Puddin'

by Julie Murphy

  Ellen speaks first. “Every. Single. Saturday. Night?”

  “Well, sure,” I say, my answer coming out more like a question. “But with slumber parties. We can do face masks. And crafts. And play games. And exchange ideas.”

  “Exchange ideas?” asks Hannah. “What? Like the Slumber Party United Nations?”

  “It has to be every Saturday night?” asks Willowdean. “That’s prime date-night real estate.”

  Amanda shrugs. “The only date I’ve got is with my TV and my cat. I’m in.”

  A small bit of relief sparks in my chest, but no one is quick to follow her lead. I nod. “Okay. What about every other Saturday?”

  Hannah works diligently at peeling off her dark purple nail polish. “We all have to take turns hosting?”

  Ellen turns to Will, and in a quieter voice says, “This is like what we were talking about the other night. More time for us. Without the guys, ya know?”

  I can see Will turning this over in her head. She’s the kind of person who is economical with her time and her love, and I can appreciate that. Sharing Ellen is hard for her.

  She looks to me. “Let’s try it for a few weeks. But no hard feelings if it gets to be too much, okay? Just with work and school and . . .” Will sighs. “Bo, and trying to be a good friend and not go crazy. It’s a lot.”

  “I get it,” I say.

  Ellen grins. “You know the deal. We’re a buy-one-get-two kind of thing. I’m in.”

  And as a surprise to absolutely no one, Hannah is in no hurry to respond. She picks the polish off her entire thumbnail before speaking. “We’re not, like, having pillow fights or anything, okay? And if anyone tries to give me a makeover, I’ll cut off their hair in the middle of the night.”

  I swallow. “Understood.” I force out a laugh to lighten the mood a bit. Laughing on command is something that happens to be my number-one talent, and one of the things that will make me a great news anchor one day.

  I volunteer to host first and promise to text everyone more details before the weekend. A part of me is nervous, like somehow they’ll all decide they don’t like me anymore or that this will all turn out to be one big embarrassing disaster. But we only have one year left of high school, and the anxiety inside me tells me that if I don’t solidify our friendship now, the five of us will just drift away from one another eventually.

  But mostly I’m just bubbling with excitement.

  Callie

  Four

  After school, I hang back for a little while to try to talk to Vice Principal Benavidez about the dance team’s sponsorship dilemma, but he’s no help. I guess he pretended to be helpful. He promised me stuff I know he won’t deliver on, like that he’d check with the superintendent or ask Principal Armstrong if there’s any room in the budget. When I asked to speak to the principal myself, he fed me some crap about Principal Armstrong being a very busy woman, like she’s the freaking president or something.

  My back pocket vibrates, and when I check my phone, I find a text from Bryce.

  BRYCE: babe im outside where u at?

  Just as I’m about to type a response, I collide with a pastel ball of dough. My whole body bounces back as my phone slips out of my hands and slides across the floor.

  “Oh my goodness!” squeaks a voice.

  I glance up to see Millie Michalchuk, someone I am very much aware of. To be honest, you can’t miss the girl. Freshman year she was crowned the Nottest of Them All according to the Hottest and Nottest List. Luckily for Millie, her name only popped up on the list one year. I believe this year the honor went to Hannah Perez.

  I groan. “That phone better not be broken.”

  “Oh gosh, I hope not,” she says as she retrieves the phone from the floor. “Shipshape!”

  I hold out my hand. “Lucky you.”

  She grins. “You’re right about that!” The phone vibrates in her hand as she gives it back to me. “Sorry,” she says. “I was just in here to give your mom the morning announcements to proofread for tomorrow, but I guess I missed her, huh?”

  I shrug. “Yeah, I don’t really keep up with her schedule.” Lie. She’s gone to pick up Kyla and take her to dance class. I glance down at my phone to see another message from Bryce. “Right, well, I gotta go.”

  Millie steps forward, blocking my path as if she didn’t even hear me. “What a beautiful necklace,” she says, lightly touching my thirteenth-birthday gift from my dad.

  The gold circle pendant with an engraved C hangs from a thin gold chain. It’s something I only take off for dance competitions. Besides the tiny diamond studs Bryce gave me for Christmas, it’s the only piece of real jewelry I own. I clear my throat. “Uh, thanks.”

  “Tell your mom I stopped by?”

  I squeeze past her. “I’ll try to remember.”

  Millie just makes me uncomfortable. It hasn’t always been that way. Before the pageant last fall, she was just some random fat girl who always kept to herself and who . . . okay, yes, me and my friends sometimes made fun of. At least not to her face. At the pageant, especially during the swimwear component . . . I don’t know. It was just, like, hard to look at her. It wasn’t like when I’d made dumb jokes about her in the past. This time I just wanted to cover her up and save her the embarrassment. Except Millie didn’t seem embarrassed. Anyway, I guess the judges pitied her, too, because in the end, she got runner-up.

  I shoot off a reply to let Bryce know I’m on my way. I sigh with momentary relief.

  I love Bryce. Between my mom, my stepdad, my little sister, and sometimes Claudia, my house is constantly in motion. And there’s my dad, too, and all my worries about him ever finding someone and my abuela getting older. Then the never-ending Shamrock drama.

  But Bryce. I never have to worry about Bryce. We’ve been together since freshman year. Bryce is The One. We’ve had our hiccups, but what long-term couple hasn’t?

  As I push through the doors leading into the parking lot, I find Bryce leaning against his sparkling cobalt-blue Dodge Charger with shiny new dealer plates. Despite what everyone might think, I’m not a materialistic person, but I’ve got to admit: there’s something hot about having a boyfriend with a flashy car. And Bryce has a new car every few months—a perk of his dad being none other than Clay Dooley, owner of not one but four local dealerships. Clover City doesn’t even have a damn Target, but we have almost as many car dealerships as we do gas stations. Anyway, with the last name Dooley, he’s Clover City royalty. If he’s a prince, I’m his princess.

  He greets me with a kiss—an open-mouth kiss for everyone to see. His hands grip either side of my waist, and he literally sweeps me off my feet.

  We can’t keep our hands off each other. I know it can be obnoxious and over the top. But I spend my entire day 100 percent in control of my life. When I’m with Bryce, the buzzing in my brain eases and I can operate on autopilot.

  He twists his hand into my ponytail and tugs playfully. “I missed you today.”

  “Well,” I tell him, “you’ve got me for two whole hours before my family gets home.”

  “Say no more,” he says, and smacks my ass.

  I yelp, trying to force a giggle. I might be down for public displays of affection, but that’s not exactly my flavor. Whatever. It’s not a big enough deal for me to make a thing of it. And I’ll totally get him back tomorrow and embarrass him in front of his friends with some sappy-ass baby talk or something.

  “Hey,” he says as we’re getting into the car. “There’s Ellen.”

  My gaze scans the parking lot, and there she is. For a brief moment, regret pokes at the pit of my stomach. “Gimme a sec,” I tell him.

  Ellen was my sad attempt at branching out for more female friends while Bryce was busy with football season. She was in the pageant and we worked together at Sweet 16. She’s the kind of girl everyone wants to be friends with. I am so not that girl. But I am the girl who gets what she wants, and I wanted El to be my friend.

  But the pageant e
nded. I didn’t win—even though Bryce’s dad, who served as a judge, swore I had his vote. I thought for sure I’d at least get runner-up like Claudia had a few years ago. And then a couple weeks later, Ellen left Sweet 16 for a higher-paying job at Cinful Rolls, the cinnamon-bun stand in the food court. So I decided that I don’t need friends. I don’t even have time for them, honestly. But something about Ellen still makes me feel like a failure, and that really pisses me off.

  “El-bell!” I call, but she doesn’t flinch. She probably can’t hear me over the engine. “El! Ellen!”

  She doesn’t turn around as she walks arm in arm with her friend Willowdean—who, by the way, hates me for no reason other than that I was a good friend to Ellen when she wasn’t—to the other side of the parking lot, where Tim’s Jeep is parked.

  “Ellen!” I yell a little louder but immediately regret the decision. It feels desperate, and on the list of things I hate, that is nearly number one.

  She freezes, but Willowdean doesn’t hear me and instead trips on a chunk of gravel as Ellen inadvertently yanks her back. Ellen laughs, and so does Willowdean, their heads knocking together.

  For a brief moment something that feels like jealousy crawls up my spine.

  Finally Ellen turns around and searches the empty parking lot for a second before she sees me. I offer a short wave, and from all the way on the other side of the lot I can see that she’s surprised it’s me, and not necessarily in a good way.

  “Hey!” she shouts back. “How’s Sweet 16?”

  “Good,” I say. “Same as it’s always been. I haven’t been working as much since it’s dance-competition season.”

  “Cool!”

  If it’s even possible to share an awkward silence from across a parking lot, we do. I immediately feel foolish for thinking that she and I could be friends. Or that I need friends to begin with.

  “Babe!” says Bryce from inside the car as he gently revs the engine.

  Willowdean tugs at Ellen’s hand and whispers something in her ear. A feeling that is only faintly familiar creeps up my neck. It’s the kind of feeling I get when people assume I’m dumb because I’m on the dance team or because I’m pretty. Or when Bryce took me home for the first time, and his dad called me a pretty little señorita. (I’ve spent many sleepless nights fantasizing about the perfect comeback to that, by the way.) It’s that feeling like you’re the butt of the joke.

  I don’t say good-bye or wave. I just turn around and slide into the passenger seat, slamming the door behind me.

  “Whoa,” says Bryce. “Careful.” He pats the dashboard, soothing the car.

  I close my eyes and shake my head. “Sorry. Let’s hurry up before my family gets home.”

  The tires squeal as we take off out of the parking lot and blow straight through a stop sign. Bryce rests one hand on my thigh, and we break so many speed limits that this dumb town becomes a blur.

  Bryce lies sprawled out on my floor while I sit cross-legged on my bed with my laptop balancing on my knees. He’s spent the last thirty minutes nuzzling and kissing me, trying to distract me from my task: figuring out how the hell to fund the rest of the dance team’s season. Bryce, tall, white, with broad shoulders, and bright green eyes, makes for a very tempting distraction, but my focus is unwavering.

  He groans, rolling back and forth on my mauve-colored shag carpet. “Are you almost done?”

  “I don’t know.” I bite back a grin.

  He’s being annoying, but there’s something I love about seeing him in my room, in my old house with its fading carpet and popcorn glitter ceilings. You would think he would care about how outdated this place is or that he’d rather be at his fancy new house that looks more like the Parthenon than anything that belongs in Clover City. But he’s here. With me.

  He sits up, trying to get a glimpse at my computer screen. “What are you even doing?”

  I open my mouth to speak, but I get lost in a blog post about a high school band that sent themselves to Nationals by having a twenty-four-hour marathon drum circle. No, thank you.

  “Babe,” says Bryce. “Babe, your phone is ringing.”

  “Oh.” I blink quickly.

  He tosses me my phone from where it sits on the floor, and I catch it like a hot potato.

  “Hello?” Why do I always say it like a question?

  “What’s a dad got to do to get his girl to answer her phone? I already pay the damn bill.”

  I laugh, but my shoulders slump. I have a great dad; however, I’m not always the best daughter. “Sorry, Dad. I’ve been crazy busy with practice and—”

  “I know, I know. You’ve got a life. I get it. But maybe you could make it over here for a weekend visit soon, yeah? Your abuela has been nagging the hell out of me about you coming down for your birthday.”

  I can’t even think that far beyond my immediate problems right now, but instead I just say, “Tell her I miss her.”

  “You can call her and let her know yourself. I think I hear from Claudia more than I hear from you.”

  I sigh into the receiver. “You’re really piling it all on, aren’t you?”

  He yawns and groans, like he’s stretching after a long day at work. “Watching your kid’s life unfold on Facebook doesn’t really cut it, if you know what I mean. So how’s Bryan or Reese or whatever his name is?”

  I giggle, and Bryce looks up from his phone as if he can sense my dad talking about him. Dad isn’t one of those fathers who thinks his daughter isn’t dating until she’s forty-three or that I’m completely void of hormones. But Bryce, with his flashy cars and show-stealing (and casually racist) dad, isn’t really someone my dad, who values things like a smartly organized toolbox and almost any Nicolas Cage film, especially National Treasure, has patience for.

  “Bryce,” I say, overenunciating his name, “is actually right here.”

  “So you guys are at the library or something, right? Because I know your mom and Keith aren’t even home from work yet.”

  “Actually, we’re in my room doing homework.”

  “With the door open, I hope.”

  “Dad, no one’s home. If I want to have sex with my boyfriend, do you think it matters if the door is open or closed?”

  Bryce’s face turns ghostly white.

  Dad huffs. “Why do you have to go and point out logic like that?”

  “Love you, Dad.”

  “Just . . .” He clears his throat. “Make sure you’re careful and all that.”

  “I’ve been on the pill since I was—”

  “Yup. Okay. I hear ya. Loud and clear. Message received. Good job.”

  “The dance team lost funding,” I blurt out before realizing I hadn’t even told Bryce yet.

  “You didn’t tell me that,” says Bryce.

  I glance at him apologetically before continuing to fill him and my dad in simultaneously. “We’ve got State in two weeks, which we can barely cover, and Nationals after that, which isn’t even an option at the moment. And we actually have a shot at going all the way this year.”

  “Oh, baby,” he says. “Maybe I could talk to my boss and see if they could throw some sponsorship dollars your way, or maybe I could even cut a check to make a tiny dent.”

  I smile. “Thanks, Dad. I’m going to brainstorm some options and see what we can do.”

  “What happened for you to lose a sponsor? You girls getting into trouble?” he jokes.

  “This dumb, dinky little gym offered to sponsor us for the first time this year, and they just bailed on us right in the middle of the competitive season.”

  “Can they even do that?” he asks.

  “What are we gonna do? Bully them into giving us the money?”

  He grunts. “That’s pretty much what you and your sisters do to me and your mother.”

  “Not funny,” I tell him.

  “A little funny.”

  “Maybe a smidge funny.”

  “Well, you let me know if I can help, okay?” he says. “And your bir
thday, too. I need ideas. Unless you want another transistor radio with a wind-up flashlight on the end.”

  “I think I’m good.”

  “That was a great gift,” he says, defending himself. “A good thing to keep in your trunk for emergencies.”

  My dad has a love for all things simple and utilitarian. In fact, I think I’ve gotten him the same mustache comb for three Christmases in a row, but he doesn’t mind since it’s one less thing he needs to replace. “Dad, I don’t have a car.”

  He chuckles. “Prepare for the life you want, mija, not the one you have, right?”

  I roll my eyes even though he can’t see. “I’ll send a list,” I tell him. “And I’ll call Abuela. Love you.”

  “To the moon,” he says before hanging up.

  Bryce clears his throat. “What was your dad saying about me? I think that guy hates me.” It’s a fleeting moment of weakness from Bryce, who is very used to receiving male approval.

  “He doesn’t hate you,” I say. “He just doesn’t know you.”

  “You’re right. Everybody loves The Bryce.” He laughs to himself. “By the way, did you say the dance team is broke?”

  “Well, yeah. We’re kind of screwed.” I crawl onto the floor next to him, and he practically pulls me into his lap. I tell him all about my shitty day and how unhelpful Vice Principal Benavidez was and how Down for the Count just pulled the rug right out from underneath us. I find myself tearing up a little, which only makes me angrier. “I really hate to ask this, but do you think your dad’s dealership would think about sponsoring us?”

  Bryce’s brow furrows. “My dad’s old-school, ya know? He still thinks cheerleaders and dance teams only exist for the sake of halftime shows. He doesn’t really get the purpose of a competition that doesn’t involve one team scoring points against the other. He’s pretty set on his football sponsorship.”

  My shoulders slump as I nod. I hate being compared to the cheerleading team. Our cheerleading team is noncompetitive, which means they live for football and basketball games. I don’t mind doing halftime shows, but when it comes down to it, those things are just extended practice times for us. While some cheerleading teams kick serious ass, ours seems to exist for the sole sake of giggling and chanting for boys fumbling around with balls. The Shamrocks exist to win.