Make a Move, Sunny Park!

Chapter 1
Three words: Inflatable. Dinosaur. Costume.
That’s how I’ll stand out from all the other people doing the Supreme Beat Dance Challenge on my social media feed.
It’s so genius, I could smack myself. I mean, who wouldn’t love seeing a giant T-rex getting down to the hottest K-pop dance track of the year? It’s guaranteed to get clicks, maybe go viral, even. There’s no way I won’t win. Now it’s just a matter of filming it, filtering it, captioning it, stickering it, hashtagging it, and posting it. Then it’ll be in the bag.
Zipping myself in, I switch on the tiny fan, and the crinkly plastic quickly puffs up until it’s as taut as a balloon. The strong chemical odor nearly makes me retch, but then I catch a glimpse of the ferocious six-foot-tall Tyrannosaurus rex looking back at me from the mirror, and I crack a smile. This is going to kill.
Peeking out from the underneath the dinosaur’s mouth, I adjust my camera a final time to make sure the angles are all right before hitting play on my computer.
Sweat beads up on my brow as I scuttle to the cleared-out space in the middle of my bedroom. It’s hotter than PE armpits in this costume, but I can’t think about that. To collect myself, I take a deep breath before the song begins.
As soon as the first note of the frenetic trap beat drops, I’m a beast! The thumping cadence pulsates through my body as I sidestep and gyrate—a large lizard letting loose. The fact that no one will be able to see my face must have a freeing effect on me. My movements are so much bolder and more finessed now than in all my hours of practice!
Burning up and nearly out of breath, I’m just hitting my stride as the song launches into the dance break.
I’m busy body-rolling and booty-shaking when, out of nowhere, the door creaks open.
“Sunny?” a voice shouts over the pumping bass line.
I stop, whipping my giant dinosaur head around.
My best friend approaches, looking bewildered. “What are you doing in that thing?”
“Bailey?” Flustered, I unzip myself from the costume and emerge glistening with sweat. “Don’t mind me . . . I was just . . .” I slam my laptop closed, shutting off the camera and blaring music. “I wasn’t expecting you until later.”
In her text, she said she’d be coming over to show me something “very important.” She’s not supposed to be here for another fifteen minutes.
She picks up the now-deflated costume from the floor and tosses it on my bed. “Oh, right, I came a little early. Your grandma let me in,” she says with a smirk. “So what’s with all this, anyway? Halloween isn’t for two months.”
I let out a sheepish giggle. “It’s nothing. It’s just a video I’m making for this online dance challenge thing,” I reply, scooting my dinosaur costume hastily back into the box.
“Let me guess.” She taps her chin with her fingernail. “Does this have anything to do with your little Korean boy band?” she says with the slightest taunt in her voice.
“Maybe,” I say, giving her arm a playful shove. “How’d you know, anyway?”
“What else could it be for? Look at this place!” ­Bailey spins in a circle, gesturing at my pale-pink walls, which are plastered with Supreme Beat posters. “You’re obsessed with them, Sunny.”
I straighten the albums that are arranged by release date on my shelf. “You say it like it’s a bad thing.”
She takes her backpack off and nestles into my desk chair, hugging her knees. “So you got dressed up as a dinosaur for a K-pop dance challenge, huh?”
“Well, it’s not just any dance challenge,” I rush to explain. “See, Supreme Beat is going to choose a select number of videos from the hashtag, and the winning picks get barricade tickets!” I point to the date triple-circled on my wall calendar. November 17: SUPREME BEAT CONCERT.
She blinks once, but her face doesn’t move a muscle. “Cool.”
Clearly she’s not understanding the magnitude of what this means. “No, it’s more than cool, it’s amazing. Do you know how hard it is to get barricade tickets? They’re like five hundred dollars and they sell out as soon as they go on sale,” I explain, getting myself worked up at the thought. “I really need to win them. It’s my only chance to see Supreme Beat live.”
Bailey gets up only to plunk herself onto my bed face-first. “Here I thought your whole K-pop infatuation would die by the time we hit middle school . . .” she says, her voice muffled by my pillow. “But it’s only gotten worse.”
“You know, if you gave it a chance, you might actually like it, too,” I say, twisting a strand of my hair around my finger. “It’s a lot of fun!”
“Sorry, but Supreme-whatever sound like they’ve had one too many Monster Energy drinks. They need to take it down a notch, in my humble opinion.” Bailey scrunches her nose like she’s diagnosing a foot fungus infection.
“They’re not all like that. What did you think about the song I sent you last night?” I ask. 
“Meh, it wasn’t as bad as the others, but I don’t know about the lyrics—what is that song even about?”
My eyes widen at her blasphemy. “It’s called ‘Precious’ and it’s about friendship. It’s actually pretty deep if you read the translation.” I should know. I’ve learned every lyric of every song, including the Korean ones. Which is saying a lot because, despite the three years of Saturday language school my parents made me attend, I only have the skills of a kindergartener.
“Sorry, Sunny. Don’t take this the wrong way. The song is cute, and I can see why you like it, since you’re Korean and all.” She stretches her arms back and clasps her fingers behind her head. “But I prefer music that’s, you know, heavier, more mature.”
Ugh. Not this “mature” stuff again. It might as well be a code word for all things boring and depressing. Not long ago, Bailey would have been down to do random stuff like dress up and dance around with me like a big dork, just for the fun of it. Like the time in fifth grade when we reenacted the whole story of Frozen using random vegetables from the fridge. Anna was a zucchini with orange yarn hair and Elsa was an eggplant with a Saran Wrap cape. It was hilarious.
But now that we’re seventh graders, this would be unthinkable. All Bailey wants to do is talk about art or her emo poems or her bleak indie rock bands, and everything else is “babyish” in her “humble opinion.”
Sometimes I miss the way things used to be.
“Supreme Beat’s got other songs that are more mellow, too. I can send you links for those if you want,” I offer.
“Eh, maybe.” But she says it in a way that tells me she most definitely won’t listen to them, which sucks but honestly doesn’t surprise me much. That’s Bailey for you. She likes what she likes and doesn’t like what she doesn’t like, and she rarely changes on either front. She’s always been this way.
“So what’s the big urgent news you needed to tell me in person, anyway?” I ask, changing the subject.
“Oh, right!” Bailey’s eyes light up as she digs around in her backpack until she finds a packet of papers. “Check it out,” she says, showing me the registration form for the Ranchito Mesa Middle School Dance Team tryouts.
“Huh? Since when have you ever been interested in joining the Dollies?” I ask, scanning the page. For the month that we’ve been at Ranchito Mesa, she’s never had anything nice to say about them. I remember her going on a rant about how the name “Dollies” itself is exclusionary. Technically, the school officially changed it to the Dolphins to address that, but people have been slow to make the change. Do dolphins even dance?
She shoves my stuffed animals off my bed so she can scoot next to me. “What do you mean? I love to dance,” she says with a pout. “Not that I’d ever admit this in front of my mom, but to be totally honest, I kind of miss dancing. A lot, actually.”
“Me too,” I confess. There’s a sudden ache in my chest. It’s been nine months since Bailey convinced me to quit ballet with her, but for some reason it feels like it’s been so much longer.
“I figured.” She hands me the packet. “Which is why I think trying out would be a really great opportunity. For the both of us!”
“Both of us? Really?” I bite the side of my lip. I don’t know how I feel about that.
“Yes—not only could we dance together again, we could also get more plugged in to school stuff.” She looks at me expectantly. “Maybe it’s time we get out of our comfort zones and start interacting with other people for once.”
“Oh.” I give her a smile that isn’t really a smile. I was under the impression she liked hanging out just the two of us. That’s the way it’s been since the third grade. Not that I’m against making more friends, but I can get really quiet and awkward around people I don’t know. Maybe it’s because I have social anxiety disorder, though my mom prefers to call it overactive stranger danger. 
“I don’t know, Bales,” I start to say as heat creeps up my neck. “I usually try to avoid situations where people are staring at me, waiting for me to make a mistake.” A sudden image of me jumping into toe-touchers while splitting my pants right down the crotch flashes before my eyes. “Yeah, I don’t think so.” I hand the application back to her.
Her eyes shoot up as she picks up on my escalating anxiety. “Sunny, you used to perform solos all the time in front of a bajillion people at our ballet recitals. This is nothing compared to that.”
“That’s different.” Dancing in front of a dark audit­o­rium full of cheering parents and grandparents is one thing, but dancing in front of a horde of judgy fellow middle schoolers in broad daylight is literally my worst nightmare.
“It’s the same thing,” Bailey says with a casual fling of her wrist. “Besides, it’s not like you’re going to be alone. There will be a bunch of other people dancing on the stage with you. Including me.”
“Good point,” I reply, my muscles relaxing a little bit. The thought of her being with me takes some of the edge off my nerves.
“We’re getting older, and we should try new things.” She clutches my pillow. “So, what do you say? Will you try out with me next week, then? I’ll help you get ready.” Her smile is so dazzling, her braces gleam in the lamplight. “Pretty please?”
Words don’t come out of my mouth because my brain is still buffering. On one hand, everything about trying out makes me want to bury my head in the sand like an ostrich. But on the other, Bailey is begging me to do this, and I’d hate to disappoint her.
I wince. She gets so mad when I let her down.
“Hello? Anybody there?” Bailey waves her hand in front of my face, her eyes narrowing with a flicker of irritation. “C’mon, Sunny. Don’t leave me hanging like every other person in my life has . . .” she says with a sharpness in her voice. “Are you in or not?”
The hairs on my arm stand up straight the way they do whenever I’m put on the spot.
“Uh, sure, why not?” I say, quickly relenting. “I’m in.”
To my relief, the corners of Bailey’s eyes crinkle as she grins. “Yay, I knew I could count on you!” she yells, nearly bowling me over in a giant bear hug. “I’m so glad we’re doing this together.”
“Me too,” I say, our cheeks still smooshed together.
She releases me from her grip. “That’s why I love you. You’re so ride-or-die.” Then she sticks her hand out at me. “Put ’er there, partner,” she says in a faux cowboy accent.
I stop. “But didn’t you say that you don’t want to do this any—” 
“Just not in public, you big dork!” She bops me in the ribs.
“Oh, got it,” I say, grateful that it hasn’t been totally banned like all the other things she’s deemed “too immature.”
We hold hands and do our secret handshake, bumping our forearms together and then our elbows before ending with an exaggerated shoulder shimmy shake while making a funny face. As usual, we collapse into a fit of giggles. I don’t know what it is, but the scrunched nose and bugged-out eyes crack us up every time. We get up, jumping in circles, howling until we’re clutching our stomachs, gasping for air as my cotton-candy-pink walls spin around us.
It feels so good to joke with her like this. It’s almost like she’s the old Bailey again.
Hope blooms within me.
Maybe if we make the team, it could be like this all the time.
Just like it used to be.

Chapter 2
The next day, Bailey is over and we’re helping my grandma make dumplings in the kitchen.
“Halmoni, why are yours so perfect and mine look like alien blobs?” I pinch the delicate wrapper into creases, concentrating on not tearing the dough.
“At least yours doesn’t look like a turd,” Bailey says, showing me hers, which admittedly does look like a little poop, especially the swirly part at the top.
I giggle as my grandma takes my misshapen dumpling, ignoring our shenanigans. “Girls, in Korean, we call it mandu,” she says, refolding the wrapper so fast her fingers are a blur. “To have the nice shape, you must be patient and practice.” She grabs all the finished ones from the bamboo basket with her chopsticks and throws them into the oiled pan with the tiniest flick.
The savory aroma of sesame oil wafting up from the stove makes my stomach rumble.
“In Korea, there is a saying that if you make ugly mandu, you will have ugly children,” she explains, wiping down the granite countertop.
“What? Seriously?” I say with a snort. “Dang, that’s harsh!”
Bailey tosses her mandu into the basket, and it lands with a thump. “Looks like my future offspring are in deep doo-doo, then!”
Halmoni keeps a straight face. “Look at your dad—he is okay now but maybe not so cute when he was a boy. Big head and big nose and big teeth and big glasses. Same as your uncle in San Jose and your aunt in LA. All ugly children!” She makes an unflattering face, scrunching her cheeks and flaring her nostrils. “But I keep prac­ticing making mandu, and now they’re not ugly anymore! Because of me.”
I smack my forehead. My grandma has absolutely no filter whatsoever. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that we’re, in fact, related.
Bailey turns to me and mouths, “I love her.”
Scooping crispy golden mandu onto our plates with her handy slotted spoon, Halmoni continues. “Eat a lot. You need energy to practice for dance team tryouts.”
I let out a sigh of dread. “Don’t remind me. I’m so nervous I could hurl.”
“You will be great. You are a good dancer like me.” She gives me a whack on my arm. “Stop your negative thinking! Remember what the doctor said? Breathe and replace with positive thoughts.”
To my horror, she closes her eyes and inhales slowly through her nose, demonstrating the calming technique we learned at the Coping with Social Anxiety workshop Mom made me go to a few months ago.
Luckily, when I glance over at Bailey to see her reaction, she’s turned the other way, checking her phone. She doesn’t even notice my grandma’s exaggerated guttural breaths.
“Everything okay?” I ask, noticing the dark look that’s come over her face.
“Ugh, it’s my mom. She’s on her way with Darren,” she says, rolling her eyes at the mention of her mom’s boyfriend.
“Uh-oh.”
Bailey turns to my grandma. “I should get going. Thanks for feeding me again, Halmoni,” she says, botching the pronunciation so it sounds more like harmony. I’ve never bothered to correct her, and if I did now, it’d be too weird.
My grandma hands her a container full of mandu to go. “Take this with you. For later.”
“Don’t mind if I do.” Bailey takes the Tupperware and gets up from the counter.
“Here, I’ll walk you out,” I offer, and we head over to the front door together.
“Can you believe my mom and Darren?” Bailey sits down on the floor to put on her chunky combat boots. “They might as well get their hips fused together!”
From the little I’ve seen, the guy seems normal enough­—at worst he tries a little too hard—but Bailey hates his guts. And all his other internal organs, too.
“I wish he’d disappear . . .” But then her grimace transforms into a wide toothy grin. “Who knows, though? Maybe if I get on the Dollies, he will.”
“Huh? What are you talking about?” I’m having trouble keeping up with Bailey’s ever-changing moods.
“Think about it, Sunny.” She pulls her backpack onto her shoulders and tugs the straps with a sharp jerk. “If I’m on the dance team, my parents will have no choice but to come see me perform. Together.”
“And?” What does this have to do with Darren?
“And who knows? Maybe some forced time together will make them want to work things out. Rekindle the love, maybe?” She makes an explosion gesture with her fingers. “And then poof, no more Darren.”
“Ahhhh, I get it now,” I say, not so much because I think her plan will work, but more because this explains Bailey’s sudden desire to try out for the dance team. I should have known this was never about making new friends or whatever it was she said yesterday. This whole thing is yet another elaborate ploy to get her parents back together.
Though, honestly, I don’t see it happening. From what I remember, Mr. and Mrs. Stern fought like cats and dogs. But what do I know? Maybe it’ll be different this time around. There are actual Disney movies based on this very thing. Plus, if Bailey wants this so badly, then as her best friend, I should support her fully, right? Isn’t that what best friends do for each other?
“Getting on the team will change everything for us,” she says, pointing finger guns at me as she heads out the door.
After Bailey’s gone, I can’t help but feel concerned. Knowing her, she’s going to be crushed if her plan doesn’t work.
I guess I’m not the only one who is worried, because as soon as I’m back in the kitchen, Halmoni asks, “Is Bailey okay?”
I open the fridge and pull out a soda. “Yeah, I think so.”
Halmoni’s mouth straightens into a line. “So many changes in her family.” She wipes down the counter with a small towel. “Must be hard.”
“I’ll say.” It’s dizzying even for me. This time last year, Bailey’s parents were still married, and her mom was still an accountant who drove in our carpool to the ballet studio and sewed our recital costumes. Who would have ever guessed that by now, she’d be busting her butt running a cold-press juice bar up in the boonies with her hipster coworker-turned-boyfriend, Darren? It’s a lot. No wonder all Bailey ever wants to do is hole up in her room and mope. “I think she misses her mom being around more,” I add.
Halmoni puffs out a small sigh as she puts some more dumplings in the sizzling pan. “Takes time to get used to when someone is gone. You cannot erase pain, only wait for it to lift little by little.”
It pinches when I realize Halmoni is probably speaking from her own experience. If anyone knows about absence, it’s her. Last year, my grandpa lost his battle with cancer after being sick for a long time, leaving my grandma all alone after fifty years of marriage. After she lost a ton of weight, my dad got worried and convinced her to stay with us for a long visit. Lucky for me, she’s liking it so much that she sold her house. Hopefully that means she’ll be staying with us permanently.
When Halmoni first moved in, she kept to herself and slept a lot. The only time she wasn’t sullen was when she saw Supreme Beat come on a variety show on the Korean channel. To cheer her up, I kept finding K-pop content for her and we’d dance together, and in time, she slowly crawled out of her sadness. I’ll always be grateful to Supreme Beat for that.
She’s much better now, but I know there are days that are still tough. Sometimes she goes on long walks by herself and comes back with swollen red eyes.
I don’t want Halmoni to be reminded of any of that. “Guess what,” I say to distract her. “My genius dinosaur costume idea didn’t get picked for the Supreme Beat Dance Challenge.”
Her mouth forms an O. “Jinjja?” she asks, shocked.
“I know. I thought for sure it’d win,” I say, stuffing my mouth with another mandu. “I guess I’m not as original as I thought.” When I searched the hashtag, I counted a total of fourteen posts that had inflatable costumes. Three sharks, one hot dog, three Pikachus, and seven dinosaurs.
“That’s too bad,” Halmoni says, helping herself to a mandu.
“I really wanted us to go to the concert,” I whine. “Maybe it wasn’t meant to be.”
I’d been pinning all my hopes on this challenge ever since my parents refused to buy tickets. I think I could have convinced them if it were closer to home, but when they found out it’s all the way in San Francisco, they were a hard no. Even when Halmoni offered to chaperone and pitch in to help out with the costs, my parents wouldn’t hear of it. They said a couple of five-hundred-dollar tickets plus the cost of airfare plus hotel was too much for “someone my age.” They told me the only way I could go is if I could find a way to pay for it myself, but I think they just said that knowing it’d be a lost cause. Maybe they were right.
Halmoni turns off the stove and brings the last of the mandu to the counter. “Don’t give up so easily, Sunny-ya. If you want to go, you can find a way.”
“But how?” I flop an uneaten mandu onto my plate with my chopsticks. “Even if I saved my allowance for a full year, it still wouldn’t be enough to buy tickets. Two years, even.”
“That’s nothing!” Halmoni scoffs. “When I was your age, we were so poor that I used to make money by braiding my classmates’ hair so I could go to dance class. And you are like me.” She taps her temples. “Very determined. It’s in our blood.”
My grandma tells the best stories of when she was a kid. Like the time she snuck back and forth across the border during the Korean War to sell hard-boiled eggs to soldiers on both sides. Or the time she organized a betting ring for arm-wrestling contests to make money. Back in the day, she was a true hustler who played with danger like it was a game. Too bad I didn’t inherit any of her fearlessness. The closest I get to living on the edge is when I drink milk on the date it expires.
She dips her dumpling in soy sauce. “There is always a way to make money; you just have to find it. Don’t you know anyone who is good at selling things?”
I drum my fingers on the counter, racking my brain. “Now that you mention it, there’s this girl who goes by @1SUPREMEbeaTZfan on the fan app. She’s super popular for selling really cute handmade enamel pins. Maybe I can ask her for tips about how to set up my own business.”
“Good start,” Halmoni says with a look of approval.
The gears in my brain start whirring as I begin my research.
Looking for inspiration, I scroll through @1SUPREMEbeaTZfan’s website. She’s got it all laid out: nice photos, cute descriptions, and packaging. I bet she makes buckets of money every week. Hopefully, she can give me some pointers.
As a rule, I don’t start conversations with total strangers if I don’t have to, but desperate times call for desperate measures. At least this is online and I don’t have to interact face-to-face. To her, I’ll just be @solarSBluv, another Supreme Beat fan from the app.
I can do this.
I just need to reach out to her.
Inhaling deeply through my nose, I count.
Five, four, three, two, one.
Here goes nothing.
Fingers tingling, I fire off a message to her.
If it’ll help me get closer to getting those tickets, it’s worth a try.

Chapter 3
“Here it is, Sunny Bunny!” Dad says the next day as we walk around to where Mom is backing up a giant chassis attached to their truck. When your parents own and operate a parade float design business, you get used to all sorts of things pulling up in your yard. Today they’re showing me the float prototype they’ve been preparing for their upcoming sponsors’ meeting.
Dad whips off the tarp, revealing a fancy ballroom scene with four-feet-tall Styrofoam elephants frozen in mid-prance. “Just imagine it twice as large and covered in crepe paper.”
“Looks awesome, Dad!” I say, genuinely impressed. I’ve seen the mock-ups, but seeing it in 3-D is totally different. “The chubby elephants are adorable. Love the design, Mom.”
“Thanks, honey.” She gives the float a good knock with her gloved hand. “I don’t want to jinx it, but I think we’ve got a real chance to land the Kiwanis International contract and beat out C&C once and for all!” Mom says, fluttering her fingers together greedily like a cartoon villain.
Most people don’t know that parade float builders are basically a bunch of rival nerd factions that live to one-up each other. There are only a handful of companies that do this, so they all know one another and compete for the same big contracts. Apparently, Kiwanis has the biggest budget of all the other sponsors and is thus the one everyone wants.
My parents’ company, the Parade Brigade, lost the bid last year to C&C, and they’ve been on a mission to overthrow them ever since. It’s a whole situation.
Recently, my dad, who used to be a software engineer, has been concentrating on creating cool techy features to edge out the competition. He’s developed an augmented-reality app that lets parade-goers view the float in an interactive way from their phones, sort of like how the game Pokémon GO works. It’s supposed to be their secret weapon.
“Prepare to experience the parade of the future!” he says, using his faux news announcer voice as he pulls out his phone.
With great flourish, he taps the activate button on the screen.
We wait for something cool to happen.
But nothing does.
Uh-oh.
“Hmm, that’s disappointing,” Dad mutters, trotting over to check the signal receptor in the float’s control panel. “The elephants are supposed to dance on the screen as merengue music plays.”
“Why isn’t it working?” Mom starts freaking out in typical Mom fashion. “We can’t beat C&C with a dud app,” she says, pacing nervously as Dad tinkers with the computers. “What are we going to do? The meeting is in a month!”
Clearly, I inherited my ability to stay cool under pressure from my mother.
“It might be the Bluetooth.” Dad grunts as he pulls up a ladder and leans it against the device panel. “Sunny, can you go up there and reset the signal?”
“Sure,” I say, climbing the nine-foot ladder.
“Great job, Sunny,” Dad coaches from below, checking the analytics from his phone. “It’s that one right there—careful of the live wires.”
Gingerly, I poke my fingers between the snaking colored cords to tap the red button in the back of the panel.
“That’s the one!” Dad says, giving me a thumbs-up. “Thanks, Sunny!”
I sigh. My parents’ sense of danger is so warped. They’re totally okay with me possibly electrocuting myself, welding steel poles, and manipulating Styrofoam while standing on scaffolding, but going to a concert in San Francisco with my grandma is “too dangerous”?
I don’t understand them at all.
As I climb back down, something buzzes from my back pocket. It’s the alarm I set for myself on my phone.
“Hopefully that’ll fix it,” I say, brushing the dust off my pants. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go to Bailey’s to practice for dance team tryouts.”
Their heads swivel sharply in my direction, and their conversation comes to a screeching halt.
Dad’s eyebrows shoot up into twin arches. “Did you say dance team tryouts?”
“Yeah,” I say with a shrug, trying to keep it casual. I hate it when they make everything such a big deal. “Why do you look so surprised?”
Mom, stunned and blinking, replies, “You’re not typically keen on doing new things with new people, what with your social anxiety and all.”
I flinch. I wish she’d stop bringing it up all the time. Like it’s the only thing that defines me or something.
She catches herself. “But I think that’s a splendid idea! It’ll be such a great opportunity for you to broaden your horizons and challenge yourself. Just like the doctor suggested at the workshop.” 
I resist the urge to roll my eyes even though I really want to.
“It’s great that you’re putting yourself out there, Sunny Bunny!” Dad says, giving me a hearty slap on the shoulder. “Atta girl!”
“It’s not a huge thing.” I shrug. “Bailey just thought it’d be a good way to make more friends.”
Mom purses her lips. “Bailey? Is she trying out, too?”
I nod. “Why?”
“No reason.” She shoots Dad a glance with bulging eyes. “I just want to make sure that this is something you want to do.”
“What do you mean?” I scratch the nape of my neck. “Why would you ask that?”
Her lips twitch like she wants to say something. “Well, I know how pushy Bailey can be, and I don’t want you to put yourself in another situation where you’re going along with her just to go along with her.”
I cross my arms. “When have I ever done that?”
Mom adjusts the platform for the Styrofoam elephants. “How about the time she pressured you to do the zombie escape room and you had to sleep in our bedroom with the bathroom light on for a solid week?”
“Oh, come on, that was forever ago.” Six months at least.
Dad throws the blue tarp back over the prototype. “Or the time she gave you that ‘hairstyle makeover,’” he says with air quotes.
My chest caves. In fifth grade, Bailey was inspired by something she saw on TikTok and was convinced that she could give me really sophisticated blunt bangs. They ended up so short, I looked like I got into a fight with a weed whacker. It took months to grow them back. Thank God for headbands.
Mom clears her throat. “Sunny, I think it’s fantastic that you’re trying out for the team, but you shouldn’t do it just because Bailey is doing it.” The setting sun casts a long shadow on half her face. “You don’t have to say yes to everything she suggests, you know.”
Ha! Clearly, Bailey Stern’s never been mad at her before, but I’d rather not get into all that again. She wouldn’t understand.
I kick pebbles on the concrete. “I’m not doing this for her. I want to do this for me. I think it’ll be fun.” I say it so convincingly, I almost fool myself.
“Well, then we support you one hundred percent.” Dad holds out his open arms for a hug. “Bring it in, bring it in!”
They wrap their arms around me, forming what we used to call a “Sunny Sandwich,” which was a lot cuter when I was little. Now that we are all about the same height, it’s just awkward, at least for me.
“As long as this is what you really want, I’m behind you.” Mom plants a kiss on the top of my head. “I’d hate for you to get steamrolled.”
“Thanks, but you don’t need to worry about me so much,” I say, wiggling free. “I’ll be fine.”
At least I think I will be.