Stay Gold Read online

  Dedication

  To Mom—your love of books begat my love of books.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Part One: New Kid and the Cheerleader

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Part Two: The Friend Zone

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Part Three: Homecoming

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Books by Tobly McSmith

  Back Ad

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part One

  New Kid and the Cheerleader

  ONE

  Tuesday, August 27, 2019

  PONY, 8:34 A.M.

  Fade in, exterior parking lot. The imaginary director calls action, and the scene opens on New Kid sitting alone in his car on the first day of school. He checks his hair in the rearview mirror. There’s a hesitation in his actions. A nervous fidget. New Kid takes a breath and then gets out of his car.

  Did the wardrobe department dress New Kid correctly for the scene? He’s wearing an untucked, black button-up short-sleeved shirt. Dark blue jeans. His go-to black Sk8-Hi Vans. He studies his reflection in the window of his car. When nervous, I can use too much hair product—I mean, the hairdresser can. But today, it all works. He puts on his backpack and pauses to take in his new school from across the parking lot. (New Kid needs to show up earlier to get a closer spot tomorrow.)

  Hillcrest High is an average Texas school. I have seen enough schools—my dad is in the army; we’ve moved five times—to know what’s average. Standard-issue, double-decker, big-box school with faded red bricks and bright white trim. Manicured bushes and trees line the sidewalk, yellow buses line the curb, and an American flag dances proudly over the two huge red doors. From the outside, there’s nothing special about Hillcrest.

  New Kid makes his way through the massive parking lot. There’s a stiffness to his walk. Sweat covers his forehead from the Texas heat. New Kid goes unnoticed by the students in the parking lot. They are too busy reuniting with friends and showing off their first-day looks. And New Kid isn’t the kind of guy who turns heads.

  But if they were to look my way, what would I want them to see? Nothing more than an average guy of average height and average build, doing average-guy things, living an average-guy life. That’s why Hillcrest High School is perfect for me. We are both striving for the ordinary.

  Cue dramatic music. New Kid is frozen in place on the curb. He made it through the parking lot but is now stuck. Imaginary cameras fly in to capture a close-up of his face as he looks at the school lawn before him. There must be several hundred kids talking, hugging, and laughing. Why are the guys wearing fishing gear? New Kid is now filled with doubt and terror. He no longer thinks he can pull this off.

  The mission is simple: Walk across the cement pathway that splits the school lawn, up the cement stairs, and through the big red doors into the school. For anyone else, this wouldn’t be a big deal. But New Kid has a secret to keep. A secret so big that it makes the regular things, like walking past a mob of students, feel like the hardest things he has ever done.

  Dream sequence of New Kid comically retreating. He turns around, walks back to his car, and never returns. No one knows him, so no one will notice. New Kid winds up paddling gondolas on the canals of Venice for cash and pizza. End sequence.

  I pull my phone out of my pocket. There’s a text from my sister: WHO’S THE MAN? YOU THE MAN.

  My sister is right (she is always right). I am the man. I can do this. I close my eyes and take the first step, like I’m diving into a cold pool. Once moving, I open my eyes. Keep my head down, my walk cool, and pretend I don’t see anyone. Just another average day for this average guy. I hear talking and yelling on both sides of the lawn, but I keep moving forward.

  I take the cement steps leading to the entrance with great care. A slip and fall now, with so many eyes, would end my life here before it begins.

  At the top of the steps, New Kid turns around and scans the yard from an elevated position. He feels victorious. There are so many new faces. Possible new friends. Possible new girlfriends. If no one finds out my secret, the possibilities are endless.

  Before turning back around, New Kid spots a girl in the crowd. The Cheerleader. She’s beautiful and bored, holding pom-poms and talking to another cheerleader. For no reason but fate, the Cheerleader’s eyes find his. Light shift. Big music swell. Everyone on the lawn disappears. Extreme close-up on the eyes of New Kid. Extreme close-up on the eyes of the Cheerleader. They float up to the clouds, never once breaking eye contact. The world fades away below, and there’s only him and her, ’cause she’s the love interest and nothing else matters.

  Reality comes crashing back when a kid runs into me from behind, almost pushing me down the stairs. I shake my head in disbelief and walk into the school, wondering what kind of guy I need to be to date her.

  GEORGIA, 8:40 A.M.

  Whoever that guy was, I think our eyes just made out.

  “What the what, Georgia?” Mia asks, entering my personal space. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

  Mia Davis is the head cheerleader and takes her position very seriously. And right now, she’s staring daggers directly into my soul. But what did she notice exactly? Me making crazy eye contact with some guy who isn’t on the football team? Maybe. I scan my body for error: white cheerleading outfit with red trim, white socks, white Keds with red laces. Couldn’t be my look—I nailed it.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, pushing my hair behind my ear. Oh, crap. I was supposed to wear a high-and-tight ponytail with . . .

  Mia finishes my thought: “Red bow! Red bow! RED BOW!”

  I can’t help but laugh. Mia shakes her head in utter disappointment. “This is not funny, Georgia Lynn.”

  Damn, middle name shade. This situation is severe. It is time to do what I do best: lie my butt off.

  “Mia, that red bow, it was ready to go last night when . . . you’ll never believe this—”

  “Here we go,” Mia interrupts.

  “I woke up and saw a ghost. A cheerleading ghost! Who took my bow! I was completely frozen—I couldn’t fight back. Trust me, Mia, I would have died for that bow.”

  She rolls her eyes. “As much as I hate to do this, Georgie, I have to give you a demerit.”

  Cheerleaders are punished on the demerit system. When we do something wrong—like show up late to practice or forget to wear dumb hair bows—we get a demerit. Rack up enough of them and you get sidelined from games and competitions.

  “Fine,” I concede, and Mia makes a note on her clipboard. What’s one more? I’m on track to break the record. I’m the LeBron James of demerits.

  A freshman with a fishing net over his head pushes past me. “Sorry,” he says with big eyes, like I could ruin his career at Hillcrest. Cheerleaders are highly regarded around here. So I technically could ruin him. But I try to use my powers only for good.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say with a smile. He looks relieved and gets lost in the crowd. This lawn is pure madness, littered with students.

  Hillcrest High is home to hundreds of students and thousands of traditions. This school was built with cheap bricks and meaningless rituals. One of those sacred—and never questioned—traditions is
Walk of Shame: Fishman Edition. On the first day of school, the seniors dress in camouflage outfits, holding fishing poles and nets, and catch “fishmen” as they walk into school for the first time.

  There must be fifty guys running around giving the school lawn a sporting-department-at-Walmart vibe. They have outdone themselves this year, even dragging a couple paddleboats onto the grass. Seniors don’t miss a chance to celebrate their dominance and impending freedom. It’s loud, rowdy, and smells like worms and Axe body spray.

  Hence the cheerleader presence on the lawn. We line up along the sidewalk and serve as friendly faces to the freshmen walking up to the school. Otherwise, they would probably run back to the bus and never return. We smile, say hi, and shake our pom-poms at the frightened kids. So charitable and giving, right? How Michelle Obama of us.

  I feel sweat dripping down my back. I am literally melting. Texas summers are twelve months long and scorching, unbearable, oppressive, icky hot. It must be—and I am not being dramatic—at least three thousand degrees out.

  Mia finishes noting my gross misconduct in her demerit diary (that she probably holds when she sleeps) and gives me one last look. “Georgia! Chin up and smile ON!”

  “Oh, I thought I told you,” I say, “I broke my smile last week. Horrible smile-related accident . . .”

  Mia crosses her arms. “How tragic.”

  “Check it out, this is the best I can do now.” I twist up my lips, jut out my jaw, and cross my eyes. “Is this better, fearless leader?” I ask while trying to maintain the look.

  “You’re more beautiful than ever, actually,” Mia says, then flashes the smile that won her Little Miss Dallas 2012. Like always, she gives up on me and moves on down the line of cheerleaders. I’m not offended. She’s one of my BFFs but can be intense AF. She is actually down-to-earth when not in cheerleader-domination mode.

  Mia arrives at a cowering junior and scans her body.

  “Emily, how hard is it to match your socks? I’m being super serious because I want to help you. Help me help you on this sock thing, Emily.”

  I’ll admit it, Mia’s control issues have control issues. But her heart is in the right place . . . most of time. She’s perfected the head-cheerleader look: long blond hair, not a zit in sight ever, dating the all-state linebacker, drives a Mustang convertible, and her socks always match.

  I watch the freshmen hurry up the walkway and try to imagine what I looked like three years ago. I remember it being terrifying, humiliating, and I basically wanted to die the whole time. My game plan was to keep my head down, walk fast, and then go cry in the bathroom.

  Shocking news—I was not cool in middle school. I had braces, loved horses, and started my period at the seventh-grade semiformal. The theme was “Under the Sea,” but my theme was “Under the Red Sea.”

  High school would be a fresh start. I was determined to change my narrative at Hillcrest. On my hurried freshman walk of shame, I was almost to the steps leading to the big red doors unnoticed when a cheerleader caught my eye. She was easily the coolest girl I had ever seen. I stopped cold. I noticed two things: her flawless skin and her pixie haircut.

  She not only looked at me. She smiled at me. Time stopped. Birds sang. I felt special. I felt chosen. So special that about a week later, I tried to give myself the same pixie haircut. Want to guess how that turned out?

  It didn’t matter, I had realized my high school destiny: to be a popular cheerleader.

  And here I am, a popular cheerleader. To be honest, I thought it would feel different.

  A pom-pom hits my head. I look over and see Lauren in bad shape.

  “Georgia, I’m going to toss my cookies,” she says with wide eyes while clutching her stomach. Someone went out with her boyfriend last night and is hungover today.

  I woke up this morning to a flurry of late-night texts from Lauren at some bar, riding—no joke—a mechanical bull. I didn’t even know there was a mechanical bull in Addison, but it’s Texas—maybe they’re mandatory in every city.

  Lauren Vargas is tall and beautiful, with long, wavy black hair. She’s a cheerleading wunderkind and insanely smart. We joke that she has the face of a young Salma Hayek and the brains of Jeff Bezos. We have been BFFs since pre-K. Lo knows all my secrets and I know all hers (in case she tells the world any of mine).

  She has been with Matt for two years. They are totally in love and totally adorable, and it’s totally disgusting. Matt is a party animal, which means Lauren parties all the time too. He’s captain of the soccer team with the whole David Beckham shaved-head thing.

  I snag a selfie with Lauren in the background looking sick as a dog. When I go to post, I count twenty-five new followers. The fishmen are circling.

  “Mia!” Lauren yelps. “I need to get out of here.”

  Mia runs over to investigate. She would go ballistic on anyone else (aka me), but this is Lauren we’re talking about—the secret weapon of our team, with the sickest flips and tricks. Mia can’t get to the Cheerleading National Championship without her cheer ninja.

  Mia feels Lauren’s head for a temperature. “Are you going to pass out?”

  “Maybe,” Lauren mumbles.

  Mia puts her hand on her hip. “Didn’t you have a date with Matt last night?”

  I jump in. “I think her date was with a mechanical bull!”

  Lauren shoots me the Look of Death. “That was a secret!”

  Shit. I suck at secrets. What can I say? I’m an unreliable cheerleader.

  “Ten more minutes,” Mia says. “You can do it, girl!”

  Once Mia is lost in the crowd, Lauren sits down on the dry brown grass. I throw her pom-pom into her lap. “My bad, the mechanical bull made me say it.”

  Lauren is nearly perfect but for one small glitch: she won’t stand up for herself. Especially to Queen Mia. Lo wouldn’t send a meal back at a restaurant if there were a million hairs in it. My girl would eat it with a smile.

  A big dancing brown bear emerges from the crowd. That’s our mascot, Boomer. The buff bear suit looks like Winnie the Pooh, if he gave up honey and picked up protein powder. He playfully wags his tail in Lauren’s face. “Get your butt out of my face, Boomer! Unless you want to take that suit to the cleaners.”

  “Kelly!” Mia walks over to the bear. “Class starts soon—get out of Boomer. Wow, that suit smells like the boys’ locker room. You need to clean it before Friday.”

  Boomer gives Mia a big bear hug, really bringing her close to the smelly fur. After a couple attempts, Mia pushes the bear away in a playful little scene. Boomer flips Mia off but there’s only four fingers on the fur glove, so it looks ridiculous. We all bust out laughing, and Mia feigns offense.

  Kelly is hands down the best mascot ever. She has forever been the class clown. Just try to keep a straight face when she’s doing her weird dances or spot-on impressions of teachers. It’s impossible. I have no doubt that Kelly will be on Saturday Night Live someday.

  Mia, Lauren, and Kelly are my main mains. We have been through a crap-ton together. The four of us have been almost completely inseparable since sixth grade—no one speaks of the three months during middle school after Mia kissed Lauren’s boyfriend. Major drams.

  I wave my pom-pom at all my peeps as they head into school. I’m friends with nearly everyone at this school: the theater kids, athletes, activists, gamers, skateboarders, even those girls who throw flags in the air when the band plays. Thanks to my middle school days, I know all too well how it feels to be an outsider. So, I friend everyone. I’m a cheerleader of the people.

  The crowd on the lawn thins out, everyone heading inside to make it to class on time. Kelly comes jogging back over—fresh out of the Boomer mascot suit—in a cheerleader outfit. For some idiotic reason, the mascot must wear the cheerleading outfits to school when we do.

  She tugs at the skirt uncomfortably. “Why must I wear this polyester prison?”

  I laugh.

  “It’s tradition,” Mia says with overwhelming
authority. “You know that, Kelly—you’ve read the Hillcrest Cheerleading Handbook and Bylaws.”

  “Every night before bed!” Kelly says, saluting our captain.

  Here’s my least favorite tradition: wearing our cheerleading outfits on the first day of school. And game day. And Flag Day and Arbor Day and . . . you get the picture.

  It’s the standard-issue cheerleading outfit, complete with an aggressively pleated skirt (short but long enough not to scandalize) and a sleeveless top with HILLCREST stitched across the chest. We have five different cheer outfits, all with varying patterns in our school colors: black, silver, and the brightest red that the eye can register. These getups are crazy stiff and starchy. No kidding, the instructions on the care tag reads: Machine wash cold. Dry by pounding against a rock until the rock breaks.

  “Girls!” Mia yells into a megaphone. “Get your ass to class!”

  Finally, into the air-conditioning.

  PONY, 8:51 A.M.

  After ten minutes of confused wandering, I find my locker. This school is supersize. Four separate corridors—that look exactly the same—and some twisty hallways that lead you nowhere. My last school, about a hundred miles away, was probably half this size.

  I enter the combination, the locker opens, and—for the first time this morning—I take a deep breath. I unload the binders out of my backpack, then pull up my schedule on my phone.

  I’m zooming in on the school map when a kid knocks into me with brute force—he must have been running. His body hits me like a brick wall, but I manage to stay on my feet. My phone goes sliding across the floor, stopping against the trash can.

  Instead of bolting, the kid runs over and fetches my phone, wiping it on his jeans as he returns. Before heading off, he hands me the phone back and says, “Sorry, man.”

  Man.

  Growing up, I wanted to play outside in rock piles with the boys, get dirty, and collect baseball cards. I hated dresses and refused to wear them. Girls made me nervous. I was called a tomboy, which I secretly liked. I pretended that my name was Tom Boy.

  Adults mistook me for a boy often. I liked it, but my mom did not. It would embarrass the hell out of her. “She’s a girl,” my mom would say, and they would apologize, and I would want to disappear. When she wasn’t around, I didn’t correct anyone. I went along with it.