I hate how true that is, but yeah, talking to Jack Walsh in public isn’t exactly the key to winning a popularity crown. And speaking of which: “Hey, remember that we’ve got decent shots at king and queen. That’s not nothing.”

I haven’t forgotten for a second; it’s yet another part of my plan to get cheer captain. Because cheerleaders and football players take the titles so often, it’s Atherton tradition to crown the king and queen at the dance, rather than do a whole halftime thing when we can’t exactly don our finest royal attire. Our nominations to the upperclassmen court were announced at last Friday’s pep rally, so now all I need to do is win the actual title. How can you not want a captain who’s been celebrated by the whole school and gotten to wave like a beauty queen with a pretty little tiara on her perfectly coiffed head?

“Yep, great,” he says with a weak-ass smile, holding up his drink in a mock toast.

I pretend I don’t see that he’s absolutely faking it, and clink my plastic cup to his.

-JACK-

“Soda?”

No hesitation there. “Mountain Dew.”

Amber’s face takes on the disgust of someone who’s just stepped in roadkill. “That’s your favorite soda? How are you not radioactive?”

“It’s not like I drink it that often! But it’s good! And the radioactive look is part of the fun.” I poke her with my foot under the blanket we’re sharing on her bed, careful not to tip over our bowl of popcorn. Coach called me a couple of hours ago to casually mention that one of the alumni who’ll be returning for homecoming happens to be a scout—a fucking DIII scout—and he’s excited to see me play. And I know it isn’t anything, that he’s not there to actively recruit, but still. Just the idea of being on a scout’s radar feels massive, and of course, the first thing I did was call Amber, and the first thing she did was invite me over to celebrate. “Why, what’s yours?”

“Fresca,” she says, like it’s obvious. “It’s the perfect soda. Refreshing and calorie-free.”

“My grandparents would definitely agree with you.”

“Oh, shut up.” She pokes me back, far less gently. “You don’t even know what you’re missing.”

“Which I’m okay with, if what I’m missing is grapefruit soda. That sounds like an oxymoron.”

“You sound like an oxymoron.”

“You kiss girls with that mouth?”

“Not when they taste like Mountain Dew.”

Cracking up, I can’t resist pulling her toward me and planting a kiss right on that snarky smile. “Good thing I taste like popcorn, then.”

“Very good thing,” she murmurs, wrapping her arms loosely around my neck.