It was a good tournament. For the first time since Kenna quit, I had fun competing. I placed fourth, above Lev, which I may have mentioned to him a few times, or a hundred.
“Brag while you still can,” he says.
All week, I think about the Fearsome Foursome and the Trophy Girl prank. At school, when I break into a grin in the middle of algebra, Lalita Parsons is convinced I have a new crush. At lunch, she asks, “Is he from school or from wrestling? Is he tall or short? What color is his hair?”
Kenna rolls her eyes and mouths, Ignore her.
Friday is the school talent show. It’s also a Gladiators practice night.
“What should I do?” I ask Mom on Thursday. “I’m getting better at every tournament. I can’t skip practice now. This could be the one.”
Mom stirs our dinner in the slow cooker while she scans newspaper headlines. Cody zips into the kitchen, dunking a piece of cornbread into the pot before Mom can block him.
“This could be the one what?” he asks around a mouthful of crumbs.
“My breakthrough tournament. I got fourth last week. I can make it to States if I push myself at practice. But tomorrow’s the talent show. All my friends are going.”
“I didn’t make it to States till last year, Mickey,” Cody says. Mom shoots him an icy look for using my wrestling name in her presence. “Missing one practice isn’t going to kill you. Have some fun.”
“What do you want to do, Mikayla?” Mom enunciates each syllable of my name.
I want to do both.
“Mom, why don’t you go sit down?” Cody says. “Mikayla and I will set the table.” He practically pushes her out of the kitchen. Mom is suspicious, but she takes the newspaper and disappears into the family room.
“Trust me, sis,” Cody says, waving Mom’s wooden spoon for emphasis. “Cut yourself a break and go to the show. You’ve gotta have a life outside of wrestling.”
I’m still not sure what to do until I see Kenna waiting for me to get off my school bus on Friday morning. She walks beside me into the building. She doesn’t say hello, good morning, or how are you. It’s all, “You’re coming, right?”
“I haven’t decided.”
Kenna pulls a strand of her curls straight. I haven’t seen her do that since the night of the Eagles meeting. “One practice isn’t going to make a difference.”
I don’t answer.
Kenna flutters her eyelashes at me, trying to be funny. “It’s your duty as my best friend.”
It’s too early in the morning for drama, but all the things I’ve wanted to say to Kenna since wrestling season started come tumbling out of my mouth.
“My duty? What about your duty? You promised we’d be wrestling partners forever. Then you went and quit, and you didn’t even tell me. I had to hear it from my mom.”
Kenna pulls me toward her locker, out of the flow of sixth graders. “I tried to tell you,” she says. “You wouldn’t listen. All you cared about was the season starting.”
“So it’s my fault? We were supposed to move up to travel together.”
Kenna unzips her winter coat and fusses in her locker. “I’m allowed to change my mind.”
“You still don’t get it. Wrestling is really important to me.”
Kenna stuffs her coat into her locker and slams the door. She’s wearing a black T-shirt with the word Thriller hand-drawn in snot-green letters.
“You’re the one who doesn’t get it,” she says. “I wrestled for three years because it’s important to you, Mickey. I never wanted to be a wrestler. I just wanted to hang out with my best friend.”
That’s when Lalita bounces over to us. She’s wearing the same T-shirt, advertising their “Thriller” number. “I am freaking out. The show’s tonight. Aren’t you so glad we did the shirts? They look amazing.”
“See you later,” I say.
I hurry to homeroom without stopping at my locker, put my head on my desk, and try to breathe. All those years on Coach Brandon’s rec team, I thought Kenna loved competing as much as I did. But she doesn’t come from a wrestling family. It isn’t the glue that keeps the Franklins together, the way it is for us. It’s not the only thing she and her dad have in common. To Kenna, wrestling is just an activity. It might as well be robotics club or debate team. But she stuck with it for three years, because of me.
We have each other. Even if we don’t wear the singlets. That’s what I told Kenna, the night she quit. I have to show her that it’s still the truth.
Cody comes to the talent show with me. He struts into the cafeteria and tries to act cool when teachers stop him to say how tall he’s gotten. My brother’s not the only high schooler who came to the show. When he sees some of his friends, Cody ditches me.
I’m fine sitting with Kenna’s parents. We have a great time. There are the usual singers, skits, even a Bollywood-style dance number. Our principal and vice principal sing a duet, “I Got You, Babe.” The parents think it’s hilarious.
“Thriller” is the last act of the night. In the program, Kenna is listed as Visual Effects Artist. When Lalita and the dancers take the stage, the audience gasps. Kenna’s zombie makeup looks spooky, with just the right amount of gore. She must have spent all afternoon doing their faces.
The dancers lie down onstage. Kenna peeks from behind the curtain. When she spots us, she waves to me and her parents. She gives someone a thumbs-up and ducks backstage.
The sound of a creaking door blares through the cafeteria speakers. We hear footsteps, a wolf howling. The zombies stretch. They stumble to stand up, and then they’re dancing. The crowd cheers. I’ve listened to the songs on the playlist Kenna and Lalita made so many times, I know all the words to “Thriller.” Mrs. Franklin and I both sing along. I can barely stay in my seat.
When the last evil laugh fades and the show ends, Mrs. Franklin turns to me. “You have a beautiful voice, Mikayla. How did I not know that?”
As we walk out of the cafeteria to wait for Kenna in the hallway, Mrs. Franklin says, “Hearing you sing reminds me of the music videos you and Kenna used to make on my phone. Remember? You’d choose a song, spend hours coming up with a dance routine. I still have the videos somewhere.”
“I remember,” I say. “It’d be fun to watch those sometime.”
Mrs. Franklin hugs me. “You two are lucky to have each other.”
When Kenna meets us in the hallway, her dad hands her a bouquet. Her smile is huge.
“Everyone looked amazing!” I say.
“Could you see the makeup okay?”
I nod. I whisper in her ear, “Sorry about this morning.”
“Me too,” she says. “Talk later?”
Then Lalita runs up to us, her arms open for hugs. She’s wearing the pink Prom Scream dress that Kenna and I talked about, all those weeks ago.
“We’re having a party at my house, Mikayla,” Lalita says. She grabs both my hands. “Please come. Kenna’s more fun when you’re around.”
“I have a tournament tomorrow.” I haven’t thought about wrestling all night. I wonder who Lev practiced with.
Cody overhears. He raises an eyebrow in my direction. “Go have some fun, Mick.”
That’s the moment when Lalita realizes this tall guy with red highlights in his hair is my older brother. Her cheeks turn as pink as her dress, even under the gray zombie makeup. I hope Cody doesn’t notice. That would be awkward.
We text Mom. As long as I’m home before eleven, she says I can go. When we get to Lalita’s house, all the “Thriller” kids are there. Mr. and Mrs. Parsons greet us at the door.
“Whoa,” I whisper to Kenna. The Parsons’ entranceway is bigger than my whole bedroom. A chandelier hangs high above our heads.
“Wait until you see the basement,” she says.
Lalita’s parents bring us to the kitchen for pizza—I only have one slice—and soda, which I skip. If I eat junk, I won’t wrestle well tomorrow. We head to the basement. There’s a huge TV along one wall. Lalita cues up the “Thriller” video and the dancers do their zombie routine for me and Kenna. After that, we gather in a big clump on the couch, some of us cross-legged on the floor.
“Let’s play Truth or Dare,” Lalita says. She’s leaning against Kenna’s shins while Kenna braids her dark hair. A shudder goes through my body. I’ve never watched Kenna braid anyone’s hair but mine. She’d better be careful if she doesn’t want to get Lalita’s gray zombie makeup all over her hands. It’s starting to crack and rub off on her pink dress. Gross.
“Who wants to go first?” Lalita asks.
Kenna blurts out, “I’ll be right back. Bathroom.” She drops Lalita’s hair and pulls me off the couch. “Come on, Mikayla.”
“Oh. Okay. Start without us,” I tell everyone.
As soon as we find the bathroom, I ask, “What’s wrong?”
“Truth or Dare. Lalita likes to get in people’s business. Asking about crushes.”
“That’s just how she is.” Hasn’t Kenna noticed?
“I don’t like it.” Kenna pulls one of her tight curls straight, then puts the ends in her mouth.
“Are you okay?” I put a hand on Kenna’s shoulder. She sits down on the closed toilet lid.
“All Lalita talks about is which boys she likes.”
A thought walks into my head and waits for me to find the words I need. “You don’t like boys?”
Kenna tilts her head to one side and closes her eyes. “I don’t like anyone. I don’t think I ever have. At sleepovers, when everyone’s whispering about who their crush is, I make it up. Or sometimes I go to the bathroom so I don’t have to answer. That’s weird, right?”
“We’re eleven, Kenna. Everything’s weird.” She leans her elbows on her knees and puts her head in her hands. I rub her back.
“Lalita makes me feel like I’m not cute enough. Her older sister tells her what clothes to wear and how to put on mascara. I don’t have anyone to teach me that stuff.”
“Me either. All Evan and Cody teach me is wrestling moves.” The thought of Cody helping me pick out an outfit for school makes me laugh.
“I wish we had a coach and a team, someone to show us how to be middle-school girls.” Kenna says.
“Is that why you quit wrestling? Because people think it’s not a girl thing?”
Kenna looks at the floor. “People look at me. Did you ever notice? They try to figure out what I am. Not who I am, but what. Do I fit in with the black kids or the white kids? I’ve got enough going on, just trying to feel normal. And now…school is different. My body’s different.” Kenna looks down at her chest, which is hard to miss. “Normal girls don’t wrestle.”
Kenna has never talked to me about this before. I want to say I’m normal, but am I? I don’t know any other girls who grew up in a wrestling family like mine. If I had sisters instead of brothers, how would my life be different?
Kenna runs a hand through her curls. “I’m tired.”
“Let’s text your mom. It’s already ten-thirty. No one will care if we leave early.”
She nods. By the time we say good-bye, the Franklins are here to pick us up.
Kenna leans her head on my shoulder as we ride home. “You’re still my best friend.”
“Me too,” I say. Makenna and Mikayla forever.