“Hey! Sorry!” Cara runs up to me, breathless, and I nearly drop my phone, as if she can hear my thoughts. The picture I was looking at wasn’t even of Veronica, but it still feels like too close a call. Not that Cara doesn’t know I made out with a cheer captain from Tally—unfortunately, too much adrenaline and a poor location choice means everyone knows—but it’s been written off as cheer camp shenanigans, fully endorsed by my Extremely Heterosexual Horndog Boyfriend, Miguel Santiago, star Wide Receiver of the Atherton Alligators.

And yeah, okay, maybe I encouraged that thinking.

After all, Miguel and I both benefit from this arrangement as we figure our shit out and just try to survive this place. The cheerleaders are like my family, but it’d definitely be testing the limits of that bond if they knew I was queer, and the football team would be much worse. Plus, if there’s one person I can safely assume would not be cool with it, it’s Cara Whelan.

Daughter of Pastor Whelan.

That Pastor Whelan, of the fire and brimstone and all the other shit that keeps his church running.

Cara’s been one of my best friends ever since we were little kids, back before I realized her parents constantly trying to get me to join her at church against my atheist single mom’s wishes wasn’t cool. Despite their house already being packed with kids, they took me in when my mom was working nights or just needed a little space to get through nursing school. I learned to pump on their swing set, bake cookies in their kitchen, and plant flowers in their garden. I still miss their Friday movie nights, even though it’s all rated G, all the time. But “it’s complicated” is an understatement, and if I ever want to watch The Prince of Egypt with them again, I’ll keep both of these tennis shoes firmly in the closet, thank you very much.