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was a lovely girl,” said Mrs. Roundman, smoothing Althea’s thick gleaming hair where the pullover had mussed it up, “with that pale coloring she simply did not shine the way you will, Althea.”
    Over the next several days she worked very hard. Becky and Mrs. Roundman stayed after regular practice to help with the tougher routines. Saturday afternoon would be her first public performance, her first football game.
    But either the girls were kind, or she really was good enough. Nobody yelled at her. Nobody made a face when she needed a second or third try, though once was enough for the rest. Nobody said they wished Celeste were still around.
    After the hardest, longest afternoon of her life—Friday before the game—Althea staggered back to the locker room. She took a shower there, instead of waiting till she got home, something she would normally never have done. There is nothing worse than a girls’ group shower. Except maybe leaving the locker room with three hours of sweat clinging to your body.
    She toweled off, blowing her hair dry, putting her earrings back on (Mrs. Roundman seemed to be morally opposed to anything that dangled), and fixing the collar beneath her pullover sweater just the way she liked it. Exhausted, she made her way to the front hall.
    The high school foyer was a handsome space, with black marble floors and gray-striped marble walls. Announcements, bulletins, and the Artwork of the Week were taped everywhere. Scattered on the plant ledges and the steps were kids waiting for rides.
    One was Celeste. She looked like a plant herself, drooping and in need of water. She was wearing an old dress, with too much material for her skinny body, and she was tucked into a corner of ledge and wall as if she needed several props because her bones had given way. Nobody sat with her.
    Althea turned her back. It was best to accept things. Celeste had gotten too much too soon, and she would have to scrape her life back together and that was that. Althea could not get involved. Althea had enough pressure right now, what with her first game the next day.
    Althea raised her chin, flipped her hair, and thought cheerleader thoughts.
    Footsteps approached her. A voice said her name.
    Althea cringed. She could not make herself turn around. I can’t talk to Celeste, she thought, I absolutely can’t, it’s too much to ask. Why didn’t she quit school as well as quit the squad? It isn’t fair of her to keep showing up and making me remember—
    A hand touched her. A hand that felt like a sponge, that seemed to have no bones and no blood.
    Althea tried to run but she was rooted to the spot. She turned her head, and only her head—and it was Jennie Marsden.
    Jennie had been Althea’s closest friend before high school. Jennie had been the one to telephone, to sleep over, to giggle and gossip with. What friends they had been! That inseparable, essential intimacy of junior high friendship—when sleep is not possible until you share every single one of the day’s thoughts on the phone.
    But almost the first day of freshman year, Jennie found a whole new set of friends. She and Althea had hardly spoken since then, and when they did, Jennie was embarrassed and Althea was miserable.
    “Jennie!” said Althea, relief sweeping through her with the velocity of race cars taking a turn. “Hi. Been a long time. How are you?” Althea’s uniform, folded so the yellow letters could be seen and understood, lay on top of her notebooks. Swinging in her free hand were her blind-your-eyes-yellow pom-poms.
    Jennie’s eyes had landed on the precious sweater and the beautiful yellow letters. “You made Varsity!” said Jennie. “That is so great. I’m so happy for you!”
    “Thanks,” said Althea. I’m free, she thought. No more pain because Jennie got sick of me. I’m Althea, Varsity Cheerleader, and she’s just Jennie, Former Friend.
    “Yellow is your color,” added Jennie. “It’s your dark hair, I guess, and your fair