Claudia sips on her Diet Coke and eyes Lucy like she’s not sure she believes her. But she doesn’t say anything.
“So why the soccer team?” Meg asks. “You’re not on it.”
“No, but they’re supposed to be so good, right? And they get, like, zero attention. Their uniforms are practically falling apart from what I’ve heard.”
I nod. “Kiera Daniels was telling me they’re the same uniforms her mom wore in the ’90s.”
“That can’t be possible,” Kaitlyn argues.
“Well, maybe they’re not the exact same uniforms, but they are really old,” I continue. “And we never do a single thing for them even though they’re so great. Marisela Perez made all-state last year and the only reason I even heard about it was because my mom saw some tiny little article in the paper.”
“Yeah, it is pretty ridiculous,” Sara chimes in.
Claudia shrugs. “I don’t mean to be a Debbie Downer or whatever, but how much money can one bake sale raise?” She shakes her Diet Coke can as if she’s trying to measure how much is left. No one says anything for a second, and an awkward silence settles over us. Lucy’s visible glow of excitement fades just a bit.
“Well, I was thinking we could keep doing fund-raisers for them,” she says, not making eye contact with Claudia. “We wouldn’t have just one bake sale. I mean, we could keep supporting them all season long. Kind of like what the rally girls and cheerleaders do for the football team.”
Claudia nods, her expression still uncertain. But just as I’m about to get really pissed at her, she says, “Well, I can make some lemon bars. They’re really good. Viv knows.”
I nod enthusiastically. “They are good. Super good. We could charge at least fifty cents per bar. Maybe even a dollar.” Geez, I sound spastically psyched about these damn lemon bars.
“Okay, don’t oversell the lemon bars, Viv,” Claudia says, giving me a look. But she’s smiling.
*
Right after school on Thursday I pull out Meemaw’s recipe for Magic Squares. It’s a struggle to read her slanty, old-fashioned cursive. When I call her to ask exactly how many cups of butter I need, she practically shouts into the phone with excitement.
“How perfectly ladylike of you, Vivvy! Your mother never liked to bake, you know.” Meemaw may be queen of the Stouffer’s frozen dinner, but give that woman a pie recipe and she’ll make something so good you’ll want to slap someone.
“Well, it’s for a fund-raiser at school,” I tell her. “For the girls’ soccer team.”
Meemaw pauses. “Well, that’s … nice. I didn’t know there was a girls’ soccer team.”
“They almost took state last year,” I say. I’m kind of enjoying blowing Meemaw’s mind.
“Well, bully for them,” she says. “Do you want to come over for dinner later? Or do you want me to come over and help with the squares?”
“It’s okay, Meemaw,” I say, pulling open a bag of chocolate chips and sneaking a few into my mouth. “But thanks.”
By the time Mom gets home late from work, the Magic Squares are cooling on the counter. They smell pretty delicious if I do say so myself. My mother gives a little cheer and heads over to grab one.
“One!” I shout from the couch where I’m doing my homework, scaring Joan Jett, who bolts from the den and down the hallway. “They’re for a fund-raiser at school.”
My mom is already taking a bite as she collapses on the couch next to me like she might faint because the Magic Squares are so good.
“Deeeeeelisssssshhhhh, Vivvy. Seriously.”
I smile. Since the awkwardness the morning after John slept over, we’ve been tiptoeing around each other like parents around a sleeping baby. But right now feels like old times.
“What’s the fund-raiser for?” she asks. When I tell her about the girls’ soccer team and how no one supports them, my mom’s face brightens.
“That is so cool, Viv,” she says, leaning over to push some hair out of my face. “Was it your idea?”
Not really, but kind of yes if you think about it.
“It was my friend Lucy’s.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re doing it.”
I squirm a bit at the compliment before sliding under my mom’s arm, snuggling up close like I did when I was little. She kisses me on top of the head.
“Sorry if I smell like strep throat,” she says.
“No, just like hand sanitizer,” I reassure her.
“John says there’s no way to get the smell off, even if you take two showers when you get home.”
I don’t want to talk about John right now. And I really don’t want to think about John in the shower. My mom threads her fingers through my hair, pushing it back off my face. I try to focus on the coziness of it but suddenly my mom’s arm seems suffocating.
“You know, I should get ready for bed,” I say, forcing a yawn. “I think baking wore me out.”
My mom laughs, oblivious to any weirdness between us.
“Okay,” she says, letting me loose. “And I really think it’s cool about your fund-raiser.” She smiles and I smile back, but the old times are gone.
I brush my teeth and get ready for bed.
*
Lucy has put up more Moxie bake sale flyers all week long, and I’ve helped, too. I think Sara put up a couple. But I’m still not sure how many girls will come out with food. Lucy and I make plans to get to the cafeteria right at the start of lunch, and we commandeer the table in the corner that student groups often use for fund-raisers.
“I even filled out the stupid school group fund-raiser form in the office, so we’re totally street legal,” Lucy says.
“Wait,” I say, pulling back the aluminum foil from my Magic Squares, “did you actually put down on the paper that Moxie is a club?”
“Yeah,” Lucy says with a shrug. “Well, I mean, I just put my name because you only need one person as club representative. But do you think Principal Wilson or anyone in the administration has even noticed that newsletter or even put together that the bathrobe thing was connected to it? Please.”
“I guess,” I say, my heart fluttering. Something about Moxie being official—even just on a fund-raiser permission form filed away in the office—makes me anxious. But I can’t do anything about it now.
At least I don’t have to be anxious about the fund-raiser. Claudia brings her lemon bars and Sara brings banana bread and lots of girls from the soccer team show up with plates of cookies and brownies. Once the sale starts, Lucy grins at every transaction, sliding the dollar bills and coins into an envelope.
Halfway through lunch, Kiera Daniels walks up with her friend Amaya.
“Hey,” Kiera says. Both girls eye the spread.
“Hey, Kiera,” I say. “Hey, Amaya.”
Kiera asks for two lemon bars. She hands over a five dollar bill, and Lucy makes the change while I wrap the bars up in a pink paper napkin.
“So wait,” Kiera asks, “are you the girls who made the newsletter thing? With the bathrobes and the hearts and the stars?” She eyes me, confused. She has to be remembering our conversation in the bathroom the day we marked our hands. When I acted like I didn’t know anything about it.