With Bronte in tow, we’re careful to approach what is now a full-on fight, though Natalie and Morgan are smart enough to have lowered their voices so the whole crowd can’t hear. They’re like two cats circling each other before a brawl: Morgan’s shoulders hunched up, Natalie’s fingers tensed, as if exposing her claws.

“Why are you making such a big deal about this? It’s just a dress.”

“That’s rich, coming from you. ‘Don’t you dare wear pink, Morgan. That’s my color, Morgan.’ ” Her Natalie impression is spot-on, if exaggerated. “You know seafoam green was my color for this dance.”

“You can’t own a color,” Natalie snipes. “That’s childish.” She pivots with a perfect pout, addressing us. “I never said that. Can you believe her?”

“You know how little I have,” Morgan says to Natalie, ignoring the way Nat is playing to the onlooking crowd. “How much this means to me. I had to work and save months for the fabric, spend days on it. You have…everything, and you had to go and buy the same color, same cut, only…”

“Better?” Natalie’s voice is dripping with venom as she completes the thought. “Morgan, it’s not like it even matters. I have a different dress for tomorrow night.”

“So you get to have your procession pictures in that dress and then win in another?”

The quirk of Natalie’s lips is smug, bordering on wicked. “You said it.”

Morgan’s eyes narrow, dagger-thin. “You know, maybe it’s someone else’s turn to win for once.”

“Ladies, ladies!” Luke arrives, arms spread wide as he steps between the feuding friends. “The cars are waiting. Come on. Let’s save this for later. We’ll get shit-faced, and you can yell it out at my house. Without clothes.”

Both girls round on Luke, united in scathing reproach.

“It’s a joke,” he says, trying to recover. “Let’s get this bit over with. The sooner we take a spin and pose for the cameras, the sooner I get to my halftime honey.”

“That’s a great idea,” Morgan says, squaring her shoulders, composing herself. “I have my own hookup to find.” Her eyes bore into Natalie’s: a challenge. Natalie huffs in response and storms off, but not before snapping her fingers at Luke to follow.

I’m still taking in the scene—Did she really just snap? An actual snap?—when Bronte breaks me from my reverie.

“Okay, then,” Bronte says. “You guys want to watch from the bench?” And of course we do. We follow her over to where the cheer squad is huddled, their numbers thinned—understandably lots of court hopefuls coming from their ranks.