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My girls . . . The words echo in my ears.
“My old teammates and I had our eyes on the finish line. No boys,” I gasp the motto Dad once said. Still, Jamie hasn’t hopped into our discussion.
“So, you ready for tomorrow, Jamie? I’m offering to do the presentation myself.”
“Um.” He lapses into silence, and for the first time in months, his face lowers. “If you . . .”
I harmonize “Under Pressure” by Queen and David Bowie. A smile creeps across Jamie’s face, revitalizing his frayed nerves.
The bell rings, and we start to pack up. After Jamie helps me down from the post, I gesture toward the entrance to the school.
“Jamie, go ahead.”
He gives a two-finger salute. I slip my cellphone from my blazer, press the unblock button and dial my oldest friend, Londyn.
