Fine.
MIA: No, Lauren can drive.
LAUREN: Ok
MIA: And use that fake ID to get a little pregame?
LAUREN: Sure girl
I shake my head at my phone. We need to find a spine on eBay for Lauren.
Three minutes later, I remove the tray and plate the rolls. My little buns are golden-brown perfection, filling the kitchen with cinnamon-sugar sweetness. I smear icing on top and watch it melt (my form of meditation). To make everyone jealous, I post a picture of my culinary masterpiece.
I sit down at the table and open the New York Times. It’s not cheap to get the Times delivered in Texas, but Dad says it’s worth it. I agree wholeheartedly. The Sunday edition is like catnip for me and him.
I bite into the first roll. It’s warm and fluffy and spicy and sweet. After reading a couple articles, I pull out my iPad from my backpack and open it. I haven’t been the best email checker this week. There’s only one that catches my eye.
FROM: [email protected]
DATE: September 3 at 12:35 p.m.
SUBJECT: Hillcrest Reporter
Georgia,
I was sorry to not see you at the meeting last week for the Hillcrest Reporter. I assume it conflicted with your cheerleading duties. I have a proposal for you. How about doing some freelance writing for the Reporter? No pressure, no meetings. You get experience, and we get your point of view. Both important things.
Let me know what you think,
Ms. Randolph
The skin on my arms prickles up. The email literally gave me goose bumps. Could I do this? Could I be a writer? I need time to think. Maybe I should ask Mia? She would hate the idea and find a bylaw against it in the cheerleader handbook.
I grab my phone to text Pony but stop. I got weird on him last night about my mom and didn’t see him after the game. I don’t really know where we stand. Instead, I grab the Business section of the Times.
An hour later, I waddle up the stairs cradling my stomach (filled with cinnamon-roll baby) and crawl back into bed. I have earned some me time. The start of my senior year has been chaotic and every muscle is sore from cheering at the game. Today is all about recharging my batteries by napping and Netflixing.
Before drifting off into my first nap, I think about Pony. I imagine his arms around me. Kissing him. Straddling him and running my hands through his hair. Biting his earlobe. His hands running down my back. That does the trick. I fall asleep with a dumb smile on my face.
7:45 P.M.
The sun has set, and I’m ready to reenter society. I was in slow-mo mode getting ready for the party. It took me two hours and twenty texts from Mia to convince me to not wear sweatpants. I went with black jean shorts and a white shirt with a line drawing of Ruth Bader Ginsburg. The phone buzzes. My girls are here. I fly downstairs, high-five Dad, and run out to Lauren’s car.
Jake’s McMansion is straight out of one of those fancy-home magazines. It’s pretty much a tasteful Dave & Buster’s with a batting cage and tennis court. The lawn has real grass that’s green (impossible in the Texas heat unless you’re rich) and stone fountains. Kids are running around and acting silly, doing cartwheels. I swear, drinking just reverts us back to a younger age.
Kelly pushes open the front doors, and we behold the wealth. No matter how many times I come here, the size of the place still shocks me. It’s extra. The living room comfortably fits half the kids at Hillcrest.
We enter like we own the place. Everyone yells and cheers, still buzzing from last night’s win. The mood of this town is directly connected to the outcome of the Friday-night game. And tonight, we party.
Jake runs over to us, always the host. “Ladies, you made it! Hi, Georgia.”
He gives me a kiss on the cheek.
“Hi, Jake. You’re looking rich tonight,” I say, and Mia nudges me with her elbow.
“This could all be yours,” he says to me with a wink.
I brush it off. “At the very least, whatever fits in my purse, right?”
Mia weaves her arm into mine. “Jake, we’re going to find Georgia a drink . . . or ten.”
“Solid idea,” Jake says. “I’ll come find you in a few.”
Hate to admit it, but Jake looks kind of cute tonight in his ratty baseball cap and V-neck white shirt. We hit the kitchen and marvel at