Something in Between by Melissa de La Cruz Page A

“Shouldn’t they be studying at home so they can get into Harvard or wherever they’re going?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with that,” I say, bristling and feeling jealous of those guys, who still have their future ahead of them.
    Kayla laughs. “We’re cheerleaders, Jas. We’re supposed to have social lives.” We’re at the house now and she eyes a group of boys hanging out in the front yard. She whispers again. “Isn’t that Sam Curry?” She points to our quarterback from last year who graduated.
    â€œYou should know. Didn’t you date him?” I tease.
    â€œOh yeah, right.” She tosses her hair over her shoulder and laughs.
    â€œAnyway, aren’t you here for Dylan?” I remind her.
    She giggles. “Just keeping my options open. That dark-haired boy over there with Sam is cute.”
    I glance across the yard, but I’m not really paying attention.
    â€œWhatever,” I say.
    He ’ s not even half as cute as Royce. Ugh. I should really stop thinking about him. That’s not going anywhere.
    I want to go inside and sit down with a glass of Vitaminwater and listen to gossip, but it’s so crowded that I realize I won’t be able to hear anyone talking. “I thought this was supposed to be a kick back?”
    â€œIt is,” Kayla laughs, turning the door handle. “Let’s go find Lo.”
    â€œOkay.” It occurs to me that when we left for this party, I wanted to try to chill and blow off steam. But now I’m just trying to avoid my feelings. I’m a cheerleader. I like peanut butter and pizza. Nicki Minaj and Miley Cyrus. I grew up on Gossip Girl and Sex and the City reruns. I believe in life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Freedom of speech. Every Olympics, my family gathers around the TV and we join the chant: “USA! USA! USA!” I love my country. I love America. Being American is as much a part of me as breathing.
    Except it turns out I’m not American where it counts.
    On paper.
    Kayla and I enter the living room. A drum kit, amps, and mic stand have been set up in a corner of the living room. The band’s name, Bob Marley Lives, is on the kick drum and on a spray-painted banner made from a sheet that hangs on the wall.
    Lo sees us right away. “I’m so glad you came, Jas.” She turns to Kayla. “Hey,” she says. “Drinks are in the kitchen and the garage. Help yourself.”
    â€œThanks,” Kayla says. She’s already not paying attention, I can tell, and is looking for Dylan. She wanders toward the kitchen.
    Lo has already turned around. The bass player is asking her whether or not she has some kind of cable or other. Lo smiles at me as she runs past to go find it. She’s so beautiful. Carefree. Focused on music, life and friends. The bassist stands there and sort of smirks and raises his eyebrow like he’s sort of just stuck standing there until Lo returns. I smile back.
    There are people here that I recognize from school. Veronica Lucas, who was veep when I was class president last year, waves hello. She’s now senior class president. Darla Anne Tucker, who’s in the California Scholarship Federation with me—the club for kids who have high GPAs—stands next to her. Mark Arias, Billy Ogasu, and Len Anderson, whom I know from Math Club, are all wearing checkered flannel shirts and have round pins on their collars with the band’s logo. Normally, I would join one of those groups, but right now all I want to do is melt into a chair, which I do and sit down by myself.
    Julian, Lo’s boyfriend, is sitting on a couch, tuning a guitar. He has it connected to his iPhone. He runs the pick along each string, making minor adjustments until he’s happy. Then he gets up and sets it on a stand and checks the microphone. “Hey! Hey! Check! Mic! One...two... Check. Check. One two!”
    People start streaming into the