I sprint through the next few days on pure adrenaline and anxiety. School, then basketball practice, then secret cheerleading practice after Irene leaves each day. There’s one evening where I’m convinced none of this will come together, but Honey-Belle hugs me and assures me the universe is working in our favor.

On the day before the district championship game against Candlehawk, I don’t set foot in the gym. Instead, I leave school at the regular dismissal time and drive to the middle of town. Grandma Earl Eye Associates sits next door to the karate studio where I used to come when I was younger. No wonder the name sounded so familiar.

The receptionist greets me and asks for my appointment time. When I tell her that’s not why I’m here, she frowns dramatically and says, “Oooh, honey, we don’t need any more Girl Scout cookies. Dr. Abraham already bought twenty boxes.” She looks seriously at me and recites the next part. “Dr. Abraham cares very deeply about supporting young women.”

“Um—yeah. Funny you should mention that. I’m here to talk about Irene.”

The woman’s eyebrows jump. “Her daughter? Is she in trouble?”

“No. I’m a friend of hers, and I’d really like to speak with Dr. Abraham about something important to her. I can wait for as long as it takes.” To emphasize the point, I plop down in one of the waiting room chairs and kick back like I have all the time in the world. I even grab a magazine off the side table.

The receptionist stands up. She eyes me as she crosses to the back office where Dr. Abraham must be. “Very determined,” she says, almost like she’s impressed. “No wonder you’re friends with her daughter.”

When she returns a minute later, Dr. Abraham is on her heels. “Scottie, what’s this?” Dr. Abraham asks abruptly. “Is Irene okay?”

“She’s fine. I just wanted to ask you something.”

Dr. Abraham purses her lips. She adjusts a piece of hair that fell out of place. “All right. Follow me.”

She leads me into an examination room. We sit across from each other almost like I’m here for a real appointment. I look distractedly around at the fancy equipment and wall diagrams, trying to steel myself.

“I’m confused about you being here,” Dr. Abraham says, her shrewd eyes upon me. “Irene told me you two were on a break.”

“We are.” I clear my throat. “I’m hoping to rectify that tomorrow.”

Dr. Abraham tilts her head. “Is this one of those prom-posal things? Are you here to ask for my permission?”

“No. But I would like to ask you to come to our district championship game tomorrow. Girls’ basketball. We’re playing Candlehawk.” I sit up straight and look into her perplexed, beautiful face. “Dr. Abraham, did you know Irene changed the entire cheerleading schedule so the squad could cheer for our games instead of the boys’? She basically overruled her coach and got her entire team onboard. They started cheering at our games, and suddenly the whole school showed up to support us. Just because of her. Because of her initiative.”

The shadow of a smile graces Dr. Abraham’s face. “Yes, she’s always been tenacious.”

“She loves cheerleading. And she’s good at it. It bothers her that you think it’s a waste of time.”

Dr. Abraham pulls back. She crosses one leg over the other and regards me with a stern expression. It doesn’t scare me. I’ve seen the exact same look on her daughter’s face.

“Do you think I don’t understand how much cheerleading means to her?” Dr. Abraham asks.

“I don’t know,” I say mildly. “Maybe you do. But Irene doesn’t think you understand. She doesn’t feel like she can fully share this part of herself with you. Look, Dr. Abraham, I know I’m speaking out of turn here. I’m not trying to be disrespectful and I’m not trying to meddle. It’s just that Irene means a lot to me, and I know it would make her incredibly happy if you would come watch her cheer tomorrow. She always acts like she doesn’t need people’s validation, and maybe that’s true for the most part, but she does need yours.” A sudden memory floats back to me. “I mean, she sleeps with that old shirt of yours like it’s a teddy bear.”

Dr. Abraham closes her eyes like she’s trying not to smile. She exhales. Her body relaxes. “Yes, I do know that much. She tries to hide it from me, but I’ve seen it in her laundry pile.”

“She’s a lot like you.”

“I know.” Dr. Abraham nods in that way all moms seem to do. “She’s an incredible girl. I’m very blessed.”

“So you’ll come tomorrow?”

She looks at me with something like amusement. “Yes, Scottie, I’ll be there.” She stands up and waits for me to do the same. As she steers me to the waiting room, she says, “Thank you for coming. I can see why she likes you.” She smiles at me fully. “Nice to see that my cheerleader daughter has a personal cheerleader of her own.”

“Thanks, Dr. Abraham.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Scottie.”

It’s not until I’m passing the receptionist’s desk again that I notice the small rainbow flag sticking out of the vase in the corner. “Is that yours?” I ask.

The receptionist spins around to see what I’m asking about. “No, Dr. Abraham put that there.” She smiles knowingly at me. “She loves her daughter very much.”

The school day passes in a blur. Everyone has game day fever, and while I’ve experienced this feeling during football season, I’ve never felt it to this degree, not even during the Christmas Classic. People are wearing reindeer antlers in class. Student government has taped up a banner with our team pictures on it. Danielle can’t walk down the hall without our classmates hugging her. No one even mentions the boys’ basketball team, which didn’t qualify to play in the championship. For the first time in recent memory, girls’ basketball is the talk of the town.

As 7:00 P.M. finally approaches, I’m shaking with nerves. Danielle gathers our team in the locker room and tells every single one of us why she’s proud of us. Coach Fernandez is there, but she merely hovers in the background like a phantom. Danielle directs her to carry our water cooler out to the bench.

When we run onto the court for warm-ups, I wear my jersey and a pair of lumpy old sweatpants to hide my outfit underneath. I join my teammates in layup drills and warm-up shots even though I’m not playing until the second half. I’ll get my real version of a warm-up at halftime.

The bleachers are packed to capacity. Some people are actually standing beneath them because they can’t find a place to sit. I scan the crowd for my family and find their line of red hair easily enough; they’re waving posters and screaming my name. The Zanders are sitting in front of them with a giant Fathead of Danielle’s face. Mr. Zander keeps making it dance.

It’s harder to find Dr. Abraham in the sea of spectators, but I trust she’s a woman of her word. She’ll be here.

Funny enough, the last person I look for is Tally, over on the Candlehawk bench. I almost forgot she was playing tonight. I pictured this moment for months—the culmination of my dream to outdo her—and now that it’s here, I feel nothing for her. The realization makes me laugh.

“What’s so funny?” Danielle asks, jiggling her leg nervously.

“Nothing. Are you ready, Coach?”

Danielle gets that steely look in her eyes. “So ready. Are you?”

There’s a tap on my shoulder. I spin around to find Irene standing behind me, glammed up in makeup and hair glitter, her cheer uniform impeccably pressed. She grins my way and I remember very suddenly why she was nominated for “Best Smile.”

“Wanted to wish you luck,” she says breathlessly.

It takes me a second to remember how to speak. “You too.”

“I don’t need luck.” She smiles playfully. “I’ve got these routines down to a T.”

“You don’t say.”

Her eyes are warm on mine. “Go kill it, Zajac.”

“Show ’em how it’s done, Abraham.”

Minutes later, my teammates take their places at half-court. I watch nervously from the bench, still wearing my sweatpants. People seem to be confused about why I’m not starting. My family is whispering to the Zanders. Irene tosses me a questioning look, pom-poms tight behind her back.

The referee throws the jump ball and the game begins.

The closer we get to halftime, the harder my heart pounds. I text Kevin over and over to make sure everything’s all set. Honey-Belle keeps looking at me from the sidelines, her grin practically giving us away. The only unruffled one might be Gunther, but it’s hard to say since he’s hidden beneath the Fighting Reindeer costume.

The second quarter winds down. In the last minute of play, Candlehawk hits a three-pointer, and the red, tinseled half of the crowd groans. Candlehawk is now leading by five. My team tries to come back, but Danielle misses an inside shot.

And then the buzzer blares. It’s halftime and my teammates come running off the court, frustrated and tired. But none of them heads for the locker room. They gather around me instead.

“You got this,” Danielle says, smacking my arm. “Leave it all on the court, right?”

I take a deep breath and wipe my sweaty hands on my sweatpants. And then, using my teammates’ bodies to shield myself, I pull off my jersey and sweatpants. Now it’s time to wait for the signal from Honey-Belle.

The cheerleaders gather at the half-court line, ready to begin what everyone thinks is a normal halftime show. Irene stands at the front, strong and proud, ready to lead them.

Until Honey-Belle strides up beside her, grabs Irene’s pom-poms, and throws them aside.

“What—?” Irene says, looking scandalized.

Honey-Belle says something to her. She tugs on Irene’s hands, pulling her away from the squad. Irene is resistant, looking for backup, stubborn as all hell. Honey-Belle drags her to the bleachers and seats her in the front row. By this point, the whole crowd is whispering urgently. No one knows what’s going on.

Honey-Belle spins around, wiggles her hands above her head like antlers, and sprints back to join her squad in the middle of the court.

I take one last deep breath and wait for my cue.

Suddenly, deafening music blares from the sound system. Kevin came through with the audio.

Now I’ve had the time of my life…

I break through the wall of my teammates and run toward the cheerleaders. They part down the middle, giving me center stage. The crowd is suddenly screaming. They’re putting the pieces together in one swift, dizzying moment: the Dirty Dancing theme, the routine we’re starting up, and me, dancing like a fool in a regulation Grandma Earl cheerleading uniform.

But I’m only looking at one person.

Irene is flabbergasted. Her eyebrows are practically up to her hairline, her mouth hanging open, her arms flopped at her sides. For one horrifying second, I think I’ve gotten this all wrong.

But then she laughs. The crowd is roaring around her, I’m dancing like a complete buffoon to the Dirty Dancing song, and Irene Abraham is losing her shit laughing in the most unabashed, luminous way.

I grin and lose myself in the routine, concentrating on the steps Honey-Belle taught us. We mix the dance steps from the movie with some of the squad’s best cheer routines, an homage tailored exactly to Irene’s passions. My adrenaline has completely taken over, my cheeks are on fire, my heart is burning in my throat. I’m terrible, but I’m moving in sync with the squad, and they’re all grinning like they’re having an absolute blast. The whole crowd seems to be having the time of their lives. They’re screaming their applause, all of them on their feet, even some of the Candlehawkians.

The Fighting Reindeer, a.k.a. Gunther, runs up to join us for the iconic movie moment. I take a deep breath and line up across from him, and the crowd’s noise is thunderous. They know what’s coming.

At that one, perfect moment of the song—the part where Jennifer Grey launches herself into Patrick Swayze’s arms so he can lift her high above everyone—I run straight at Gunther and leap into his fuzzy mascot arms. We completely butcher it, of course: He lifts me in a kind of half pirouette as I scream with laughter, and we twirl around to make the most of it, and all I can hear is Honey-Belle shrieking with glee while the saxophone solo echoes in my head.

When Gunther sets me down, I straighten my skirt and turn to face the crowd. In a sudden rush, I understand exactly what Irene meant the day she told me cheerleaders regulate a crowd’s emotion. I can feel their elation, their euphoria, their absolute delight. The song softens into the bridge, and I coax the audience down to a quieter decibel. I tap the lapel mic on my uniform and wait for Kevin to turn it on.

“Thank you for coming out to cheer on our Fighting Reindeer,” I say, my voice booming around the gym. “I’m out here doing this cheesy dance because I have some cheesy things to say.” I swallow and say the next part like I’m shooting a prayer of a three-pointer. “Irene Abraham, I wanna take you on a date.”

The stands go haywire. People are literally jumping in their seats. Irene looks ready to pass out.

“I’ve been falling for you since the second you hit my car,” I tell her, my voice shaking. “You are the most brilliant, passionate, infuriating person I’ve ever met. You make me feel seen.”

I address the next part to the crowd. “And I’ve learned from doing this”—I gesture to the cheerleaders behind me—“that Irene is every bit as athletic as I suspected. So I don’t care whether or not you vote for her for Student Athlete of the Year. I just want you to know she’s worthy of it.”

The applause is deafening. I swallow and look directly at Irene. She’s wearing an expression I’m not sure I’ll ever see again: completely dazed, like she’s been caught off guard for the first time ever. But when I extend my hand toward her, something in her shakes awake. She springs up from the bleachers and dashes toward me with the whole school cheering behind her.

And suddenly she’s in front of me, and her eyes are sparkling in that blazing, commanding way she has, and before I can catch my breath, she grabs my face and kisses me.

I’m vaguely aware of the crowd losing their minds, of Gunther whooping somewhere behind me, of Kevin looping the track so this moment can last forever, but the only thing truly registering is the feel of Irene’s mouth on mine. She kisses me hard, and when she lets go, I literally have to blink to set my head straight.

“Let me show you how it’s actually done!” she shouts, and before I can say anything, she’s picking up the routine like she’s been doing it all along. Of-fucking-course she knows the steps to the Dirty Dancing song. I can only stand there, laughing in shock, as Irene and her squad finish out the routine to the delight of the thunderous crowd. And when the song finally ends, Irene leans into my lapel mic and says, “Now can we give y’all some real Fighting Reindeer routines?”

Irene and her squad seamlessly transition into their normal halftime show, riding the wave of the crowd’s energy. Their routines are killing it. The crowd is loving it. I scan hundreds of faces and see joy and belonging and community.

One face sticks out to me: Dr. Abraham, standing next to Irene’s dad with Mathew on her other side. She’s beaming with pride, with a mother’s love, clapping along to her daughter’s perfectly orchestrated cheer routines. My throat is suddenly thick.

When halftime is over, Irene takes my hand and leads me toward the locker room. She pushes me toward the door and says, “Get your uniform on. You are not sitting out for the second half of this game.”

She doesn’t have to tell me twice.

One moment stands out to me: Tally getting fouled in the fourth quarter. She trips over Googy in the midst of a desperate drive to the basket. When she hits the floor and begins to cry, I don’t hesitate to run over to her. I crouch next to her, offering my hand. She refuses to take it.

“I don’t understand,” she cries, wiping tears away.

The words that come out of my mouth aren’t planned. “It’s just a game, Tal. Shake it off.”

I shrug and run off, leaving her gawking on the floor. The game doesn’t resume until the Candlehawk coach subs her out.

In the final few minutes of the game, we’re neck and neck with Candlehawk. My competitive drive overtakes me again. Stress is rolling off Danielle in waves. The tension in the gym is palpable.

“We have to stop their point guard,” Danielle pants during time-out. “She’s their biggest scorer. I can’t keep up with her.”

“She’s not great with free throws,” I say. “We have to keep fouling her.”

“That means Danielle would foul out,” Googy says. “You’ve got four already, Danielle. One more and you’re out of the game.”

“I know,” Danielle huffs. “I’m trying to figure it out.”

An idea strikes me. “Hey … what if I guard her instead? I only have two fouls. Plenty to spare.”

Danielle frowns at me. “And I take your girl?”

“Exactly. On offense we’ll still play shooting and point, but on defense we’ll switch. If I get fouled out, it doesn’t matter. You’re our best player, Danielle. You have to stay in.”

Our teammates look at each other. The ref blows the whistle.

“Okay,” Danielle says.

The last three minutes pass quickly. I guard the Candlehawk point guard and draw two fouls when she’s trying to shoot, but the strategy works: She only makes one out of four free throws. Candlehawk is now up by only two points.

At just over a minute to go, their point guard drives to the basket. I sprint after her and block her shot. My hand never actually touches hers, but the ref calls a foul. My fifth and final one. I’ve officially fouled out of the game. The crowd boos in anger.

“It’s all good,” I tell Danielle as I head to the bench. “Stay focused. You can win this.”

Forty-five seconds to go. Thirty seconds to go. Candlehawk still leading by two. I can’t sit still on the bench; I spring up and bounce where I stand. Coach Fernandez is screaming, but no one is listening to her. All eyes are on the court.

Fifteen seconds to go. Danielle bringing the ball down to our side of the court. Ten seconds to go. Googy trying to get open for a pass. Five seconds to go. Danielle trying to shake her defender.

And then, in the final seconds, it happens.

Danielle breaks free and shoots the most beautiful three-pointer. It sinks cleanly through the net with a perfect, satisfying swoosh.

The buzzer blares. The gym is an explosion of noise. Bodies start pouring out of the stands and I am running off the bench and Googy is hanging all over Danielle and crying. I throw my arms around them and kiss my best friend on her sweaty head, and suddenly I’m crying, too. We’re a sauna of heat, bodies pressing in from all sides, and my family is there and Danielle’s family is there and Gunther has thrown off his mascot head and is yelling with the reddest face I’ve ever seen.

People are grabbing Danielle, shaking her, pounding her back. She’s practically lifted off her feet. Then suddenly Kevin is there, and his arms are around her, but before he can do anything else, Danielle pulls him in and kisses him.

I am sobbing. At least, I think I’m sobbing. It’s impossible to hear my own voice. My sisters are holding on to me, and Daphne is staring at Danielle and Kevin like they’re in a movie. Mrs. Zander is shrieking with glee while Mr. Zander stands dumbfounded next to her, his cheeks reddening by the second, until Mrs. Zander grabs his hips and pulls him into a dance. It’s so humid and I can’t breathe and it’s the best feeling in the world.

There’s an arm around my waist, a press of lips to my cheek.

“Congratulations,” Irene says in my ear. “That was some spectacular fouling out.”

I turn in her arms, hold her face in my hands. “Would you believe the last one wasn’t even real? I didn’t even hit the girl’s hand!”

“Mmm, I’m gonna call bullshit on that. You claimed you didn’t hit my car, either.”

“I hate you,” I say. Then I kiss her and kiss her and kiss her.