I step around the sign. I don’t even have to turn around to know that Mattie is following me. The Quad smells like pine trees and sweat and something sweet like perfume. A woman dances to weird music coming from a small speaker. Her eyes are closed and her arms flow around her like she’s a palm tree.

And then I trip on something.

“Careful!”

An orange.

“Sorry!” says the juggler. He has a sack of oranges next to him. “Keep it!”

I pick it up. I toss it in the air and catch it.

“Nice catch,” he says. “Want to learn how to juggle?”

“Mercedes,” Mattie hisses behind me. “Let’s go.”

But I don’t listen to her. The guy has a little patch of hair on his chin and he’s barefoot. I approach his oranges and say, “May I?” He nods and I grab two more.

I toss one orange.

“Great job,” says the juggler.

“Mercedes!” Mattie isn’t whispering anymore. She tugs on my shirt. I toss the second orange.

“Exactly,” says the guy. “Once you get the hang of two, you can add a third eventually.”

“Let’s GO!”

I toss the third orange.

Mattie stops bugging me and just watches me. Tristan’s dad taught me how to juggle after we were at a fair and I asked him why there were only men jugglers. The oranges fly around and around. The bearded guy whistles.

“Either you’re a quick learner or you already knew how to do that.”

I smile but don’t look at him because I’ll drop the oranges if I look away. Out of the corner of my eye I can see him juggling, too. He’s doing tricks. At first, Mattie is our only spectator, but then a little audience of college students crowd around us. I am literally the center of attention. They laugh and clap. I’m not sure if my face is warm from the sun that has just popped out from behind a cloud or from the glorious feeling of performing for these people. Me and the oranges and the spotlight. Everything else fades away like the background of a blurry picture.

“Aw, she’s so cute,” I hear a young woman say.

Cute?! I drop first one and then all of the oranges.

“You’re adorable,” says the same voice as I kneel. The oranges are like Easter eggs in the green grass. I turn and see a student in cropped jeans and a flannel shirt. I glare at her. This is all her fault. “I write for the college newspaper. Can I take a picture of you? What’s your name? How long have you been juggling?”

I open my mouth to answer. I love talking about myself. I have a lot of practice.

Then the newspaper woman adds, “Where’s your mom or dad?”

Dad?

“Mercedes!” Mattie appears from behind the woman.