The next morning, by the time I get to the cemetery, Grimshaw has set up cream and sugar for coffee on the gravestones. I sit on Mr. Sprague and open my math book. Rack and Angel bring a box of donuts.

“Bad news,” announces Rack. “Nanci Lee found out that you guys failed Western Civ.”

Last night was the first heavy frost, and all the weeds are stiff and black and spiked with silver needles of ice. Angel sits next to me on Mr. Sprague. Rack’s brought a blaze orange hunting cushion and settles in cross-legged on the ground with her back against a gravestone whose letters have been almost washed away by the weather. It’s cold enough for her to be wearing Junior’s football jacket, which she paid for, although we’re not supposed to tell anyone that. Grimshaw’s sitting cross-legged on the Helmers, slowly eating her daily breakfast of one tub of nonfat blueberry yogurt.

“So?” I look up from my mastery of functions. “So did you. So did Junior.”

“Doesn’t matter,” says Rack.

“Why does it matter that we failed it and not you?”

“We’re not saying we agree,” Angel interjects. “We’re just saying we have a situation is all.”

They explain that Nanci Lee found the policy against kids on academic probation joining teams.

“It specifically says you can’t join a team,” explained Rack. “The implication is that if you’re already playing, you’re fine. It just says you can’t join.”

“She’s already recruiting new girls,” adds Angel. “She’s on a mission.”

I think of Nanci Lee, the way she kind of glittered with malice, even in a dark bar. She probably already had her plan in place for kicking me off the squad. Still, the news of our expulsion doesn’t sound so bad to me. Even though expectations of me are very low, cheerleading still takes up too much of my time. If we’re kicked out, so what? No more standing in the gym memorizing inanity, no more counting claps and stomps, no more getting yelled at for screwing up everyone else’s rhythm. No more purple and gold sweater, no more normal. I could live with that. But I keep my face neutral and betray no emotion.

“What should we do?” Grimshaw asks me with a stricken look on her face. Then I think of my family, my cheerleading sweater casting its golden glow over our dinner table, creating harmonious discussions of football where before there was only strife. And I make the sacrifice.

“There might be a solution,” I answer, “and if there is, it’ll be the principal.”

“What do you mean?” asks Grimshaw.

“Mrs. Pentz doesn’t like Nanci Lee.” I think about the way she and Scot sat together on the bar stool in the Crossways Tavern, sharing music. “And Nanci Lee doesn’t like Mrs. Pentz.”

“How does that work in our favor?” asks Grimshaw.