Gucci grabbed Layna by the arm. “You know how now that you’re getting divorced, you want to go wild and try everything life has to offer?”
“That’s right!” Layna said.
“Will you wrestle with me?” Gucci gestured toward the massive kiddie pool.
“I seized the day today by getting keratin-fusion hair extensions that took five hours,” Layna said. “The one person in this world I’m actually afraid of? My extensionist. I show up tomorrow with half my extensions pulled out and the rest caked with mashed potato? She might lit-er-ally kill me.”
Four pairs of searching eyes turned to me, the last possible option.
“Nikita, you’ve got a rage inside,” Shade said. “We’ve seen it.”
“Is wrestling really about rage?” I asked.
“Absolutely not. It’s about technique,” Gucci said. “Still, I need this.” She dropped to one knee as if proposing marriage. “Won’t you please go out there with me and mash the patriarchy?”
I liked Gucci and didn’t want her pole dreams crushed by a skeeve. Still, more than anything, I wanted to say no. But Gucci had forensicsexpertise. I couldn’t pass up having her owe me a favor. Just in case. And also, I’d never been proposed to. I gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
“We’re in!” Gucci yelled, leaping to her feet. She grabbed my hand and raised it high in the air. “We’re in!”
“It’s now time for the wrestling to begin!” the emcee cried. Gucci and I had stripped down to our pole clothes, which we still had on under our sweats. I felt exposed in my exercise bra and running shorts, though I looked positively matronly next to Gucci’s velour pole undies. “The winning team takes home bragging rights and four hundred big ones! Now remember the rules: no eye poking, no choking, no drowning your opponent in the taters. Each team has to pin their opponents for five seconds. Now let’s see what these women have to dish out!”
An excited energy hummed through the gathered crowd. Across the way, the two women on the opposing team prepared to enter the pool. One of them had short, bleached-blond hair and a build like a WWE wrestler. She sported bikini bottoms and the kind of jog bra built to lock down even the largest ta-tas. Our other opponent was more petite, but still intimidating. She’d donned a skintight catsuit leotard ending in booty shorts, her black hair wrapped in a tight bun. Out of context, it took me a beat to place her.
“Principal Cruz!” I gasped.
“Phoebe and Alice’s mom!” she said, waving as if we were meeting for a mimosa brunch.
“You know her? You take her,” Gucci whispered. “Besides, I want the thick one.”
“I don’t think that’s a good—” I started, but was cut off by a barbaric yawp coming from the WWE lookalike. “Okay, you might be right.”
“On three, our four powerful ladies will step into the pool and start mashing the patriarchy,” the emcee cried.
The crowd chanted with the emcee. “One! Two! Three!”
Tentatively, I stepped into the kiddie pool. Ankle deep in mounds of mashed potato, Principal Cruz and I circled each other while Gucci charged Ms. WWE and hooked a leg behind one of her knees. The two women crashed into the white slop, which caused me and Principal Cruz to shield our eyes from the creamy splash.
“Come on, Ms.Turner,” she taunted. “Aren’t you gonna take me?”
I tried to tap into my inner rage, but nothing about my twins’ cool principal triggered it. Still, I was gearing up to make a move when I spotted Agent Nate Duran, beer in hand, mouth hanging open.
Our eyes caught. Time froze. As the split second stretched on, the rest of the crowd dropped away. I no longer saw Gucci and her opponent grappling in the white gloop. All I saw was Nate.
But Principal Cruz hadn’t actually vanished—she rammed me in the gut with her shoulder and I landed on my back in the potato mash. Gucci had Ms.WWE on her stomach and was pulling her head up by the shoulders, both to pin her and keep her from inhaling spuds. “I’ve got mine!” Gucci screamed. “Now pin yours!”
Struggling and thrashing in four inches of slippery potatoes as the full weight of my kids’ elementary school principal pressed down on me was an incredibly visceral experience, and not one I would recommend. Since Gucci was still firmly atop Ms.WWE, the audience howled for me to wriggle out from under Principal Cruz and pin her. Or maybe they were cheering for Principal Cruz to crush me?
As she fought to grab my arms, I thrashed like a greased pig at the Ada County Fair. She caught one of my wrists.
“I think my brother likes you,” she said.
“Really?” I managed as I tried to scissor-kick out from under her. One of my ears filled with sludge and I could feel potato squelching in my butt crack.
“He only told me about five times how hilarious you are,” she said. She stretched out the wordhilariousin the singsong of sibling torment.
“He did?” I panted, so dumbfounded she had a chance to grab my other wrist and pin it. I struggled hard but couldn’t twist free.
“One!” the emcee cried. “Two!”
