Jessa

The gym feels louder from the bleachers.

It always does.

Down on the floor, everything looks organized—football players lined up, cheerleaders in formation, the band ready to explode into noise. Up here, it’s chaos. Knees pressed into backs, people yelling over each other, phones already out because apparently nothing counts unless it’s documented.

Mariah and I squeeze into a space halfway up the stands, knees angled sideways so we don’t knock the people in front of us ...