style="font-size:15px;"> Which, eventually, she did.
I glance at Tracy to see if she cares that Matt and Lena are making out in front of half of Union, but she’s not looking at them. She’s watching the freshman as he leans over the water with one of those long-handled nets for cleaning the pool. He nabs his shoes and lifts them, dripping, out of the water. “The chlorine is going to totally trash that leather. God, those look like Gucci, don’t they?”
I’m about to remind my fashionista friend that I wouldn’t know a Gucci loafer from a loaf of bread when suddenly Kristin is standing right in front of us. In her uniform. With her pom-poms.
“Tracy! You can’t quit! We can’t do it without you!” she shrieks. Or actually, screeches. Kristin, the only freshman to make “The Squad” last year besides Tracy, has a voice straight out of a nightmare. In fact, at Tracy’s big Halloween cheer party, she dressed up as some sort of weird demon fairy, with creepy little wings sprouting from her back. It really suited her.
“Now that Regina’s off the squad for good…” Kristin trails off, her eyes finding their way to me as if it’s my fault that Regina Deladdo made my life a living hell last year and then got kicked off the squad, even though she was supposed to be the new captain.
I wonder if being captain was going to be the pinnacle of Regina Deladdo’s high school career. Or maybe her whole life. I try to muster up sympathy for her but I can’t. It’s hard to feel anything other than deep dislike for someone who spent half the year writing 911 Bitch on all my desks and lockers after I sort of blew the whistle on a homecoming after-party.
Regina should have written Boyfriend Stealer instead, since that’s what she was really mad at me for. Not that I stole her boyfriend. All I did was like him. And it sort of seemed, for a minute there, that he liked me, too.
But that was just me, being an idiot. Because Jamie Forta does not like me.
How do I know? Two ways. 1: I haven’t seen or spoken to him all summer—not since Regina got him arrested right before he was supposed to pick me up for his junior prom. The last I heard from Jamie Forta was a note, delivered by his best friend Angelo, that said, Rose. Like I said. I am not right for you. I’m different. Believe me. Be good.
Whatever that means.
2: Jamie only became my friend because my brother Peter asked him to. Peter was worried about me when he left for college—or actually, maybe it was my mother he was worried about. Anyway, Peter wanted someone to “keep an eye” on me. Which Jamie did.
And then…there was some kissing.
But he’s not my boyfriend. I think his note made that pretty clear.
So, what is a guy who broke up with somebody else and asked you to the prom? Who spent a whole year looking out for you? Who gave you the best first kiss in the history of kissing?
I can see every second of that kiss like I’m watching a movie. It happened in the parking lot during homecoming. He was at the dance with Regina. I was there with Robert. But still, somehow, Jamie and I ended up sitting in a car together. And then he kissed me. This junior I’ve had a crush on since the first time I saw him play hockey when I was in seventh grade.
It was surreal.
It was also the only good thing that had happened to me since my dad died right before I started at Union High.
I miss Jamie. I missed him all summer, even though I tried not to. What’s the point in missing someone who tells you flat out that he’s not right for you?
“This year?” Kristin is saying to Tracy, looking a little manic, like if she doesn’t lock Tracy down, the world as she knows it is going to implode. “We want you to be our choreographer! Wouldn’t that be perfect? I mean, look, last year was kind of lame. But we’re actually going to dance this year, with totally hot moves.”
Kristin says this as if choreography is a novel concept for a cheerleading team.
“You don’t need me,” Tracy says. “It’s not like we’re a competition team. Even with a choreographer, we’ll still just be bouncing around in bad polyester blend.”
Kristin scowls, looking seriously offended by the idea that her cheers are just bouncing around.
“What’s the problem, Trace? Is it that Lena’s with Matt? Because they’re just hooking up. It’s not like she’s his ‘girlfriend with a capital G.’” Kristin uses her pom-poms to make little air quotes as she says this, and I consider grabbing them and throwing them in the pool.
I wonder if I actually made a move to do it because Tracy shoots me a look. Tracy has had a lot of talks with me about my anti-cheerleader stance, reminding me that not all cheerleaders are like Regina, citing herself and a bunch of other nice, smart girls on last year’s team as examples. While I see her point, I still haven’t managed to let go of the idea that, in general, cheerleaders suck.
I recognize that this viewpoint may be indicative of a character flaw on my part, and I’m okay with that.
In a fake, buttery voice, Kristin says, “Trace, let’s go talk in private for a sec, ’kay? Official business,” she barks at me as she threads her arm through Tracy’s. Tracy looks at me and rolls her eyes as Kristin yanks her toward the patio, her thick blond ponytail swaying with determination. My hand automatically goes to my hair, which is doing what it always does—hanging limply around my shoulders, straight and thin and mousy brown.
I take out the hand-me-down iPhone that Peter gave me before he went back to Tufts, even though I know I have no messages because the only person who has ever called or texted me since I’ve had it is Tracy. And my mother, of course. But if there’s one thing I’ve learned about these phones, it’s that they can make you look busy when you have absolutely nothing to do.
Normally, when I’m trying to look busy, I click on my vocab app and study for the PSAT, which is six weeks away. This year is just a practice run, but I need to totally rock it so I can show my mother that I’ll be able to get scholarships and go to college even if she never sees the insurance money my dad’s company promised and somehow hasn’t managed to deliver yet. But the idea of getting busted studying for the PSATs at a party is kind of horrifying, so I click on “Photos” instead and continue my project—deleting all the pictures Peter left on the phone when he gave it to me.
At first I was annoyed that my mother insisted Peter give me his old iPhone—which looked like it had been drop-kicked multiple times—rather than letting me get a new one with my own money. But when I synced the phone to my laptop for the first time and the computer asked if I wanted to erase everything on it, I realized that Peter’s phone contained all sorts of information about his life that he had stopped sharing with me the minute he set foot on a college campus and got a girlfriend.
There are over 800 photos on his phone, and my plan is to look at every single one before I make room for mine. I’m hoping it’ll give me an idea of just how bad things are with him. So far, I’ve learned that he smokes and drinks a lot, and takes pictures of his friends smoking and drinking a lot. No surprises there, I guess.
I get through ten pictures of Peter’s friends having a much better time at a party than I currently am. Then I look up, see people talking to other human beings, feel like a dumbass and decide to go find something to drink.
