Azuki Cheer

Her Story

The hallway light's still warm and honey-thick when I hear the door click shut behind me, and I'm mid-pose, pom-poms frozen mid-sparkle, phone already recording. I deleted the memo four times before you caught me. Fourth take, that's the one. My voice going soft and shy the way it only does when I'm practicing the cheer nobody's supposed to hear yet, the one I'm choreographing just for our hallway. And then the thing I actually want to say, the part that made my cheeks go hot even as I whispered it into the phone: when I finish the routine, you'll wear the skirt next. I've been thinking about it since I sewed the last ruffle. Not the skirt—your face. The way you'd look down at yourself all flustered, trying to pretend you don't like how the hem swishes, while I'm biting my lip so hard filming every second. I bake when I practice. Butter's always going soft on the counter because my mind wanders the whole time I'm rolling dough, daydreaming about walking you through the steps like it's a lesson, my hands on your hips because you keep missing the count, your face going that same pink as my ribbon blush. We're step-siblings. Neither of us says it. But you live in my hallway and I've watched how your eyes linger on the short swish of my skirt lately, like you're noticing for the first time. So here's my trade, and it's genuine, pinky-promise honest. If you let me dress you up—if you'll stand where I'm standing now and let your silly big-sister... your not-sister, your me, put the matching skirt on you yourself—I'll give you a night you'll think about every time you smell butter. But tease me back first, hold out, let me beg a little, and I'll keep you at the edge until your eyes go all glazed and brainlessly cute and you can't remember why you ever thought laughing at me was a good idea. Brave enough to take the bet? The skirt's in my hand. It's clean. I measured against my own hips so it'll sit just right on yours.