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Chapter Twenty-Two

M y sister hasn’t spoken to me since she ran into the house proclaiming I ruined her life. I tried a few times to crack her armor, but she’s thirteen; her world is not as big as it’s going to be, so her feelings are valid, given the scale.

I distinctly recall at least five times before I was sixteen when I thought my life was ruined. Turns out, my life only got better from each of those points. And one of the greatest changes in my life was the birth of my sister.

Our mom told me she was worried when she found out I was in the hospital. Honestly, half the reason I wanted to get released early enough to come home was to get a chance to tell her I was okay before she went to bed. But she was asleep, or at least playing as if she was, when I rolled in at ten.

Ellie’s running late for school this morning.

I’ve been watching for movement in the garage for the last twenty minutes while Mom and I work with Macon in the arena.

Unless she found a way to get her bike out and clear our property unseen, she’s hiding out upstairs and plotting a way to stay home “sick.”

I’m about to ask my mom if she minds if I leave her with Macon so I can check on Ellie when the garage door slides up.

“She’s probably going to need a ride at this point.” My mom says with a tilt of her head toward my Jeep.

My lip tugs up, and my gaze shifts to Macon.

“I feel like I’m always ditching you.”

“Eh, I like the horse better than you anyway,” Macon teases with a smirk. He waves a hand at me from his spot atop Otis. He’s sitting so much taller than when he first started working with us. He’s relying less on his walker, too, at least on his trip from the car to the arena.

“Thanks,” I say with a nod before jogging toward the garage to intercept my sister.

When I step inside, I find she’s not pulling her bike out at all, but shoving an abnormal number of T-shirts into her backpack.

“Those are going to wrinkle,” I say, unintentionally startling her. She stands up quickly, dropping her open backpack to the concrete. A few of the shirts spill onto the garage floor.

“I just need them to make it to school. It’s fine.”

She crouches down and snags the loose shirts quickly, shoving them into the side pocket of her bag while simultaneously zipping the top closed.

She snags one in the zipper, so I reach in to pull it free, but halt when I notice words printed on the front.

She freezes, and I recognize that move—it’s the same one I made when I got caught doing something I preferred to keep to myself, good or . . . not so good .

“El, what’s on the shirts?” I could probably yank one out and read for myself, but I’m hoping she’ll tell me.

Her eyes zip up to meet mine as her mouth hangs open. My head leans to one side, and I mentally sift through every context clue I can. She’s not teary-eyed, and she’s not exactly trembling. But she’s clearly nervous.

“Can I see one?” I ask.

Her gaze drops to the one caught in the zipper. She slowly nods.

I work the fabric out of the zipper teeth and unfurl the light blue shirt to see the phrase DO BETTER printed on the front in large letters, with my name small underneath. It’s my quote, from the statement I had Jason help me send out to the media.

I wanted to point out the hypocrisy, the way I did during the school board hearing, the way women are treated versus men, the way this town gladly makes excuses for football players but excoriates cheerleaders for the same behavior.

They’re at the same parties, drinking the same beer, jumping in the same rivers, and being reckless in the same cars.

Yet the football players get a slap on the wrist after wrecking a car in a drag race, but the cheerleader who sat in the passenger seat or stood on the side of the road is suspended for merely being present.

One is vitally important to play a stupid game, while the other won’t be missed yelling from the sidelines.

“Your response has kind of gone viral,” my sister explains.

I lift my gaze, my brow drawn in tight.

“I found a box of shirts from the pep rallies in the garage, and I made the graphic with Mom’s Circuit. I was up all night.”

“You stayed up all night making these?” My tone sounds angry, and I don’t mean it to. I’m just surprised, and a little confused. Maybe a little moved that people paid attention to something I said, too.

“A lot of the girls want to wear them at school today, sort of to make a point. Maybe it’s stupid.” She starts to pull the shirts from her backpack, but I stop her, wrapping my hands around hers.

“Ellie, that’s not stupid at all. That’s . . . wow. I didn’t think anyone would really read my comments if they made it into a story, but your peers did, and it resonated . . .”

Her shoulders lift to her ears as her eyes dart to me, then back to her school bag.

“I mean, you’re making it sound kind of old, but yeah, basically. We liked what you said. I liked what you said. Especially the part when you called out football players.”

I chuckle over the fact she called me old in a roundabout way, but I’m so flattered that she put in all this time because her friends like something I said.

I’m not stupid, though. Part of this is my sister’s way of jumping on a popular trend and maybe scoring social points at school, but also, she seems to really get the sentiment.

I meant what I said in that statement—football culture needs to do better.

“How about I grab a box and we fold these? I can drive you to school too,” I offer.

My sister’s gaze lifts to meet mine, and this time she maintains eye contact long enough to see my proud smile. Her lips curve up faintly, then without warning, she lunges at me, wrapping her arms around me and burying her face in the curve of my neck.

“Oh, Ellie . . . thanks for that,” I say, rubbing her back as we hug.

“I’m sorry I got mad at you,” she mumbles against my shoulder.

I laugh softly and let my smile grow with this instant relief she’s given me.

“I’m sorry I embarrassed you. I wasn’t trying to,” I say. I remember how hard her age was to navigate. Kids are cruel, and they don’t always see the big picture. Name-calling and memes are so much easier.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Ellie says, finally pulling away. Our eyes meet briefly, and in that small moment, I see just how much my sister has grown up, and I am so fucking proud.

I stick around Ellie’s school long enough to help her pass out the shirts she made to the dozens of junior high girls who clamor around her at the front gate.

The box is nearly cleaned out when the bell rings, so I take it with me, leaving my sister with a couple of extra shirts in her bag.

I snag one for myself, too, and when I get to the Jeep, I slip it on over my plain white tee.

I fill my mom in when I return, and she decides to order a few new reams of vinyl in case my sister wants to print more, along with some sweatshirts so she can expand her offering.

We joke about how she missed an opportunity to monetize the trend, but really, spreading the message is worth so much more.

Besides, it’s not like Ellie pays for the supplies.

I spend the few hours before cheer practice catching up on what I clearly missed on social media.

Ellie was right, DO BETTER does seem to be trending, and I’m getting credit.

I’m not sure how much more attention I want from this incident, however, and when I go down the rabbit hole of various comments from keyboard warriors, I decide I probably should focus on the positivity of my sister’s T-shirt campaign and leave it at that.

I hope the chatter questioning whether my statement was not-so-secretly directed at Mickey Payne and his Cyclones organization doesn’t cause any problems for Wyatt. But the truth is, yeah . . . my words were for him, the team, and every other part of the football machine that needs to hear them.

On doctor’s orders, I take it slow most of the day, my greatest exertion coming from the morning walk out to the arena with my mom, and some shirt folding with my sister.

While Dr. Mazel advised against me returning to cheer practice right away, I decide to compromise—without telling her, of course—and instead promise myself not to assist in or demonstrate a single skill on the mat.

I’ll hold my notepad, and I’ll wear the whistle. I am grounded from the rest.

I put on my DO BETTER shirt for practice, and instead of arriving early, I show up right as the students are filling the parking lot.

I maneuver my way to my reserved spot and slip out of the Jeep without waiting for the sidewalks to clear.

There are a few glares at me, some people zeroing in on my shirt, then smirking as we pass, and a few of the female students I pass on my way to the gym hold out their hands to high-five me.

I’m feeling so high from the difference in today’s attention compared to the immediate aftermath of the photo scandal that I’m not totally aware of my surroundings when I clear the steps and walk across the mats in the cheer room.

When one of the girls clears her throat, though, I turn around and am instantly faced with a twenty-foot-long paper banner reading We love you, Coach!

And then, the greatest gift of all. Alissa steps around the line of girls holding the banner to hand me flowers and a get-well card.

“We were worried about you, Coach. We’re sorry you had to go to the hospital,” she says. “I hope it’s all right, but as Team Captain, I used some of our funds to buy you these flowers.”

My grin is immediate, and I pull her in for a hug so fast that some of the water from the grocery store vase splatters our shirts.

“I’m so glad you decided to take the job,” I say, my tone low enough that my words are just for her.

“Thank you for offering it to me.”

I nod over her shoulder as we break apart.

“Thank them. They basically demanded it.”

Alissa turns to face her teammates, and they whistle and clap for her return. Meanwhile, I decide to take advantage of my good fortune and listen to my doctor. I pull a folding chair out of the storage closet and hand over my practice plan, as well as my whistle, to my new captain.