Jamie Rhodes was last year’s captain and she would’ve done a fifth year of high school to do it again if she could. Cheerleading was her entire life, and it paid off—she got a partial scholarship to the University of Central Florida. She threw a party when the news came in that probably ate up a good portion of the money, but it wasn’t about the thousand bucks for her; she loved the prestige that came with it.

I need the freaking money.

“Well, I wasn’t nervous about that, but now I am.” I’m not sure if I’m kidding or not, but Cara laughs anyway.

“You’re gonna be great. We always are.” She gives me an air-kiss from beneath her sheet. “See you at lunch?”

The very idea of eating with one more thing added to my anxiety plate makes me want to puke. But I cheerfully say, “Yep!”

It only occurs to me that she can’t see my flutter-wave goodbye when she’s already out of sight.

Turns out to be a good thing I’m not in charge of pep rally signage, because before we can even pack the signs up into Sara’s car that night, my phone beeps with a text from Miguel. Drip? Another text quickly follows. Please.

The use of actual words instead of emoji-code gets me, and please is the icing on the cake. Miguel never says please.

I’m so not in the mood to do anything but crash on the couch, but that please will not be ignored. K, I text back with all the energy I can muster, and then I make my apologies about slipping out and get in my car to make the drive.

Nausea creeps up my throat with every passing minute, a feeling in my bones that this has to do with Malcolm, that Miguel’s just had his heart broken. Malcolm’s his third boyfriend—first was some guy he met on the internet in eighth grade but never met in person, and then there was Stephen, the guy he was dating when we met—but Malcolm is the first one Miguel’s felt really serious about, and he’ll be shattered. Hell, I really like Malcolm; we had a great time with him on our double date. Not that this is about me.

I practice the sweet, comforting things I’m gonna say for the length of the ride, but when I step into Drip and see Miguel waiting, he doesn’t look sad; he looks … nervous? His foot is frantically tapping on the floor and his hands are already doing that straw-fiddling thing. And yes, there’s a drink waiting for me, too.

He has to tell me something bad.

Jack.

Fuck.