"To measure me," Amaya said. "And I declined to be measured." She grinned, but her stomach was tight. She'd seen the look in Brett's eyes when the easy jab didn't land — not anger, but interest. The kind a cat takes in a bird that doesn't fly away.
On the ride home, she watched Westbridge slide past the bus windows — the brick wall, the ivy. At the house, Elijah was on the porch swing, sanding something.
"Recon complete?" he asked.
"Partial," Amaya said, dropping her bag. "Made some friends. Also made the acquaintance of the local royalty — a boy named Brett Carson. He's used to being the biggest thing in every room."
Elijah's sanding slowed. "And how did the biggest thing handle not being the biggest thing?"
"He's deciding." Amaya sat beside him on the swing. "Dad — it's fine. It's just high school stuff. I've got it."
He studied her for a moment — that calm, assessing look — and then nodded. "Copy that. But Amaya? You tell me when the interest rate changes. Deal?"
"Deal," she said, and leaned her head against his shoulder while the swing creaked and the October evening settled over their new ground.
Chapter 3
Tryouts
The flyer on the gym door said it plainly: WESTBRIDGE PREP CHEER TRYOUTS — TUESDAY 4 PM. BRING WATER, WEAR ATHLETIC GEAR, NO EXPERIENCE REQUIRED.
Amaya read it three times on Monday morning and felt her pulse quicken the way it did before a beam routine.
"You should do it," Maya said, appearing at her locker. "I mean it. I saw you do a cartwheel yesterday when you thought nobody was looking."
"I was stretching," Amaya said.
"You were showing off and you know it."
At lunch, Jordan was less diplomatic. "You have to try out. Tariq and I need someone to make us look athletic by association."
"I haven't cheered competitively," Amaya said. "Gymnastics, tumbling — not cheer."
"Even better," Jordan said. "No bad habits."
That night, Amaya told her father at dinner. Elijah set down his fork.
"Do you want it?" he asked.
"I think so. I'm nervous I'll look stupid."
"Being nervous is data, not a verdict." He studied her. "Cheer is a team sport, Amaya. It's trust at speed. Can you do that part?"
She thought about it. "I can learn it."
"Then learn it out loud." He smiled. "I'll be at work, but I'll be thinking loud thoughts."
Tuesday at 4 PM, the gym smelled of floor wax and nerves. Twenty-three girls milled around the mats in leggings and ponytails. At the front stood a woman in her forties with a whistle around her neck and a clipboard — Coach Rivera, sharp-eyed, all business.
"I'm Coach Rivera," she said when the clock hit four. "Three days. Today: tumbling and jumps. Tomorrow: stunts and dance. Thursday: we put it together. I don't care where you came from. I care what you do on this mat. Let's go."
They started with basics — forward rolls, cartwheels, roundoffs across the mat in waves. Amaya went in the third wave. The mat felt familiar under her hands, springy and true. She moved through the sequence cleanly, and when she finished her roundoff-back-handspring, she heard a small sound from Coach Rivera's direction. Not quite a word. Interest.
Jumps came next: toe touches, pikes, herkies. Amaya's gymnastics training showed in the height and the snap of her form. A girl with a blonde ponytail — a returning squad member, by the confidence — watched her with narrowed eyes.
Then the bleachers started filling.
Amaya noticed them mid-pike: Brett Carson, Derek, and Sam, sprawled across the second row with sodas, very obviously not there for school spirit. When Amaya landed her jump, Brett clapped slowly, mockingly.
"Nice," he called. "Very bouncy."
A few girls giggled. Coach Rivera's head turned like a turret.
"This is a closed practice," she said. "Gym's for tryouts."
"We're just appreciating the arts, Coach," Brett said innocently.
"Appreciate them from the hallway." She waited until they left and clapped her hands. "Again. From the top."
Amaya's face burned, but her feet didn't falter. If anything, the interruption sharpened her. She threw her next pass harder, higher — roundoff, back handspring, layout — and stuck the landing so cleanly the mat barely whispered.
Coach Rivera made a note on her clipboard. "Walker," she said. "Where'd you train?"
"Gymnastics, since I was eight," Amaya said, breathing hard. "My dad built me a beam in our garage."
"A beam." Rivera's mouth twitched. "Again — full tumbling pass, and this time I want a smile at the end. Cheerleaders perform. Gymnasts execute. I need both."
Amaya nodded, reset, and ran the pass again — and this time, at the stuck landing, she smiled. Not a practiced pageant smile. A real one, bright and sudden.