See? I think as I do exactly that. Cara is my friend, who cares about protecting me from wrinkles and cancer. You, Jack Walsh, are just a girl I happen to find very attractive, and that is probably because I am queer-starved. And you are a freaking quarterback—you’ll be fine. You don’t need my help.

As soon as Cara’s done, I thank her (I’d reciprocate, but she’s already wearing a caftan over her SPF 70) and lean back in the chair to watch Sara, Zoe, Claire, and Ella compete for who can stay in a handstand the longest while Virany judges. On the chaise to our right, Kelsey Coleman’s leafing through the newest issue of Megaphone and flagging every page for stuff she’s gonna beg her mom to get. On her other side, Taylor keeps texting someone and giggling as if no one can hear, which means Matt Devlin is definitely on the receiving end of some smut. In front of me, Crystal, Nia, and Diana are sitting with their legs in the water and discussing homecoming dresses and nail polish shades.

This is my happy place, with the girls I love and know like the back of my hand. I don’t have to think about Jack. I don’t have to think about anything. I can close my eyes and let myself drift off, just a little bit …

I’m not sure how long I’ve been dozing when the sound of Jack’s name brings me back to reality, but the handstand contest is definitely over. Everyone’s gathered around our area of the pool now, and Cara’s moved from our shared chaise to a wicker armchair with Kelsey behind her, braiding her hair. At first I think the mention of Jack was just in a dream, but then Cara says, “Come on,” and I know I’m not about to hear anything good. “We can just skip her.”

“Seriously,” says Kelsey. “Who wants to sneak into her room at night?”

Everyone cracks up laughing, and that’s when I realize the topic at hand is Midnight Breakfast, one of my favorite traditions, and yet another thing that looks like it’s about to go sideways. It’s always done the night before the first game, and it involves sneaking into the football players’ houses at night, dragging them out of bed in whatever they’re wearing, and bringing them to Maggie’s Diner—an Atherton institution that also happens to be one of our squad’s sponsors—for a carbo load.

I guess no one’s fighting over who gets to creep into Jack Walsh’s bedroom the way they do over Lamar Burke or Dan Sanchez.