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Dedication

To everyone who needs a cheerleader, a strong arm, or an open heart every now and again.

And to Yoni, for always being all three.

Chapter One

-AMBER-

Ready, steady, go!

I’ve heard those words so many times they’ve practically lost all meaning. But then again, I’m always ready and always steady. They’re requirements for an Atherton cheerleader, and that goes quintuple for an Atherton cheerleader with aspirations of getting a captain’s C on her sweater.

This year, those words will be coming out of Crystal Miller’s lips every practice. Last year, they came out of Jamie Rhodes’s. The year before that? Tia Ferrera’s. And next year, unless I do something utterly egregious, like light a match within fifty feet of Sara Copeley’s hair spray nest, they’ll be coming out of mine.

I crushed it at cheer camp this summer. The new tennis shoes I used all my birthday money on are so clean, you could lick the morning dew off ’em. (And I can name at least three football players who’d do it on a dare, too.) I’m one of the only two cheerleaders (the other being my best friend, Cara) who’s been on varsity since freshman year, and still I’ve watched videos of the routines at least once a day on my (refurbished, shhh) iPhone.

It’s my first day as an official junior, the year everyone will be scrutinizing me to see if I have what it takes to be captain next year, and this feels like a test I’ve been studying for my entire life. (Honestly, the only one, some weeks.) Especially because, according to Crystal, she’s got big news.

I instinctively double-check every inch of my body to make sure I’m in compliance with the squad’s No Jewelry rules, even though I know I have practice prep down to a science, and yank my long chestnut ponytail extra tight.

A quick glance in the mirror reveals that I look like a flatter version of brunette Cheerleader Barbie, and that’s exactly how it should be.

“Ammo!” A screech way too loud to come from such a tiny body breaks into my self-reflection. “Amber, come on. We’re gonna be late.”

“I know Cara Whelan, Our Lady of Perpetual Tardiness, is not calling me out on matters of punctuality,” I shoot back, but I jog after her, because she’s right and because being my best friend means she’s genuinely watching out for me.

Probably.