Free Hotlanta by Mitzi Miller Page A

the senior squad members’ homecoming breakfast. Maria, make sure they come correct, right? I will send them steppin’ if they’re wack, bringing out some bran muffins or something.”
    Dara laughed as she tossed up a high five.
    â€œAnd whose mom was responsible for the snacks today? Um, carrots and dip? What, are we in pre-K? You skinnythings could stand a steak or two to fill out these uniforms properly. And you all should know by now that in order for me to dance at full capacity, I need my sugar and carbs. Don’t play. Dismissed.”
    â€œDamn, is that Ebony over there staring all up in fine-ass Cole’s face?” Dara interrupted, as she leaned into Lauren and pointed four bleachers back. Lauren squinted her eyes to take in a better view; indeed, that scabby trick was all up on her next conquest. Lauren had thought she’d made her intentions clear to him at the pregame rally, when she’d sized him up and decided he’d be the perfect accessory when she accepted her homecoming-queen crown. Clearly, he needed it spelled out. “Damn sure is.”
    Just as Lauren got up from the bleachers to make her next move on Cole, her Sidekick went off. She looked to see who it was but didn’t recognize the number. “Hello?” she shouted into the mouthpiece.
    â€œLauren?” a deep but unsure voice questioned on the other end.
    â€œWho’s this?” she said with even more attitude as she detoured from her original mission, rounded the corner of the big brick football field gate, and stepped closer to Sydney’s silver Saab, Dara in tow.
    â€œIt’s Jermaine,” he said, this time with much more confidence.
    â€œJermaine? Jermaine who?”
    â€œJermaine from the West End—you know, the brother you crashed into?”
    Hold up! The cute boy from the West End? How’d he get her number? Better yet, who the hell told him he could use it?
    â€œRight, right, the service call…” Lauren said, turning to Dara to mouth a good-bye. “That still doesn’t explain how you got this number.”
    â€œLet’s just say a brotha got skills.” He laughed. “You told me if I got the digits, I could call. So I got the digits. Don’t worry about how. And by the way, baby blue on silver is definitely working for you.”
    Lauren looked down at her uniform as if she didn’t know what color it was; her heart did a flip when she realized he’d seen her. Here. This evening. But where was he?
    â€œLook up,” he said.
    â€œWhat?” she said as she fumbled for the keys.
    â€œLook. Up.”
    She did. And there he was, on the hill overlooking the parking lot. Cutie from the West End. Live and in the flesh. She took a quick look around to see if anyone was paying attention. Damn, he was fine.
    â€œWhat are you doing here?” she said into the phone, unsure whether she should smile or hang up and call 911 to report him as a stalker.
    â€œLet’s just say I like football and Brookhaven’s halftimeshow—or, more specifically, a certain cheerleader on the varsity squad who performed in it,” Jermaine said as he walked up to the car.
    Lauren didn’t say anything. She just blushed.
    â€œAnyway, you made it hard for a fan to concentrate, bouncing all over the field like that in that short skirt,” Jermaine continued. “And seeing as you banged up my ride and all, I think you owe me something.”
    â€œBut I’ve already arranged for you to get it fixed.” Playa found her number and her school, too. She knew it was that damn Hal. If he still worked at Paintless, she would have smacked him upside his head. Of course, she might have to track him down to thank him, depending on what the boy had to say next.
    They were standing face-to-face now but still talking into their cell phones.
    â€œI wanted to say thank you like the gentleman you demanded I be when we first met. Why