“He worked on a chicken farm.” His voice is so soft I have to put my ear close to his mouth so I can hear him over the marching band.

“A chicken farm? That’s really interesting. Does he still?”

He shakes his head. “He fell off a ladder and broke his back.” He reaches out for a lock of my hair and pantomimes that I should cut the purple ends off. I shake my head. I like the purple ends.

The squad is signaling to me, so it’s time for the pyramid. I get back in it, on the bottom.

As I’m bracing myself on my hands and knees, I look for Mike as he stands in the back of the crowd by the door. Even though it’s not a cold day, he wears his leather jacket zipped up and keeps his arms folded across his chest. I feel bad about his dad, like maybe that explains why he’s such a jerk. It occurs to me that if Grimshaw really likes him that much, maybe I should try harder to be friends with the guy.

The marching band comes out again, and the music director stops and makes a few remarks about freedom and patriotism and why it’s more important than ever to sing our national anthem at football games. “Why do we put our hands on our hearts?” he asks rhetorically, and takes ten minutes to answer his own question. Then finally, it’s the last cheer of the pep rally.

That night, we’re at Angel’s aunt Teresa’s bridal shop, using the three-way mirrors in the back to get ready for a night game under the lights. While they’re putting on their makeup, I’m stuck on an extra-credit physics problem, which I always do because of my secret ambition to make the high honor roll this term. But there is no answer to this one. They didn’t give us enough information.

“Well, that pep rally was a blowout,” Grimshaw remarks.

“It’s always like that.” Rack is covering up her complexion with some tan goop from a tube. “Colchis has no school spirit. It was better than last year, though.”

“They liked your dances,” Angel says to Grimshaw.

“Until now, we always skipped pep rallies,” I chime in. I close my physics book and sweep it onto the floor, where it lands with a dull thump.

“Last year they booed and threw crumpled up Dixie cups at us. They planned it ahead of time.” Angel sucks in her cheeks at herself and gives the mirror her best angle. “Mr. Van almost had a stroke. Did you take your pill, by the way? You wanted me to remind you.”

“Yeah,” Rack says, stroking the goop on under her chin. “Thanks.”