag to him. “You mean you can fathom Thanksgiving dinner chips, but pumpkin is just too much of a stretch of the imagination?”
He shrugs. “It doesn’t suit my palate.”
I shake my head. “Well, just you wait. When I’m lead chip scientist or whatever, pumpkin-spice chips will reign supreme.”
I turn up the volume a little as the announcers talk about their top contenders for first place. A team from Harlem, another from Southern California, one from Miami, and the current title holder, a team out of Savannah, Georgia. I take way too much satisfaction in the fact that Clover City doesn’t even get a brief mention when they discuss possible upsets.
“So they just dance?” asks Mitch. “How do you judge something like that? Like, objectively?”
“Well, there are two major categories: technical ability and artistic presentation. And then in each of those categories, they judge things like technique, difficulty, precision, creativity, use of space, and the elusive energy. Which is actually frustrating as hell.”
We watch a few routines in silence. I glance over to see Mitch’s gaze wandering as he studies a not-at-all-interesting painting of a desert landscape above the television. Yeah, even for someone who’s into dance, this is pretty boring.
I scoot across the cushion that divides us so that I’m sitting right next to him. “Okay,” I say, snapping his attention back to me. “See that kick line they’re doing? It’s actually super hard, because I bet they’re all going to land in the splits like a domino effect, but there’s always one girl who’s gotta go and screw the whole thing up.”
We watch as the team on television in their multicolored neon glittering costumes do one last fan kick as each dancer falls into the splits one by one.
“Ow, that does not look comfortable.”
“Anyone can do the splits,” I say. “It’s just about stretching the right muscles.” I point to one girl in the middle as she lands into the splits. “Look. She’s the one who threw them all off. Bye-bye, perfect score.”
“They’re barely off, though!” says Mitch.
“Doesn’t matter. When other teams are perfect, the smallest mistake comes with a big price tag.”
“So anyone can do the splits, huh?”
I chuckle and bounce up from my seat, sliding right down into the splits and then rotating on my hips effortlessly. “Voilà!”
“Whoa. If the whole team is half as limber, I think the Shamrocks might be more athletic than the basketball and football teams combined.”
I throw my hands up. “This is what I’ve been saying for years!”
He nods. “Teach me something.”
“Seriously?”
“Hell yeah!” He stands up and holds a hand out for me, pulling me up from the splits with one quick yank.
“Okay. I’ll teach you how to do those kicks,” I say.
He shakes his head. “No way. I can’t kick that high.”
I shake my head. “Kicking high is impressive, but it’s about kicking in unison.” I start pushing on the coffee table. “Let’s get this out of the way.”
He comes along beside me and helps push the table to the wall.
“Okay!” I take his arm and loop it around the back of my waist. His hand curls around the front of my stomach. My breath hitches.
“Is this okay?” he asks.
“Perfect.” I cross my arm behind his.
He gasps. “I’m ticklish. Embarrassingly ticklish, actually.”
“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.