Her lips twist into a scowl-smile combo. “Yeah, so weird I didn’t see that in the team newsletter Dan Sanchez gently places on my lunch tray each day. Anyway, I’m already asleep. Why would I want breakfast?” She fumbles for something else on the nightstand, then slips on a pair of glasses. “Don’t you dare tell a soul I wear these.”

I roll my eyes. “There’s nothing to tell, precious; you’re wearing ’em to breakfast. Come on. The whole idea is to go however we found you.”

“But you get to be dressed and made up?”

I’m glad she can’t see my blush in the darkness. My mom did point out that I was a little prettied up for something that takes place when most people are in their pajamas. That’s what I get for asking to borrow her mascara, I guess, especially since she’s one of the only people in the world who knows I’m not wearing it for Miguel. “Right. Because I’m a cheerleader and if anyone sees me looking like a mere mortal, they turn to stone.”

She snorts and there’s a genuine laugh in there and it softens me a little despite myself. Maybe more than a little, or maybe it’s the late hour, because I get a bit too stupid and say, “The glasses look cute. Seriously. Come on.”

“Cute?”

I’m about to snap out a reminder that she’s the one who asked me for a favor and maybe she should consider not teasing me, but when I catch her eye, it feels like there’s a question in it, wanting to know exactly how I meant “cute,” and my stomach tightens.

I know the queer girl dance. I’m pretty sure it just began. And maybe I’m projecting or maybe I’m stereotyping because she’s built like a brick wall and exudes more masculinity than half the football team or maybe I’m not. And as a frequent hater of this dance, I can’t help but want her to know that at least in this, we’re on the same team. “Very fucking cute, okay? A little too cute, if I’m being honest. Don’t make me say it again.”

There’s no more fight as she grabs a sweatshirt and follows me down the ladder and out to my car.

The ride to Maggie’s is short, but Jack still finds a way to be an asshole for the length of it. “Do the other cheerleaders know that you’re treating me like at least half a human? Is that gonna get you in trouble?”

It might, I bite my tongue to stop from saying. “They know I’m here,” is all I offer.