Your sister,

Quinn

“Wow. That looks so good.”

It takes me a second to realize Ainsley is talking to me. She leans over to get a better look at the acorn I’m shading. I’m putting the finishing touches on one of the banners for the fall festival.

“Oh,” I say. “Thanks.” My pencil hovers above the paper. I don’t find it comfortable to draw when other people are watching me—it’s like getting dressed in front of someone.

But Ainsley keeps staring at the banner. Her black hair is held back with a light pink headband today. It’s not Wednesday, so she isn’t in her soccer uniform, but she’s wearing her team hoodie, which is almost as painful to see. The team hoodies are a dark navy color, and they look like they’re made of extra-soft fabric. I imagine how great it would feel to wear one, to show off that I belonged to the team, that I belonged somewhere, anywhere.

“We could sure use you on the team,” Ainsley says.

My jaw goes slack. Did she just read my mind? “Wh-what?” I stammer. I press my pencil point hard against the paper of the banner. It makes a dark smudge that I’ll have to fix later.

“You’re an awesome sweeper. We’re kind of—” She stops talking for a minute to look over her shoulder at Scarlett. Determining it’s safe, she keeps talking. “Weak right now at midfield. I’m doing the best I can, but it’s hard when no one will pass the ball.”

I give her a smile “I’m sure people pass.”

“Oh, they do!” She makes a twitchy motion with her hands. “I didn’t mean to talk trash, it’s just that I miss playing with you.”

The big smudge on the acorn doesn’t seem so bad anymore. “Thanks, Ainsley.”

“No problem. That’s all I wanted to say. I really think you should’ve tried out.”

I take a deep breath. “Maybe next year.”

Scarlett walks over to us. She’s holding a pair of scissors. “Found them,” she says to Ainsley, making a direct point of not acknowledging me at all, which makes it super-glaringly obvious that the wormhole is really going to have to change things if there’s going to be any chance of me trying out next year. In my head, I draw myself in the uniform, the navy knee socks over my shin guards, my hair in some elaborate braid that Scarlett’s mom did.

“You look like you’re thinking about something really delicious,” Mrs. Euclid says. She puts her finger to her lips. Today she’s wearing a bright pink lipstick and a neon-orange shirt with white polka dots. Her hair is pulled up in a high braided bun. “Hm. Let me guess. How delicious the apple cider at the fall festival is going to be?”

I twirl the pencil between my fingers and force myself to politely smile. “I don’t think I’m going to go.”

“What? You have to go. Plus, aren’t you going to help hang up your work?” She gives me a big grin. “You’ve done such a good job, Quinn. You deserve to see your art on display.”