I wake up to the sound of Ray Remondo. My bedroom door is open just a crack, and his reminder that it’s going to be hot again has reached all the way through the house and tapped me wide awake. Of course it’s going to be hot. It’s September in Texas.

I check my phone and see that Frankie responded earlier this morning with a picture of her and Coley eating breakfast. I text her back a heart and a smiley face and try not to stare too long at the picture.

I shuffle out of the bedroom and find Julian in the bathroom with the door cracked, looking at his side in the mirror.

I knock lightly and the door swings open.

“How are you feeling?” I ask.

“Still hurts,” he says.

The bruise is bright purple and red now. “Oof.”

“Maybe… uh… maybe you could do that parsley thing again later?” he asks. I’ve never heard his voice so shaky.

“I will,” I tell him. “Tonight?”

We each get ready for school and head into the living room together. We find Ms. Birdie on the couch in a shower cap and bathrobe, humming and pulling some linen tablecloths out from the chest in the corner.

“Ooh, you smell like Sunday dinner, Julian.” She narrows her eyes and waves her hand in front of her nose. “What’ve you been eating?”

“Must be this new toothpaste,” he mumbles. “What’s with the tablecloths?”

Ms. Birdie looks at Julian like he has four heads.

“Um… the tablecloths?” He motions, pulling down on the hem of his T-shirt.

“Oh. Oh, yes! The tablecloths. It’s Thursday. Team dinner tonight, remember? Can’t do it on Saturday because it’s an afternoon game, and tomorrow night is out because of the fundraiser dance for the Guardettes. I tell you, I think Crenshaw has got all of you overscheduled. You need time to rest and mentally prepare for these games. That’s what I think,” she says.

“We better scoot or we’re going to be late.” Julian nods toward the clock on the wall. We’re definitely not going to be late, but I think Julian wants to escape before Ms. Birdie has a chance to sniff him again.

Camille’s at the end of the Jacksons’ driveway as usual, a pink plastic tiara buried in her curls.

“What the heck is that for?” Julian cackles, shutting the front door behind us.

“I am the Powder Puff Queen, am I not? I ought to look like it. Shove it right in Mara Pinkard’s ugly face,” Camille says, naming the cheer captain.

“This Powder Puff stuff runs deep, huh?” I laugh.

“Almost as deep as the Taylor rivalry,” Camille says. “Speaking of which…” She elbows Julian and we both flinch. I hope she didn’t catch his bruise.