Shush III

“Are you with the Wave?”  Mickey asks.

I feel my face, my fingers, my arms, my legs, and all the way down to my toes flush the color of the bright red lipstick Gitt wears. He must have hugged his way up on my side of the bleachers and I missed it.
 
“I’m here for a make-up practice, but maybe next time?” I say.  I incline my head in Gitt’s direction as if she has all of the answers.

“A practice with Gitt?” He asks.

“I’m next,” I say.

Gitt seems distracted by Bev and a dance move they are trying to figure out.  They don’t notice when I point at them as if Gitt is tutoring Wave girls and cheerleaders on how to shake one’s butt.  I think about how the leader of the Wave would answer Mickey.  And I think about how I could be any other kind of girl than who I am.

It sinks in what I have blabbered about hanging out another time instead of now.  What’s worse is after one sparkling smile after another, it seems Mickey believes me.  I am his baton twirler is one of many broken dreams.