Orrrr maybe they should be reminding me that I should be paying attention to my own friends, rather than fixating on the Cheerleader. I slip my phone back out and open the group text with Morgan and Sage that we’ve had running since the dawn of time. At least they were interested in my opening game; the texts from tonight are rows of question marks followed by rows of celebratory emojis.

I am having the world’s saddest solo victory party, I type, but I don’t send it. I don’t want to sound pathetic to the last remaining people on Earth who actually think I’m cool. Plus, I’d already lied and said I was hanging out with my parents tonight; it seemed the easiest way to dodge both Morgan’s inevitable “You have to celebrate yourself!!!!” and Sage’s predictable “Go get some and tell us evvvvvverything.”

I delete my text and stare at the screen. I’ve already asked how the movie they went to tonight was and seen a hundred pictures of Sage’s newest cake creation and Morgan’s latest cosplay. Sage has already told us about her crush on a guy she met at her dad’s hardware store. For the first time in as long as I can remember, I don’t know what else to say to them. Especially since I don’t want to say a word about Amber in case the chemistry crackling in the Lawndale High bathroom tonight was entirely in my head.

Then my screen lights up with another message, and my brain goes blank. It’s a selfie of Amber standing under my window, holding up a can of Natty Light, and the text underneath says, To today’s champion.

I don’t know what makes my skin heat faster, that she looks fucking adorable in the picture, with a braided pigtail swung over her shoulder, or that there’s actually someone at Atherton who’s acknowledging the awesome thing I did tonight, but I do know this: I have a fucking terrible crush on a cheerleader. Who’s waiting just a few feet away for me to let her in my window.

Fuck, I smell like deli meat. I run to the kitchen to scrub my hands and rinse out my mouth, then yank open every drawer until I find a pack of gum. I’d only broken into the turkey after talking myself into the idea that she wasn’t gonna show, and now I’m cursing myself for it.

But any regrets fall away when I slide up the window and see her there, wearing little overall shorts and a tank top, sitting on the grass and ruffling it with her fingers.

I wish taking a picture of her wouldn’t be a creepy move, but it would, so I settle for a mental one.

“How was the party?”