lips, but then the driver is shutting the door, and it’s a bit late to back out. Dad must recognize Zayd as one of the panty-throwers because he does not smile at him or greet him.
Zayd slumps down on the opposite side of the limo, dressed in a white tank with his band’s name—Afterglow—scrawled in black cursive across the front. His jeans are black, and far too tight, which I actually like. He’s got on Doc Martens covered in roses, and I’m pretty sure he added a few new tattoos over the summer. My fingers remember tracing his ink as we made out in my dorm room. Of course, he was doing it all just to film it and humiliate, but … that’s a whole other issue.
“Your dad cares so little about you he didn’t bother to show up again?” I ask, and Charlie gapes at me.
“Marnye,” he warns, but that’s the only chastising I get.
Zayd just stares back at me, his lids ringed in liner, his lip piercings black and pointy, his brow piercing a black hoop. He nibbles at his lip rings for a moment before responding.
“He’s got a job that people actually care about,” Zayd snaps back, and I can tell I’ve hit a nerve. Good. Screw him. I chose him. I chose him and he betrayed me. It makes everything so much worse. His characteristic tobacco, clove, and sage scent fills the air in the limo, and my nostrils flare. “He’s not, like, you know, some easily replaceable blue collar worker that could be substituted with a monkey or a machine.”
“At least my dad has a heart and gives two craps about me,” I snarl, and Charlie puts a hand on my knee. “Musicians are a dime a dozen. Your dad is nothing but a performing monkey dressed in tattoos and the words of some ghost writers who pen hits for the masses. Give me a break.”
Zayd scowls at me, shoving up from his seat and pushing open the door while the car’s still rolling to a stop. He takes off as Dad sighs and gives me a look. I cringe, but only because I’m frustrated that he had to listen to this bullshit. Zayd deserves whatever I throw at him.
The football stadium is huge, much fancier than you’d expect for a high school. Actually, it reminds me of that one time Dad took us to a U of O home game at Autzen Stadium in Eugene, Oregon. It’s far too elaborate, especially considering that before this year, our team was ranked, like, dead last in their district.
Zack has changed all of that.
If they win tonight’s game, they’ll be going to the playoffs.
I’m going to make sure that doesn’t happen.
Tonight, we’re playing Grenadine Heights High—the number one team in our district for almost two straight decades. It’s sort of a big deal.
Dad leaves me to go take his seat in the stands while I join Coach Hannah and the rest of the girls just outside the entrance to the stadium. The way they look at me as I saunter up to them … priceless. Ileana curses under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear, but not enough that the coach notices.
Coach runs us through our warm up and stretches, my heart racing, sweat dripping down my spine. And it’s from more than just the exercise—I’m about to wreck Zack Brooks’ football career, and bring down the rest of the team with him.
I might move slow, but I’m a planner. It’s what I do.
After we warm up, we head into the stadium and take up our positions at the edge of the field. As far as coach is concerned, games are practice. We’re gearing up for competition. When the Burberry Prep football team is licking their wounds, I’ll be helping their cheer team get their first ever trophies.
The timing was delicate on this one, so I shift from side to side, glancing briefly up at the scoreboard and the clock. The minutes tick past slow as hours as we gear up for our first ever cheer. I’m a bit of an academic and a bookworm, and this is so not my scene, but I force a smile. It’s hard, though, with Tristan, Zayd, and Creed in the audience. I can see them, front and center, flanked by the Inner Circle. Pretty sure they’re all staring at me.
As we start our routine, I notice that Coach Hannah’s phone is buzzing.
My mouth twitches, half in grimace and