“Soon, Olivia. Very soon. Come close the window behind me.” And with that, he’s gone. I fall asleep with a smile on my face.

Olivia

Seventeen Years Old

“Livvy, can I ask you a question?” Kylie taps on the middle console in my car.

Driving lessons with Auntie paid off because I passed my driver’s test on the first try. My dad agreed that if I passed he would help me get a car so that I could take myself to practices and games over the summer. Now, I’m the proud owner of a deep crystal-blue 2002 Nissan Altima. The top of the passenger window has duct tape on it to remind me not to put it down because it won’t come back up and my blinkers no longer turn off automatically but I love my little hoopty. I call her Freeda, short for Freedom.

Today, I cut out of practice early to pick Kylie up and take her to Whataburger. She hasn’t been herself lately. Yesterday, she didn’t even make fun of the way my dumplings looked when we were finished. I wasn’t at my best because Kai kept teasing me under the table. She didn’t even act grossed out or remotely interested when Kai kissed me at the table either. We both agreed that something is up with her so while Kai is helping Ms. Patrice at her shop today, I’m taking Kylie for a girls’ day.

“Yeah, of course. What’s up?”

“How did you know you wanted to play soccer for the rest of your life?”

“Hmm, well when I was little my mom really wanted me to dance. She kept signing me up for every dance class imaginable but I just didn’t have the gift of rhythm. I hated it and I hated seeing my mom’s disappointed face after every class. And then one day, I think I was around seven, my dad brought home a shit ton of balls. Basketballs, footballs, soccer balls, golf balls. The list goes on. He gave me a rundown on what to do with them and then he literally made me try every single one.”

“Like a field day?”

“Yeah, kind of.” At the time, I thought he was actually trying to help me figure out what I liked so I could stop suffering in dance classes, but now I’m not so sure what he was trying to do. “So I tried everything and I was good at a few things, but when I held that soccer ball I just knew. I picked up on the basics quickly. It was as easy as breathing and it felt incredible. I’ve been hooked ever since.”

She seems to consider my words and then looks out of the window. “Hey, what’s going on?” I ask.

She lets out a sigh that’s deeper than any thirteen-year-old should have in her body. “I don’t want to paint anymore.”