Get Real by Betty Hicks

and were so hyped about the game that I thought we might explode.
    You could feel it in the air. Excitement. Everywhere. I mean really feel it. Like a vibration or a pulse. As if everyone in the building had tiny sparklers all over them, spewing electric energy in every direction.
    So now we’re in our seats. Taking everything in. All of it is blue.
    We’re passing a bucket of popcorn back and forth, and I’m picking up all the spilled pieces and putting them in a napkin to throw away later, when Jil yells, “Cut that out!”
    â€œCut what out?”
    â€œCleaning!” she shouts.
    â€œOkay,” I say. “I’ll try.” And I do try, but sometimes stuff like that happens without my knowing it.
    Penny loves the ram, who is actually a student dressed in a soft blue costume with curly horns. He high-fived her on the way down the aisle. I guess it’s hard to dress up as a heel with tar on it, so the UNC mascot is a ram.
    She’s loving the cheerleaders, too. They’ve already done so many backflips we’ve lost count. Right now, one of them is actually standing on the hand of a guy cheer-leader, who, amazingly, is holding her straight over his head with one hand.
    Suddenly the guy in the big ram costume saunters onto the court holding a huge toy gun that shoots free T-shirts into the crowd.
    â€œPenny! Look!” Jane laughs her cute little machine-gun laugh and points at him.
    Jil and I know better than to get excited. We’ve spent the last six years complaining about the fact that he never even aimed one in our direction.
    Maybe Jane and Penny have brought us luck, because all of a sudden the ram points the barrel straight up into the crowd where we’re sitting.
    Pop!
    I see it, heading straight toward me. A T-shirt, rolled up like a magazine, shot out of a giant popgun. Just when I think it’s going to sail over my head and land ten rows higher, it loses momentum and arcs practically into my outstretched arms. I grab for it at the same time Jil does. We both clutch opposite ends of the prize and fall back into our seats.
    â€œWe got it!” shouts Jil.
    Everyone around us is smiling and saying, “Way to go, girls!”
    I let go of my end and say, “Here, Jil. You take it.” I’d kill to keep it, but after all, they’re her tickets.
    â€œNo way,” answers Jil. “We both caught it. Fair and square. We both keep it.”
    â€œCan I hold it?” says Penny.
    â€œSure.” Jil hands her the shirt.
    â€œHow can we both keep it?” I ask. “Rip it in half?”
    â€œNo, silly,” says Jil, shoving me playfully. “We’ll take turns. You keep it for a week. I keep it for a week.”
    â€œCool,” I say. “Like when someone wins a trophy but they have to give it back at the end of the season so the next winner can have it.”
    â€œExactly.”
    â€œOr like in that book, The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, when all those girls share the same pair of jeans.”
    Jil high-fives me and says, “Even better.”
    So we giggle and call ourselves the Sisterhood of the Traveling Shirt.
    Then I notice that Penny has put on our blue-and-white shirt. Across the front, it says UNC T AR H EELS , N ATIONAL C HAMPIONS. She’s grinning like crazy, waving her pom-poms, and screaming, “Go, Carolina!”
    Jane’s laughing and clapping.
    I nudge Jil and jerk my head toward Penny.
    Jil stares for a minute, obviously wondering what it means that Penny is wearing our shirt.
    â€œUh, Penny,” says Jil. “It’s okay if you want to wear it. But … uh … it’s our shirt, you know. Mine and Dez’s.”
    â€œWhat?” shouts Penny.
    The game has restarted and the crowd is so loud Jil’s words get sucked up like dust in a tornado.
    â€œIt’s my shirt!” shouts Jil.
    â€œI know! I know!” Penny shouts back.
    Satisfied, Jil and I go