How to (Not) Date a Popstar |✓|

3.2 Up And Down

I was trapped in the Twilight Zone. People were squealing and taking selfies, girls were passing out in their seats. Classmates tagged us on social media; likes, comments, and followers flooded in. I turned off my phone so it wouldn't die, burned by the Cleopatra glares of girls who noticed when Tyler borrowed a pencil or so much as smiled in my direction. I showed him to his classes and helped him find his locker. We skipped lunch in the cafeteria and hid in the library, where Tyler could eat in peace. We were on our way to the next class when we bumped into Quinn, walking the opposite direction.

She was wearing my Champs sweater and a black pair of artfully ripped jeans, her hair pulled back in a high ponytail.

Her steps halted as we approached. I had shared plenty of stories featuring Tyler, so Quinn didn't react like some love-sick groupie, but she didn't smile either.

"Hey." She nodded at Tyler, who nodded back. "You weren't at lunch."

"We were hiding from the mobs," I explained.

"Well, I've got home Home Ec," she said, edging her way around us. "We're ironing clothes and balancing checkbooks. Y'know, real life-changing shit. Catch you after school, A."

I watched her go, mystified by the sudden exit.

"What did you do?" I demanded, rounding on Tyler.

"What do you mean?"

"She hates you."

He shrugged. "It's rare, but it happens."

"Do you give a shit about anything, Tyler?"

"You should know the answer to that, Aaliyah." He walked away too, leaving me stuck somewhere in the middle.

***

At Harbor Village High, classes functioned on block scheduling, which meant every week was split between black days and silver days. If one week had three silver days and two black, the following week would have three black days and two silver. Today was a silver week, on a silver day, which meant my final class was a free period.

During some free periods I went home early, other days I volunteered at the hospital with Aunt Trina or lent my free time to the cheerleaders, helping out the girls in remedial cheering. Most of them were freshmen, in danger of being cut from the Angels and hoping to impress Robin long enough to make it through football season. Securing a seat at the cheerleaders' table solidified your status at Harbor Village High. As a former member of Robin's clique, I knew the power of the cheerleaders' table.

If I had known Tyler had P.E. at the same time I was coaching, I would have had the girls meet me at the football field and not inside the gymnasium. Mr. Newton's fourth period class was running laps on the second floor; Tyler was on his second round, sprinting past the same classmates still jogging the first.

I wasn't the only one who noticed. As captain of the squad, Robin ran a tight ship. The boys and girls weren't normally this chatty, but nothing superseded the sweaty, gorgeous popstar jogging circles over their heads. I clapped my hands, vying for the attention of the ragtag group of students gathered before me. Some were tinkering with their P.E. uniforms, rolling up the waistbands of their black gym shorts, tying their shirts back with scrunchies.

Finally, I was able to gather their attention enough for the two-two-one pyramid. We assembled on the mat, performing the routine's opening steps.

We're angels

We're proud

We're gorgeous and we're loud

Go black!