Chapter 1
Daisy
There’s something about the sound of sneakers squeaking against a gym floor that feels like home.
The echoing slap of soles, the rhythmic bounce of the music, the swell of laughter. God, I love it. The whole gym smells like floor polish and faint sweat, and somehow, it’s comforting and familiar. Like everything’s in its right place.
“You ready, Sandoval?” Ezra calls out, grinning from where he’s practicing his tumbling on the far end of the court.
His bright ginger curls are tied up in a bun; his face already glistening with effort. He sticks the landing of his back handspring and throws his arms up like he’s won gold at the Olympics.
I throw him a dazzling smile and give him a thumbs-up. “Always!”
“Ugh, how are you this perky after such a long day?” Talia groans from the stands where she’s tying her laces. “What kind of unholy pact did you make to be this alive without caffeine?”
“Easy,” I chirp. “My soul is powered by glitter, chaos, and the unshakable belief that today is going to be a good day.”
She snorts, and Ezra whoops. “That’s our Daisy!”
I twirl once on the spot, my golden ponytail bouncing as I do, arms outstretched in cheerleader glory.
The gym lights catch the shimmer of my uniform—the deep navy and silver of our college colours—as I flash the kind of smile that could blind someone if they weren’t careful.
Because this moment? This is mine. People always underestimate cheerleaders, like we’re just glorified pom-pom holders.
But they don’t see the bruises, the torn ligaments, the late practices.
They don’t see the tumbling drills, the lifts that demand complete trust in your team not to let you crash to the ground.
We fight gravity every damn day. And I made sure I made it look as easy as freaking possible.
I grab my water bottle and jog over to the mat where Ezra’s now stretching with dramatic flair, legs out, arms above his head like a ballerina.
“I’m feeling good today,” I say, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “What’s our lineup?”
“Full stunt routine,” he says. “Coach wants to nail it before the game next week. You’re flying.”
“Perfect,” I beam.
Flying is my favourite. There’s nothing like the moment your feet leave the ground and the world disappears for a breath of air. That second where gravity forgets you exist, and you’re just free… untouchable. Like maybe all the pain and bills and grief down below can’t reach you up there.
As the team begins assembling, Coach blows her whistle and shouts for us to circle up. I stand shoulder to shoulder with my squad, clapping my hands, radiating sunshine. Because that’s who I am.
Daisy Sandoval: Psychology major. Cheerleader.
Optimist. Chronic overachiever. The girl who always has snacks in her bag, a first-aid kit on hand, and a smile for everyone.
The girl who can hold her world together with sheer force of will.
Who can pay rent, take extra shifts, and still hit every mark on the routine like it’s nothing.
No one sees the cracks. Not Ezra, not Talia, not my professors.
And especially not my drunk of a father who hasn’t been sober a day since my mom died.
And that’s exactly how I like it. I’m not broken.
I’m bright. I’m the sun. And I don’t burn out.
“Focus up, sunshine,” Ezra sing-songs from behind me. “You’re two seconds behind, and it’s throwing off my entire centre of gravity.”
I spin on my heel with a grin. “Maybe if you didn’t do that dramatic shampoo commercial hair toss every time we hit a pyramid, we’d all be better off.”
Ezra gasps, full drama, one hand clutching his chest. “You love my hair toss. It’s iconic. It’s theatrical. It’s—”
“—Distracting,” Talia yells from across the gym with her hands on her hips. “Reset! From the top!”
Ezra winks at me, his green eyes glinting with mischief, and mouths, “She’s scary,” before spinning into position beside me.
I bite back a laugh and pop back into formation.
We run the same routine again. Step, kick, twist, catch.
The routine blurs into sweat and rhythm, our bodies moving as one.
My thighs burn, my lungs ache, and my face hurts from smiling too hard through it all, but it’s the kind of ache that feels good.
Here, in this sweaty gym with blaring pop music and scuffed floor lines, I feel untouchable.
When we finish, the whole squad collapses to the floor in dramatic groans and gasps. Sweat drips down the back of my neck as I lie back on the mat and close my eyes.
Ezra flops down beside me like a dying Victorian heroine. “Tell my story,” he wheezes.
“You flipped once.”
“And what a flip it was,” he croons. “May I rest in glittery peace.”
I giggle, unable to help it. “You’re so dramatic.”
He smirks. “You love it.”
“Unfortunately.”
Talia walks over, her high chestnut brown ponytail swinging with her steps. “You two done playing dead?”
Ezra points at her without lifting his head. “I’m not playing dead, I am dead, and I’m going to haunt your stanky-ass locker.”
“Rude. Mine smells like peaches.” She huffs.
“Then I’ll make it smell like the despair I’m currently feeling with this damn routine you’re killing us with.”
“Mmhm.” She smiles. “I earned this cheer captain title, and I don’t plan on being an easy captain because my two best friends are whiny bitches.” She laughs and tosses a water bottle at him, misses, and then hands one to me with a little squeeze to my shoulder. “You good, Daze?”
“Perfect.” I beam, throwing in a thumbs up for extra sparkle.
She narrows her eyes at me. “Liar.”
“Sunshine never lies.”
“Sunshine lies so much,” Ezra mumbles into the mat.
We all burst into laughter, half brought on from the sheer exhaustion of yet another brutal practice with Talia directing us like an army instead of a squad.
By the time we shower and change, the sky outside the gym is fading into cotton-candy hues.
Talia insists on a ‘post-practice snack run,’ so we end up crammed into a booth at our favourite diner, sticky menus open and laughter echoing.
Ezra orders three milkshakes—one vanilla, one strawberry, and one ‘mystery flavour.’ Talia keeps stealing my fries, so I retaliate by sticking a ketchup packet to her elbow.
Moments like this make me forget everything else.
“Okay,” Ezra says between mouthfuls of whipped cream. “If you were a flavour of milkshake, what would you be?”
“Vanilla bean,” Talia answers confidently.
“Boring,” he scoffs.
“Uh, no, it’s classic.” She retorts.
Ezra turns to me. “And you?”
“Sunshine swirl,” I reply immediately.
They both snort, Talia shaking her head at me before stealing another fry. “Is that a real thing?” She asks.
“No. But it should be.” I respond, shrugging my shoulders.
“You’d be like… lemon and hope,” Ezra muses.
“Exactly.”
The sun’s dipped below the horizon by the time I walk home.
I don’t drive, but it’s fine because the three blocks from campus to my apartment aren’t too bad to walk.
Just dim… and a little eerie. The kind of walk that makes you clutch your phone a little tighter and makes you keep your keys between your fingers. Just in case. But it’s not too bad.
By the time I climb my stairs to my apartment, my whole body’s humming.
Not from fear, but from fatigue. My building smells like burnt toast with a lovely undertone of regret.
The carpets are always a little damp, and it’s a place where no one smiles in the hallway, but someone is definitely always watching from their little peephole.
I lock the door behind me and let out a breath.
Home. If you can call it that. Mails piled on the counter, mostly for ‘Jim Sandoval.’ Bright red FINAL NOTICE stamps scream at me from every envelope, but I don’t throw them away.
I don’t know why… Maybe some part of me still hopes he’ll come back. But I won’t admit that out loud.
I toss my bag on the couch and head for the bathroom, tugging my shirt over my head on the way.
I pause in the mirror, glancing at my weird little birthmark.
A faint swirl of lines sits just below my shoulder, like a curling flame.
It’s almost invisible, but it’s never gone away.
My fingers brush at it out of habit. It means nothing; it’s just skin.
Just me. My mom used to say I looked like a bottle of sunlight—freckles, blonde waves, that kind of skin that never truly tans in the summer but has a nice glow to it anyway.
Sometimes I see her in my own reflection: the curve of my nose, the way my smile tugs crooked when I’m nervous.
But my eyes—those are all my dad. Ocean blue, a little too honest and a little too tired.
I drop my hand, strip the rest of the way, and step into the shower.
The water is slow to heat, but I stand under it anyway, letting the chill wash away the sticky scent of sweat from practice, running my hands through my tangles in my hair.
Gods, I ache everywhere. By the time I shut the shower off, the water’s back to being barely warm.
I wrap myself in a towel and wipe the steam from the mirror with my hand so I can see better.
My reflection’s a little clearer now, but the circles under my eyes look darker in this light.
I press my palm flat against the glass, then pull away, leaving a foggy print behind.
The bathroom light flickers once, making me grit my teeth as I stare at it. Not now. Please. Not now.
I don’t bother with a real dinner, just spoon straight from a tub of mint choc chip ice cream while scrolling through my phone.
My hair’s still damp when I flip onto the sofa in leggings and my favourite oversized tee—an ancient cheer shirt that has more than a few little holes that smells like lavender detergent.
My phone buzzes, a text popping up on the screen.
Dad
Hey sweetheart, can you send me $100? I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t desperate. Just until Friday. Promise.
The air leaves my lungs on an exasperated sigh. I stare at the message, my heart sinking into a familiar cold place. I check my bank app: Fifty-two dollars and eighty cents. Not enough for him, gods, it’s barely enough for me. I type back out a reply, chewing on my lower lip:
I can’t right now, Dad. I have to pay the electricity bill and buy food.
The typing bubbles appear, disappear, reappear.
Then nothing, just utter silence. Every month without fail, there’s a new crisis with my dad.
Rent he can’t pay, a bill that’s overdue, money he swears he’ll get back to me.
It’s always my problem, even though he doesn’t live here anymore, and hasn’t for a while.
But his mess still lives in my mailbox, my texts, my voicemails, and deep inside my chest.
I lay back on the couch and toss the phone on the sofa, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until stars burst behind them.
For over half of my life, I have been the responsible one, the one who finds money, or makes money.
The one who handles bills, debts, food, life, whilst he spent those thirteen years with his head buried in the sand, piled high in debt, with a drinking problem and a gambling addiction.
We both lost the sun in our lives, but where losing the sun turned me into a stronger version of myself, it turned him into a mess.
People say I’m resilient, bright, that I make things look so easy. Good. Let them say that, let them believe it. Because someone has to be the sun. And if not me—who?
Book made for shanv@