I picked up a leaf that had fallen, ripped off a tiny piece, and placed it in front of one of the houses.

“What’s that?” Ros asked.

“A welcome mat,” I said.

A smile spread slowly across Ros’s face. “I think we’re going to need more sticks.”

It was, finally, a kind of play I understood.

From then on, we were Ros and Celia, and we were inseparable. We didn’t make a whole lot of sense when you looked at us—this feral zap of energy and this rule-loving bookworm—but beneath our outward appearance there was a connection between us that was hard to put into words. When I finally had both Ros and Touchstone over for a playdate, Touchstone accepted Ros as quickly as he adapted to Celia, my new name, which was to say, instantly (unlike my parents, who for years still introduced me to people as “their little baby Cece”). They seemed like brothers to me: They raced each other across the length of my backyard (Ros won) and crushed Otter Pops together and chugged the icy, sweet pulp so quickly their tongues turned blue. Between the three of us, we built another small city in my own backyard, and I felt a swelling in my chest watching us build it. I had hoped, in a vague sort of way, that I would make more friends, the kinds I read about in books. It seemed nice to have more than one friend. But I never in a million years had thought to hope for someone like Ros. Until I met them, I wouldn’t have known how.

GO, SOUL CRUSHERS,
or My Mother’s Take on Power Jam