A good old-fashioned shunning

I’M RUNNING LATE ON WEDNESDAY, SO I TAKE A SHORTCUT TO THE BUS stop,

cutting across the small parkette in front of Meadow Hill. The ground is still wet with morning dew, and a light mist of water sprays my ankles as my white tennis shoes drag against the grass.

I could walk, but I prefer the bus because it gives me time to edit my videos for Ride or Dance, the social media account I created for me and Kenji a couple of years ago. I use it mostly to post videos of our dance rehearsals, and then last year at NUABC, we posted a bunch of behind-the- scenes type segments. Somehow, we’ve amassed almost a hundred thousand followers. No idea how that happened, but I’m certainly not complaining. Unlike what Crystal thinks about our paychecks, the ad revenue from this account can be considered pocket change. Sometimes I even make enough to buy groceries for the month.

This morning, I find an exasperating number of comments about Shane under my latest rehearsal video, which makes me want to delete the whole account and then burn my phone.

At my stop, I hop off and walk the remaining hundred yards to the high school, where for three days a week, I mold the minds, bodies, and spirits of young athletes, guiding them along the path to achieving their dreams.

In other words, I teach cheerleading and basic gymnastics to eight- to twelve-year-olds.

This morning’s group of campers are ages eleven and twelve, their uniforms consisting of white shorts and yellow tees emblazoned with the camp logo. They’ll don their pleated cheer uniforms at the final event in August when each group performs two routines for the entire camp, one dance heavy, and one stunt based.

Our camp days are split into morning and afternoon sessions. Since my group is stunting for the first session, we gather on one side of the gymnasium, congregating on a sea of blue mats.

“All right, my little bunny rabbits,” I greet the girls. “Let’s get in position.”

Tatiana, the ringleader of the 11–12s, sticks up her hand. “Diana,” she announces. “We all took a vote and decided we don’t want to be called bunny rabbits anymore.”

I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “I see. Any particular reason?” “Because they poop everywhere.”

The laugh slips out. From the corner of my eye, I glimpse my co- counselor, Fatima, grinning.

“I mean, that’s a fair point,” I acknowledge. “But the poop thing only occurred to you now?”

“My little brother got a pet rabbit this weekend,” Avery explains, her face glum. “I hate that thing with all my heart.”

“All right, then.” I mull it over. “How about…let’s get in position, my majestic eagles.”

“Love it,” Tatiana says emphatically. The other girls are nodding. “Excellent.”

Fatima and I share an amused glance before splitting the campers into groups of three. I’ve choreographed four routines this year, two for my 8– 10s group, and two for the 11–12s, who are my favorite by far.

Since these are children, we keep all the stunts fairly simple. The 8–10s are doing mostly doggy sits and knee sits. Cartwheels and roundoffs for the beginner tumblers. With this group, we’ve been working on double thigh

stands, which is what we start with this morning. Fatima and I act as spotters, keeping a close eye from the back and front.

“Chloe, your lunge needs to be deeper,” I tell the freckled redhead. “Otherwise Harper doesn’t have a stable base.”

“Why can’t I be a flyer?” she whines.

“Because right now you’re a base,” I answer with a patient smile. “We talked about this—everyone will have a chance to be a flyer in the final routine. Right now, we need you as a base.”

She nods sullenly. Some kids are such brats, holding a sense of entitlement that they should be the star. Others are terrible at stunts but so darn happy to be here; they possess the necessary spirit, which is the most important part of cheer.

I help the two bases get into position. The flyer, Kerry, climbs onto her teammate’s thighs.

“Step, lock, tighten!” I remind them.

The bases hold the flyer’s legs. Fatima steps in to lightly support Kerry’s waist as the young girl extends her arms in a V pose.

“Perfect!” I exclaim. “Careful on the dismount. Feet together, Kerry.” She flawlessly lands in front of the stunt, feet closed, face beaming. “Excellent. Next group!”

At noon, we break for lunch. We usually eat outdoors, under the covered pavilion near the football field. I join my 11–12s at one of the long picnic tables and pry off the lid of my Greek salad. The girls are giggling to one another, casting peeks at one of the other tables.

“Share with the class,” I chide.

Tatiana smirks. “Crystal has a hickey.”

I smother a laugh. Lindley leaving his mark, I see.

I glance over, but while I can’t spot this alleged hickey, I do notice Crystal seems subdued. She’s completely zoned out as fellow counselor Natalia babbles obliviously.

“It’s rude to stare at people’s hickeys,” I inform Tatiana. “We only stare at their pimples.”

Everyone breaks out laughing.

“Kidding. I’m just kidding. You should never zit-shame. Also, fun fact

—those things never really go away. My mom is in her forties, and she still gets zits. The rumor that they leave you after your teen years is an urban legend.”

The girls are horrified. They should be. Puberty hasn’t done its damage yet, so all of them still boast that smooth, unblemished skin I use hundreds of dollars’ worth of products to achieve.

After lunch, the campers have fifteen minutes of free time before the afternoon session starts, so I wander over to Crystal who now stands alone, engrossed with her phone.

Her head lifts when I walk up.

“You okay?” I ask. “You seem down.”

“I’m fine.” Then her jaw hardens bitterly. “Actually, no. I’m not fine.

You were right about that jerk.” I sigh. “Lindley?”

“Yeah. He’s such a dick.” Her body language is stiff as she lowers herself onto the top of the picnic table with her feet planted on the bench. “And no, I don’t particularly want an I-told-you-so.”

“I wasn’t going to give one.”

“Good. Because I feel shitty enough as it is. I’m so angry, Di. He totally used me. And, like, he was so blatant about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“Like, I get that he only wanted a hookup, but he didn’t have to be so rude about it. He was basically, like, I never want to see you again, best of luck.”

A crease digs into my forehead. I might find Shane annoying, but I can’t imagine him being so disrespectful toward a woman.

“What, you don’t believe me?” When Crystal notices my dubious face, her own darkens.

“No, I do. I’m just surprised. I don’t think he behaved that way with Audrey.”

Audrey is our teammate from Briar, the one who hooked up with Shane last fall and then sprained her ankle. Yes, she was upset he broke it off, but

she didn’t say a word about Shane doing it in a malicious way.

“Well, maybe he’s become more of a dick since Audrey.” Crystal’s fingers travel over her screen for a moment. “Like, look at this. This is what he sent yesterday.”

She hands me the phone, and I wince when I read Shane’s text.

SHANE:

I’m not interested in seeing you again. Best of luck.

“That’s what he sent the day after you had sex?” I say in disbelief. “Yup.”

“Wow. That is beyond rude.” Because I’m nosy, I try to scroll up to see the rest of the thread. But this is the only message on it. “You guys never texted before this?”

“Only on Insta.”

I reread the message. I can’t imagine sleeping with someone and then receiving this the next morning. Brutal.

“I honestly don’t blame you for being upset.” I give the phone back. “Do you want me to yell at him when I get home?”

“Please do. He deserves it.” He sure does.

On the bus ride home later, I’m still thinking about the way Shane shot Crystal down. Best of luck. I’m surprised she didn’t completely unload on him after that message. If any guy ever treated me this way, I’d lose my shit. But I also have a temper, and confrontation doesn’t faze me. Maybe it fazes Crystal.

When I enter the lobby of the Sycamore, I smile in greeting at Harry, who works the day shift. He doesn’t smile back. Harry is notoriously grumpy and hates everyone, so I don’t take it personally.

I head for the shiny silver grid of condominium mailboxes, pleasantly surprised to find Priya in the vestibule, flipping through a pile of envelopes.

“Hey,” I say as I stick my key in the mailbox lock. “Why aren’t you working?” She usually sees clients until six, and it’s only four.

“I took the afternoon off. Lucy had a vet appointment.” “Oh no, is she okay?”

“Annual shots. Nothing to worry about. You just missed our neighbor.” “Niall?”

“No. 2B. The hockey player. I heard him tell Harry he’s heading out of town to see his parents for a few days.”

“Good riddance,” I mutter.

Her eyes narrow. “Do we not like him?”

“We certainly don’t.” I peer into my mailbox. I find a few pieces of junk mail that I stuff into my gym bag. “He gives new meaning to the word fuckboy.”

Priya grins. “You realize being promiscuous doesn’t make one a bad person, right?”

“Of course not. But one should also handle their hookups with tact, and that is something Shane is lacking.”

I quickly tell her about the way he treated Crystal, reciting his morning- after message verbatim. Yes, I memorized it.

Priya’s jaw drops. “No.” “Yes.”

“He didn’t even say, I had a good time? You’re an amazing person, but… It was fun but…” She lists all the polite platitudes Shane could’ve offered Crystal and didn’t.

“Nope.”

“And I was thinking of inviting him to the neighbors group chat!” “Oh, bad idea. We don’t want that kind of energy in the group chat.”

“You’re right. We don’t,” she says firmly. “In fact, I’ll spread the word.

Make sure everybody knows to steer clear of this creep.”

“Good call,” I say, turning my cheek so she doesn’t see my grin.

“Ugh.” Priya nudges my shoulder with her own. “Don’t look now, but here comes Broomstick Niall.”

I hear his loud footfalls from the entryway behind us. For someone who lodges so many noise complaints, you’d think he’d work on moving with a lighter step.

Niall’s mailbox is next to mine, so there’s no avoiding him. “Hey, Niall.”

He yanks out his mail, ignoring my greeting. “Have you heard what’s going on in 2B? I swear, that hockey boy must be throwing pucks around his living room.”

Priya and I exchange an eye roll behind his head. We’ve both learned to brush off Niall when he claims another neighbor is too loud.

“Forget about the noise, Niall,” Priya advises. “We have other things to dislike him for.”

“I’ll dislike him for the noise, thank you,” he says tightly. Jeez. Get over it, man. Life is noisy.

“Priya is putting out the call for everyone to not roll out the welcome wagon,” I tell Niall.

For the first time ever, a genuine smile spreads across his lips. “Outstanding. A good old-fashioned shunning.”

“So we completely ignore him?” Priya asks with an evil look.

“Exactly,” he replies. “Don’t talk to him in the hall. Don’t invite him to any of the summer barbecues. Really drill it in that we have no interest in getting to know someone who doesn’t respect the noise ordinances.”

“Well, that’s not why we’re shunning him, but sure,” I say. Priya grins at me. “You in?”

“Oh, definitely.” Nothing would give me greater pleasure than tormenting Shane Lindley.

“Then it’s settled, we’ll make a pact to shun him.” Niall beams proudly.

I can’t believe Broomstick Niall is now my ally. Before Shane moved in, Niall was the person Priya and I disliked most in the building, and now here the three of us are, organizing a shunning.

Nothing like hate to bring people together, I guess.