And now it makes sense. He’s using her. She’s using him. I’m being used. It’s like Guiding Light meets Wings meets Murphy Brown.

After the PDA, Polly Sue begins stretching dramatically, arcing her back toward the gray, snowy sky. That’s when I see it. The back of her bright red long-sleeve shirt screams in giant, white letters, Polly Sue, TRVC Chief Meteorologist.

I look at Lisa. Who looks at me. Her eyes are wide. Don’t, she mouths. Please.

“Like my shirt?” Polly Sue asks innocently. The question is asked in general although I know it is directed at me.

“So hot, babe,” Chance says.

I keep myself from rolling my eyes.

“Okay, okay,” Lisa says, ever the team leader. “Let’s direct all that passion toward the other teams. I want to win for once.” She looks at me. “We’re taking on Channel 13 first. You especially should want to get even with them for what they did to you.”

“Oh, I want to get even,” I say.

I hear Mason’s voice blare over the speaker system.

“Let’s get ready to ruuummmmbbbleee!” he says, imitating the announcers from World Wrestling. “Teams, take your positions!”

Figures scramble around the snow-covered field like toy soldiers. Mason has set the field up so four fights can take place at once: one in each end zone, and one each around the thirty-yard line.

We are stationed in the end zone where the wind is swirling. I feel like I’m about to take part in one of those classic football games in the snow. Bears vs. Packers. Winner take all.

My dad would be so proud of me for thinking like this.

We take on Channel 13 first. Channel 13 doesn’t have an anchor or reporter on staff under the age of 108. Palm Springs used to be known as “Heaven’s Waiting Room” before a youthful resurgence—from Coachella to the Kardashians—changed the community’s demographic. Channel 13 is “Heaven’s Living Room.” It’s the station that plays in every doctor’s waiting room. Every other commercial is for a cataract operation or walk-in tub. The anchors, like Rocky Gibraltar—real name, mind you!—were ancient when I was a teen. And they’re still on air. Our demographic might skew older, but Channel 13’s doesn’t even fit a demographic.

But they are a hardworking news station, I think, glancing over at Polly Sue preening. They earned their stripes.

When the whistle blows, Polly Sue picks up a snowball and hits Rocky hard and square in the side of the head.

“Hey!” I say. “He didn’t even have time to react.”

“Fair and square,” she says. “Whistle blew. And which side are you on anyway, Amberrose?”

I pick up my snowball and dearly want to throw it at her, but I stop myself.

She smirks at me, picks up another snowball and fires it at Rocky.

It’s not even a contest. We win in under ten minutes, poor Rocky saying how badly his ear aches, and move on to play Channel 2, our archrivals.

“This is our year!” Lisa cheers.

“No deadweight,” Polly Sue says, staring at me.

Channel 2’s snowball team resembles an issue of Sports Illustrated meets Chippendales poster. In fact, two of them are shirtless in the cold and snow. Women cheer and catcall from the stands. They flex and strut. One of them calls, “You’re dating the wrong reporter, Polly Sue!” Another bellows, “Scared any young children lately, Sonny?”

Polly Sue laughs.

In the near distance, Channel 2’s team huddles up. “We pick Sonny first!” one yells. The others laugh. “Yeah! Let’s go! Take her down! Make her pay! It ain’t sunny today!”

“You’re up,” Lisa says.

I position myself in front of the low snow wall and eye the enemy.

Why do the bad guys always win so much in the world? How do we stop them? Why does this cycle of meanness continue?

I’ve been professional. I’ve been unprofessional. I’ve taken the high road. I’ve taken the low road. And yet the road never ends. It just follows the same, ugly path.

The mean guys come out on top. The good guys go down.

I think of Cliff, Icicle and myself. I think of Joncee, my dad and Andi. I think of Ramey, Ronan, Polly Sue, the Channel 2 goofballs.

“We’re doomed,” Polly Sue groans.

I consider my nemesis. What battles has she waged in her life? What has she fought for? Who has she lost? What has made her this way?

I may never know, but I know there is a lesson for her—and me—in all of this.

I think of my mom, who is likely with someone right now whose life is nearing the end. For years, she has been the bridge, the one to help others transition from this world to the next. My mom has long believed in what she calls the “Two Ps”: penicillin and prayer. When there is little more that doctors and hospitals can do to prescribe treatment, my mom embodies palliative care, keeping the sick as pain free and as hope-filled as possible.

What secrets has she heard? What secrets does she know?

No wonder my mother has little patience for Ronan’s antics or Polly Sue’s theatrics. She knows the value of life. The importance of each moment.

How short our journey here truly is.

And then suddenly I remember Joncee. I can see her right here in the snow as clearly as I can see Polly Sue standing a few feet away from me.

Mean girls, Joncee had said to me so long ago.

She had not been her boisterous self, doing her homework in a rush so she could go play in the snow even in the dark, sliding around the house in her socks, annoying me to get up early on a Saturday to build a snow fort.

And then one day when I opened her notebook sitting on the kitchen counter to steal a piece of paper, I saw it: a folded-up wad of notes—folded together to create a thick triangle. I carefully undid them. One note read:

“TOMBOY!”

Another read:

“Are you a girl? ¨

Or a boy? ¨

Pick one.”

Another stated:

“JOHN, SEE, I knew you were weird. Why do you play with the boys at recess?”

What are you doing? she screamed, catching me in the act.

I was just borrowing a piece of paper, I had said. Swear. Didn’t mean to snoop. But I did. I looked at her. Tell me what’s going on?

Mean girls, she said.

Joncee began to cry, which she rarely did, telling me about the clique of girls—led by Tiffany Laney—who had been tormenting her in grade school because she didn’t want to spend recess jumping rope or trying on Lip Smackers the girls had stolen from their older sisters’ purses.

Should I just give up and be their friend? she sniffed.

They don’t want you to be their friend, I said. They just want you to give up who you are.

Why?

People are threatened by anyone who is different, I said. We want everyone to be the same. But don’t you ever stop being who you are. That’s what makes you you. And, one day, everyone will appreciate that. But not if you give in to people, hear me?

She nodded. But what do I do until then?

I have an idea.

That Saturday, Joncee and I begged mom to give us a ride to the little shopping center downtown, telling her we were meeting friends. It was a lie. When she left to pick up a few groceries, we hid behind a big delivery truck and waited for Tiffany and her friends to come out of Claire’s, the boutique for girls, where Joncee said they went every weekend. When they came out—bags in hand, hair perfect—we began to throw snowballs at them. Tiffany screamed and ran, leaving her friends there alone.

See? I said. She didn’t even try to defend herself or her friends. What’s that say about her? What would you have done?

Stood up for myself, Joncee said. Protected my friends.

Exactly. Don’t you ever change.

Joncee beamed. I won’t, she said. Where did you learn to do this?

We’ve been studying Greek mythology in school, I said. It’s really cool. Our history teacher taught us about the Trojan Horse. It’s when Greek warriors hid inside this huge wooden horse to get inside the city of Troy. Once in, they jumped out in a surprise attack to defeat the Trojans. Sometimes, it’s all about the art of surprise.

A snowball whacks me squarely in the face, literally knocking me from this memory.

“Oooofff!” I say.

Snow scatters in front of my eyes, and I can feel my cheeks shake. My head moves in slow motion, and I stumble, seeing stars. I was so lost in my own thoughts, I never heard the whistle blow.

“I told you we were doomed!” Polly Sue yells. “She’s too old to move much less be on air.”

I stretch out my arms and stand as still as a statue, eyes shut, never moving even as snowballs pelt me from every direction.

“What are you doing!” Polly Sue screams. “You idiot!”

I walk back to my team. Even Lisa is looking at me like I’m crazy.

“Let me show you how it’s done,” Polly Sue says, brushing by me in a huff.

No, let me show you how it’s done.

Channel 2’s buff sports anchor cocks his arm and fires a fastball. Polly Sue leaps sideways into the air. The snowball whizzes under her body as she lands with a thud.

“See?” she says, yelling at me. Polly Sue turns toward Channel 2 and screams, “Bring it on!”

The health reporter throws a knuckleball. It arcs in the air. Polly Sue waits and then spins in a circle, the snowball missing her by inches.

“C’mon!” she taunts.

The weekend anchor, who resembles Liam Hemsworth, was a former football quarterback. He doesn’t so much smile at Polly Sue as leer. His snowball is big. He moves around for a few seconds, as if he’s dancing in the pocket, trying to avoid the rush, and then launches a tight spiral that moves at the speed of light. Polly Sue makes a circle with her arms, an actual moving target, and the snowball flies through the center of them.

She laughs like a madwoman. “No one can take me down!” she yells.

When the consumer affairs reporter moves to the front, I turn toward the closest end zone. I begin to spread my arms and fly like an eagle.

Lisa looks at me. “Are you okay? Do you have a concussion?”

I don’t even look at her.

I don’t tell her that Icicle was intent on choosing this cockamamie signal because he saw it in an old movie and became convinced this should be our secret code. I laughed but agreed because somehow—in all of its stupidity—it seemed totally appropriate for this moment.

It is finally time to soar.

Just as the consumer affairs reporter pulls his arm back to throw, phones ping, sing and beep all at once, like a cellular orchestra.

Everyone stops, as if God Himself has hit pause on the remote, and reaches for their phones. I can read their faces: reporters at every news station receiving a message all at once. There must be breaking news of epic proportion. I grab my phone, too.

On my cell—on everyone’s cell—grainy footage of Polly Sue begins to play, showing her sneaking into an office, the flashlight from her cell illuminating the scene. She looks around guiltily. She opens a laptop and begins searching it.

“Got it!” she says.

She picks up her cell phone and calls someone. “I just accessed all the location footage of Sonny Dunes,” Polly Sue says, clear as day. “I can edit it to make her look crazy and mean. This is perfect. There’s footage of her where she’s actually concerned about the well-being of a girl who looks like she’s falling off a dune. But the family doesn’t know that. I’ll make her look worse than Miranda Priestly. Everyone will hate her as much as I do. I gotta go before someone catches me.”

Polly Sue hangs up.

More footage of her doing the same pops up.

I turn from my cell to look at Polly Sue. Her mouth is open as she stares at her phone. Her face is whiter than the falling snow. I smile. She sees me, and her face contorts with rage.

“You!” she screams. “You…”

Polly Sue can’t finish her sentence because her mouth is full of snow.

The Channel 2 reporter has hit Polly Sue smack dab in the piehole.

In fact, every member of every team on the field is racing toward her, snowballs in hand. It is war, and Polly Sue is a team of one. They fire, and Polly Sue covers her face, then her body, before hightailing it off the field, snowballs continuing to whiz in her direction, the stadium echoing in boos.

Before I can react, members from the TV stations’ teams surround me, apologizing. Other teams gather and cheer my name.

When it finally quiets, Lisa approaches.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

I look at her and cock my head like the RCA dog.

“Okay, I understand,” she says. “We’ll talk Monday.”

Mason runs up. “Well, you certainly made this an unforgettable year.”

“I’m honored,” I say.

“Your team is also disqualified,” he says.

“Another year we didn’t win.” Lisa shrugs.

“Oh, we won,” I say. “Women won.”

Mason and Lisa look at me.

“I’m really sort of enjoying being fifty,” I say. “In control. Not taking any BS. Doing my thang.”

I stick out my hip and dance.

“Okay, stop talking like that,” Mason says.

“And dancing like that,” Lisa says.

Icicle appears to great applause, and before I know it, we are both swept into the arms of the Channel 2 team and lifted into the air.

“How’d you do it?” someone asks Ice.

“I have all your numbers,” he says innocently. “All I did was just hit send.”

Sneak attack, Joncee, I think. It worked yet again.