I definitely haven’t pictured rocking my own suit, Amber on my arm in a dress that shows off lots of glowing skin, swaying against me at slow dances. Maybe sneaking kisses in the corner. Maybe taking some pictures to send to Sage and Morgan or even post online. Maybe hanging out with Miguel and Malcolm and having as good a time as we had the other night. Maybe having the room stop and toast to our win the night before and the quarterback who led them to victory. Maybe sneaking into her room together afterward and leaving that suit on the floor.

Whew, good thing I have not imagined that at all.

“We have to go strategize for the rest of Spirit Week,” Amber says apologetically to Heidi, tugging me out of the tall seat at their breakfast bar. “Thanks for the ice cream, Mom.”

“Ah yes, strategizing for Spirit Week,” Heidi says dryly. “I believe that’s how you were conceived.”

“Oh my God, Mom.” Amber’s cheeks flame as she yanks me toward her room. “You are not allowed to talk to any of my friends ever again!” she calls over her shoulder.

“Leave the door open, honey!” Heidi calls back sunnily.

“We can’t even get pregnant!” Amber slams the door behind us, but it’s more for punctuation than anything else. She cracks it open a second later, and her mom makes a satisfied noise from the kitchen before retiring to her own bedroom with the door fully closed.

“Sorry, she’s the world’s most embarrassing human.” Amber rubs her hands over her face. “Just ignore everything she ever says, ever.”

“So you didn’t bring me here to get me pregnant?”

“Oh shut up.” She grabs a pillow from her bed and whacks me with it. It’s one of many—her bed is one of those froufy things with big pillows and smaller pillows and smallest pillows, and it looks very, very comfortable and uncomfortable at the same time. But even with her mom’s door closed, it’s impossible not to be hyperaware that she’s all of fifteen feet away; their apartment isn’t that much bigger than ours. “There—you’ve met my mom and seen my house. Is it everything you dreamed it would be?”

“Kind of, yeah,” I admit, taking myself on a little self-guided tour of her room. It makes me miss having my own space at home—my trophy shelves and posters and sketches from before Jason decided it wasn’t cool to want to be an artist.

Amber’s room is as peppy as she is in the halls, full of pictures from cheer camp and games, selfies with Miguel, Cara, and other girls from the squad, and one sweet, framed, slightly faded photo that’s clearly of her and Heidi when Amber was a little kid.