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“Do you think anyone will guess we got this shit from the bakery?” Lyla
asks, holding up a stack of wrapped cookies.
I take the clear plastic bag from her, tied with a red bow, and set it back
down on the long plastic table. “It’s not shit. Because it’s from the bakery.”
School ended four hours ago, but the parking lot is packed full of cars
as we stand behind our table, greeting people before they enter the ball
park. The sun has already set, and the field lighting overhead shines down,
brightening the area as the last of the crowd filters through the gates.
Lyla and I were picked by the coach to work the bake sale tonight, and
as a requirement, we have to wear our cheer uniforms. Fundraising is one of
our many duties, and since we’re not busy rallying the crowd during the
baseball game that’s about to start, we’re trying to earn some money for the
team and acclimate some of the new girls coming in next year.
Technically we were supposed to bake the goods we’re selling—with
the help of the team moms—but we’d dropped the ball, not planning ahead.
It’s spring, school’s almost over, and I’m already swamped as it is. So we