**A Good Old-Fashioned Shunning** Wednesday dawned like any other, but I found myself racing against the clock, cutting through the small parkette that flanked Meadow Hill. The grass, kissed by morning dew, sent a fine mist spraying up to my ankles as my white tennis shoes stumbled across the wet ground. I could have taken the long route, but the bus was my true ally—not just a means of transportation, but a sanctuary where I could edit videos for my pride and joy, Ride or Dance. This social media account, a creation borne from the collaboration between me and Kenji, had evolved into something remarkable. With nearly a hundred thousand followers, it had become a treasure trove of insights, including those behind-the-scenes glimpses of our dance rehearsals. Crystal might scoff at its value, but to me, the ad revenue occasionally transformed into enough grocery money to last the month. Today, however, the light-hearted buzz around Shane beneath my latest rehearsal video flared into a blaze of annoyance in my chest. I contemplated deleting the entire account and tossing my phone into a river. As I hopped off at my stop, my destination loomed ahead—just a hundred yards of asphalt separating me from the high school. Three days a week, I embraced my role as a teacher, shaping the young minds and bodies of aspiring athletes toward their dreams. In reality, this meant teaching cheerleading and basic gymnastics to an exuberant group of kids, aged eight to twelve. This morning, my campers were a lively mix of eleven and twelve-year-olds, clad in white shorts and yellow tees that sported the camp logo. I could already envision them in their pleated cheer uniforms, dazzling us all with their routines come August. Our day was segmented into two: morning and afternoon sessions. Early on, as my group gathered on the blue mats in the gymnasium, I felt the familiar thrill of mentorship. “Alright, my little bunnies!” I began, injecting energy into the room as they assembled. Tatiana, the confident leader of the 11–12s, shot her hand up. “Diana,” she declared, eyes glinting with mischief. “We voted, and we decided we don’t want to be called bunnies anymore.” A chuckle escaped my lips as I suppressed laughter, crouching down to meet the group's mischievous gaze. “And pray tell, why is that?” “They poop everywhere!” she exclaimed, and this time I couldn’t help but laugh. From the corner, I caught Fatima’s grin, which mirrored my amusement. “Fair point,” I acknowledged, shaking my head. “But just now it occurred to you?” Avery chimed in, her face scrunching. “My little brother just got a pet rabbit, and I absolutely despise that thing.” “Alright then,” I mused, weaving a new title with enthusiasm, “How about… let’s get in position, my majestic eagles?” The mood shifted, and I could feel the energy brighten as Tatiana and the others nodded vigorously. Fatima and I shared an amused glance before splitting them into groups of three. With two routines choreographed for my beloved 11–12s and another two for the younger group, I prepared to guide them through stunts, all designed to keep things within their capability. “Chloe, deeper lunge,” I instructed the freckled athlete, watching her determination. “Harper needs a solid base to rely on.” “Why can’t I be a flyer?” Chloe whined, frustration spilling over. “Because you’re a base right now,” I replied, keeping my tone steady and warm. “Remember, everyone gets a turn. For now, let’s focus.” Some kids clung tightly to the dream of being the star, while others shone simply by being enthusiastic. Their excitement breathed life into our sessions, the spirit essential to cheerleading. We dove into our routines, positioning Kerry atop her teammates’ thighs, “Step, lock, tighten!” I called out, ensuring safety as Fatima lightly supported Kerry’s waist. “Perfect! Okay, careful on the dismount. Feet together, Kerry.” She landed flawlessly, beams of pride illuminating her face. “Excellent! Next group!” By noon, the camper’s energy ebbed into luncheon time. We typically gathered outside under the pavilion, and as I peeled off the lid of my Greek salad, I joined my 11–12s at the long picnic table, laughter ringing out as they exchanged whispers, glancing toward a nearby table. “What’s so funny?” I inquired, eyebrows raised. Tatiana smirked, excitement dancing in her eyes. “Crystal has a hickey!” I suppressed a laugh, my mind racing to the implications of Lindley’s behavior. Adjusting my gaze, I spotted Crystal, who appeared unusually absorbed in herself, seemingly disconnected from the chatter around her. “It’s rude to stalk hickeys, girls,” I teased, “We should only stare at pimples.” Laughter erupted, lightening spirits further. “Just kidding! I’m kidding! Seriously, though, remember, zits are forever. My mom’s in her forties, and they still haunt her!” The girls gasped, faces scrunched in faux horror at the thought; puberty was still a distant concern for them, yet for me—a stark reality. After lunch, we had a brief window for free time. I spotted Crystal off to the side, engrossed in her phone, her demeanor heavy. “Hey, are you alright?” I approached her. “You seem off.” “I’m fine,” she snapped, her voice sharp. Then, her bitterness spilled forth. “Actually, no. I’m not fine. You were right about him.” My heart sank. “Lindley?” “Yeah,” she growled, frustration etched across her tiny frame as she perched atop the picnic bench. “He’s such a jerk. And I don’t want an ‘I told you so’ from you.” “I wasn’t going to give one,” I reassured, sensing her vulnerability. “He used me.” Her anger screamed through the air. "And it was so damn obvious.” “What happened?” I probed gently. “Like, I get that it was just a fling, but he didn’t have to be so cruel. It’s like he was waving goodbye—‘best of luck’—right after.” Disbelief twisted my features. I may have found Shane annoying, but such blatant disrespect seemed far beyond his usual demeanor. “Seriously, you don’t believe me?” Her eyes narrowed, and I caught a flash of hurt as she spoke. “It’s not that… I’m just shocked. I didn’t think he’d be like that with you.” Crystal flicked through her messages. “He’s become a total jerk since Audrey,” she muttered, sarcasm dripping from her tone. “Check this.” She handed me her phone, and I waded through Shane’s text: “I’m not interested in seeing you again. Best of luck.” My jaw dropped. “He sent you this the morning after? No way. That’s beyond rude.” “Uh-huh,” she confirmed bitterly, “and I had no idea it was so one-sided until he dropped that little bomb.” “Why did you never text before?” I mused. “Just Insta.” Rereading the words, I couldn’t comprehend how anyone could treat someone they’d been intimate with like this—it felt brutal. “I honestly don’t blame you for being upset. Want me to confront him when I get home?” I offered, excitement mingling with my sympathy. “Please do. He deserves it,” she said, her gaze piercing through her sadness. The bus ride home became a turbulent whirl of thoughts, all revolving around Crystal’s predicament and Shane’s callousness. Best of luck. The phrase echoed in my mind, a line that would ignite a wildfire if ever directed toward me. Upon entering the lobby of the Sycamore, I offered a cheerful greeting to Harry, my face bright as I waved at him. He grunted in response, unperturbed by my kindness. My mood lifted further when I encountered Priya, perched in the vestibule, sifting through stacks of envelopes. “Hey there! Why aren’t you working?” I asked, noticing the oddly familiar setup—only four o'clock! “I snatched a few hours off. Lucy had a visit to the vet,” she replied. “Is she alright?” “Just annual shots—no biggie,” she reassured. “You just missed our loud neighbor.” “Niall?” I ventured. “Nope. No. 2B,” she revealed, “the hockey player. He’s off to see his family for a few days.” “Good riddance,” I muttered, relief flooding through me as I rifled through my own mailbox. Junk mail—just a few promotional trinkets stuffed into my gym bag. Priya narrowed her eyes playfully. “Do we not like him?” “Oh, we definitely do not,” I retorted, my lips curling into a grin. “That boy redefined the term ‘fuckboy’.” Her laughter spilled forth. “Let’s not forget, just because someone is promiscuous doesn’t make them inherently bad, you know.” “Very true,” I admitted. “Still, handling hookups with some grace is essential, and that’s something Shane evidently lacks.” Sharing the details of Shane’s cold text with Priya drew a furious response. “No!” she exclaimed, her disbelief palpable. “Shane didn’t even say, ‘It was fun, you’re amazing, but—’?” “Nothing,” I confirmed, shaking my head in exasperation. “And I was considering including him in the neighborly group chat!” she grimaced. “Bad call. We don’t need that kind of energy,” I replied firmly. “Let’s make sure everyone knows he’s not worth it.” “Exactly,” she affirmed, and I felt a wave of satisfaction wash over me as a plan formed between us. Suddenly, Priya nudged me, whispering, “Don’t look now, but here comes Broomstick Niall.” Sure enough, Niall’s thunderous footsteps echoed from behind. For someone so perpetually cranked about noise, his sheer size and volume were contrasting to his complaints. “Hey, Niall!” I called out, summoning my bravado. He yanked open his mailbox, hardly acknowledging my greeting. “You heard what’s going on in 2B? That hockey player’s probably throwing pucks around his living room!” Exchanging a silent eye roll with Priya, we steeled ourselves against Niall’s incessant ramblings. “Forget about noise complaints, Niall,” Priya countered, her tone light, “we have bigger fish to fry.” “I’ll stick to my complaints about noise, thank you,” he snapped. By now, my patience was wearing thin. “Priya's making the call—no one rolls out the welcome wagon for him.” To my surprise, a genuine smile crept across Niall’s face. “Outstanding. A good old-fashioned shunning.” “So, we just ignore him?” Priya asked with a devious spark in her eye. “Precisely,” Niall answered. “No conversations in the hall, no summer barbecue invites. Make it clear we have no interest in being friends with someone who disrespects the noise regulations.” “Well, we might have different reasons for the shunning,” I teased, but Priya’s grin mirrored my own. “Count me in!” I declared, the thrill of mischief reviving my spirits. And just like that, our unlikely alliance materialized—a pact to shun Shane. In an absurd twist of fate, Niall—once our least favorite neighbor—had transformed into an ally. Who knew that mutual disdain could forge friendships? As I walked away, a smile tugged at my lips, ready for the joy of togetherness against a shared annoyance.