“So, what do I do?” I ask. “How do I make them see that they’re being beyond stupid and blowing the first shot they’ve had in years of actually going somewhere?”

“Trust me,” says Miguel, “if I knew, I would’ve done it a hundred times already. I am not looking forward to a year of nauseating hero worship of the devil and another losing streak.” He takes a long, noisy sip. “Please can we talk about something else? Anything else.”

Deeply unsatisfying as his responses have been, I get why he is capital-D Done talking about Robbie Oakes. Fortunately, our little Rainbow Alliance always has plenty else to discuss. “So, like, does this mean you’re finally ready to tell me about the magical one-month anniversary date? Because details on that were miiiighty stingy, my friend.”

Miguel looks around like he wishes he had something on hand to throw at me. “If you’re ready to finally spill some salacious details about cheer camp.”

“Jesus, Santiago. You’re a jock. Don’t you know you’re not supposed to know words like ‘salacious’?”

“I guess that answers whether you’re still jealous of my SAT verbal score,” he says casually.

“I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I do.” I lace my fingers through his, and we fall quiet, and I know we’re both thinking how much easier life would be if we were The Thing everyone thinks we are. But Miguel is gayer than spring break in South Beach and I may be into multiple genders, but that does not include my taken best friend, or any other cis boys, as far as I can tell. So. Here we are.

Maybe someday I’ll have my own Malcolm. A Veronica outside of cheer camp. A pair of incredible arms to hold me that aren’t attached to the most controversial student at Atherton High. A real relationship I can be out and proud with.

But then, I’m already going for cheer captain, and how many dreams does one girl get in this life, anyway?

-JACK-

Another day, another infuriating practice of no one giving a shit what I have to say and no one praising a damn thing I’m doing except for Coach Sundstrom’s muttered “Good job today, Walsh” out of earshot of anyone else on the team—a far cry from the praise he heaped on at camp. I know he does that on purpose, so he won’t piss off the rest of the guys, and I really fucking hate that I end up preening at those scraps like a stray cat because it’s all I’m gonna get.

I let myself into my new “home” quietly and wave at my mom, who’s sitting at our small dining table and wearing a headset to take customer service calls. She gives a wave back without breaking her rhythm and I disappear into the bathroom and strip off my sweaty clothes.