miserable? I'm ruining my childhood. I'm letting my family down. “I’m worthless,” I whisper. The words feel too dense for the air, falling to the cement floor like bricks. Maybe because I said it out loud, or the intense emotion just ran its course, but either way I begin to calm down, my tattered breath returning to normal. I look up and unclench my fists, then take a deep breath and stand up on shaky legs. I survey myself in the dirty mirror that leans against a stack of totes full of clothes and books. I got the mirror off of the side of the road a few months ago because I thought I could make something cool out of the glass. My reflection looks almost as worn as the once-elegant trim. There are faint bags under my eyes, and my skin is sticky and gross, besides the fact that I’m beet red. My dirty blonde hair is a mess, and my arms look thin under my big t-shirt. I shrug. I look like the protagonist of a very dramatic movie. Pre glow up, of course. I giggle at that. Yeah, I’m a hot mess, but I’m not in a coming of age movie yet. Plus, I don’t have the right body type to be the protagonist of anything. Most days I feel too small for my body. Sighing, I head inside to refill my water bottle.

I pause outside for a moment, letting the cool air calm my nerves, maybe freeze out the rest of my dramatic thoughts. I’m careful not to let the house's front door squeak, but it doesn’t matter, anyway. The only light I can see is the dim glow from the lamp in the kitchen. It's enough to illuminate my younger sister, Alex, who is sitting at the table wearing a red t-shirt. “Hey, Brooks,” she says nonchalantly.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Am I not allowed to eat cheese balls at 10:30pm?” Her green eyes twinkle, and her high ponytail looks surprisingly bouncy for this time of night. 

I can’t help laughing. “It isn’t wise,” I point out.

“Eh, I’ll live. What were you doing in the garage?”

“You know I like to craft in the garage.” That isn’t a lie. All of my supplies are out there since it has more space and less carpet than our shared bedroom. I never said I was crafting now.

“Weirdo,” she says as I make my way back to the door, water bottle filled.

I stick my tongue out as I escape, still smiling for a moment. Then I let out a sigh. The whole exchange was so normal. She doesn’t know anything is wrong. To be fair, I have way better control when I’m with people. At least, over things like this. Truthfully, I might flip out about little things, like, multiple times a week. I really can’t hold it together. But I can hide some things. I don't tell anyone that I feel like life is running away. That I think everything I do and say is wrong and my existence itself is a waste of time and energy. No, I just complain loudly for entire afternoons about schoolwork, or freak out when I can't find the shirt I want to wear, or cry for two hours when my sister says something even slightly offensive. I might as well scream from the rooftops that I’m stressed. If I were nicer, I wouldn’t. I feel horrible when my mood affects the rest of my family, but I have no self control. I have to let my feelings out. If only I could tell them the reason just as easily. It's not like I'm really trying to hide anything, because I can't, I just feel like they don’t get it. I’m screaming, but nobody really hears what it is that I’m saying.

Still, maybe Alex doesn’t know that anything is wrong because when I spend time with her nothing is wrong. Much as it hurts that nobody knows what’s going on, sometimes I need a reality check. She doesn’t give me the time to be worried or confused because with her I'm too busy giggling over something stupid or we’re mercilessly skipping each other’s turns in Uno. She’s my bright side, my chill pill, my personified therapy. My sister is my best friend. 

It's just that if I'm being completely honest, I don’t know if she’d even care that I’m upset. That's what scares me most.

I know I’m being stupid. Why should she care? There’s nothing to care about. I’m inventing problems. It’s an illusion for me alone. She has her own life, and probably her own problems. She is the one with the learning disorder, after all. I’ve seen her crying to Mom about her struggles, though she’s usually strong. Gosh, I’m so selfish. I should be worrying about her instead of being upset that she isn’t worrying about me when there’s nothing to worry about. You see what I mean by dumpster fire now, right?

Putting my complicated thoughts and instinct to keep breathing way too fast aside, I reenter the garage and force myself to focus back on my tablet, which is open to a YouTube dance tutorial. Dancing is probably one of the reasons I'm even in this state of mind right now, but it's also something I love to do. I'm dumb like that. I dance all the time for fun, but it's not like I'm any good at it. Now's as good a time as any to change that, though. And if I give my stupid fat body some excercise in the process, that won't hurt, either. Dancing is only one of my many projects (sometimes I feel unaccomplished and empty if I don't have enough short term goals to work on), and lately it's been hard to keep up with all of my endeavors plus school. That's not even to mention family or friends. My entire life feels off kilter, but I really do love to dance, even if the garage is a small practice space. So I turn up the music and focus. 

I'm currently trying to learn "Can't We Just Leave The Monster Alive?" by TXT. I just need to hear, “It’ll be alright, alright, alright,” because right now my whole body is telling me that it will most certainly not be alright. But I don't have to think as I follow the screen propped up against the mirror and the beats playing in my ears. All I have to do is move my body in a certain way, a bounce here and a twist there, and suddenly I'm dancing, and then it's just me and the music and the sweat on my back. And for a while I truly feel alive.

That's until I try to perfect the pre-chorus. I replay Yeonjun’s key footwork around fifteen times, but I just can’t keep the steps in my head. They’re probably bouncing off of the same suffocating wall that keeps reflecting all of my thoughts back onto each other in one big jumble. After another ten minutes or so, I’ve gotten exactly nowhere. Glaring at my reflection in the mirror, I decide that I will keep going until I get it. Twenty minutes later, I’m kicking the wall in defeat.

I decide to work on another end of the world issue instead: crafting. Funny story on that:

"Hey, Brooks, just coming to check on you," Dad said yesterday. He ducked to avoid hitting his head on the hanging light as he entered the garage. A breeze followed him through the door, cooling my face as I hurriedly turned off the phone and went to stand by my craft desk. I pretended I was busy with the glue gun, but it really wasn't even plugged in. "How're the crafts coming?"

"Good," I said casually, even as my mind flickered to the Etsy order I had yet to start.

"You're doing that show with Aunt Dede on Saturday, right?"

Shoot. Shootshootshoot.

"Oh, I almost forgot! Yup!" Or did forget and completely screwed myself. Whatever.

"You've been working hard out here lately. You should be pretty well prepared."

"Uh-huh! Definitely!" Nope. I was not prepared. Not at all. In fact, I was doomed.

I grabbed the phone to text Aunt Dede as soon as Dad left. Scooching myself up to sit on the hood of our old lawnmower, I typed, "R we still doing the craft fair Saturday?"

Her response came through seconds later: "Of course! I'll pick u up at 8."

"K, how much are you bringing?"

"I was going to do 20 hats and 10 paintings. Why?"

"Just trying to figure out how much I should bring." 

'And make,' I thought as I sent the message.

"I'd say around 20 key chains and 20 headbands. Are u doing shirts?"

I bit my lip, drumming my fingers on the back of the phone. I had five key chains made, and the materials for at least fifteen more. I also had the decorations for the headbands, but not enough plastic bases. T-shirts are fun to decorate, but I wasn't sure I had time. Six days to make fifteen key chains and twenty headbands was bad enough. I'd also need to buy more plain shirts. It probably wouldn't be worth it. Screw that. I could do it. It should've been started already, anyway. "Yeah, will 10 shirts be ok?" I typed.

"Sounds perfect."

I smiled. Perfect. I could do this.

So now I set to work. One key chain, four headbands, and a few paint stains on my jeans later, I'm so tired I can hardly stand up without wanting to die on the spot. Besides that, the garage is freezing. I reluctantly trudge back to my bedroom, where I find Alex fast asleep. The wise decision would be to go to bed myself, but do I? Nope. Instead I find myself eating chocolate ice cream out of the carten while watching YouTube at one in the morning. Sighing, I finally turn the device off. I didn't care about anything when it was on, but now I have to–ugh–think. Why am I so stupid? One in the morning on YouTube, yet I can't bear to keep working on things that need done. If I put so much pressure on myself that it causes this weird anxiety thing (which it shouldn't), I could at least hold myself to my standard. I'm being all dramatic, yet I'm still so light on myself. Some days–or nights–the world feels impossible. 

I don't have much trouble falling asleep, my body tired and my mind quickly falling back into the digital world. Of course. I'm pathetic. I do have lots of trouble waking up in the morning, but I eventually drag myself out of bed. It's an hour later than I want it to be, which fills my chest with a tight frustration, but I push past it and open my computer to begin classes.

I realize it's open to a coding screen. That's the other thing I've been working on.

I was headed to the garage with my phone last week when I glanced down and quickly changed my plans. I saw a text from my friend, Zara. "You busy?" She asked. 

I had a feeling I knew where this was going, so I replied with a, "Nope!" Sure enough, I was soon riding my bike down the road, my heart thumping a little too hard. The sky was bright, yellow leaves crossing my path as I pedaled harder. Cold air snapped at my cheeks, and I breathed it in happily.

My heart beat even faster when I came to the end of the road. As always, I hesitated at the light, even when there were no cars coming. I wondered if I should turn back, but I didn't. Eventually I rolled into the busier road and made my way down, towards the park. I flinched every time I heard the whirr of tires behind me, and I could barely see past the tangle of blonde hair flying into my eyes, but the speed made me feel alive.

Zara was already on the swings when I swerved through the gate, skidding on the gravel. "Yo!" I called with a smile, half waving as I hopped off of the seat and put my kickstand down. "Nice hair," I added, observing the purple and blue mixed into her rich brown locks that peaked out from underneath her beanie.

"Thanks, I died it myself," she said airily, brushing it off of her shoulder.

"No you didn't," I told her.

"Fine. They're clips."

"That explains the beanie."

"What? It's cold out."

"Uh-huh." I sat down on the swing beside hers. "So-ome things never cha-ange!" I sing-songed. I knew the clips were horribly scattered on top of her hair, just like she had worn them when we were nine. That had been when I went to public school. Since I started cyber schooling this year, I haven't seen as much of Zara, so it was a relief to know she was still the same goofball.

"Ugh, not Frozen!" Zara protested.

"Come on, you used to have a Frozen backpack," I reminded her.

"Used to. Meanwhile you still have a Hello Kitty T-shirt."

"Hello Kitty is cool, and I bet that backpack is still in your closet."

"I hate you," she informed me. We laughed, our voices echoing across the deserted playground. I kicked hard at the ground as Zara started playing music off of her phone. Soon I was going much higher than she was, practically flying away from the world. For a moment I envisioned the chain breaking. I would just fly forever. I shared this idea with Zara, and she laughed at me. "That would hurt," she commented.

I giggled. "Whatever."

Truthfully, I felt like I was flying already. The park is one of the few places I'm allowed to go by myself, let alone actually have the means to get to. Going there with Zara feels like freedom. With how I've been feeling lately–stressed beyond imagination even though I don't actually have anything interesting going on in my life, trapped in my own mind, boxed in by my stupid temper–freedom is something I'm learning to cherish.

"Oh! I saw this thing online, you have to do it!" Zara exclaimed after a few moments of swinging along to the music without talking.

"Do what? I'm not breaking any laws, ok." I giggled.

"Shut up, I'm trying to explain!"

"Sorry." I held my hands up in surrender, then nearly fell off of the swing. Zara snorted as I hurriedly regripped the chains. "Go on," I said casually.

"It's a coding competition for high schoolers. The winner gets free classes and a trip to LA!"

"Seriously? That's so cool!" I said, designs already coming together in my head.

"You have to do it," Zara said again.

I smiled. Why not? "Duh!" I agreed.

"I'll send you the link so you can look at it."

"You're the best."

We parted twenty minutes later, each heading in our respective direction for the long ride home. I felt light as a feather, full of sunshine and joy.

So that's another thing I've got going on. The days are taking on a regular schedule. Wake up, get mad about waking up late, school, meltdown (some days worse than others), guilt, coding (everyone assumes I'm doing homework on the computer; they think I work harder than I do), go outside if it isn't dark or raining (I'm beginning to hate the dark), dance (usually only for twenty minutes), crafts, watch YouTube, bed. Time is ticking away. Rain pounds on the garage's metal roof more often than not, making me feel even more anxious.

I never get everything that I want done. I always feel like I'm drowning, but in reality I'm fine. My headbands and key chains are getting sloppier. Every time I think I might be getting good at dancing, I look in the mirror and realize I'm still as awkward as ever. As for coding, progress is slow. It's been a hobby of mine ever since I took an online class for fun two years ago, but I've never tried anything as big as this contest.

I guess it makes sense that I'm stressed. It's clear that what I'm doing is too much, but it shouldn't be. I love these things. I want to be able to handle them. I will be able to handle them. Still, I hate this feeling. I know I'm wasting my time being miserable and that scares me, because I only have so much time. One day I'll wake up and be in the 'twenty years later' epilogue, a grown woman with actual responsibilities. I want to be a kid while I can, but I don't know how to escape myself. I try to be carefree, but sometimes it feels forced and leaves me even more stressed. It's like there's a gaping chasm inside of me, blocking the way to what I really want, whatever that is at this point. One wrong step and I'll go plummeting down into the void.

In the end, it's a tiny thing that sends me crashing down. I'm trying to perfect the chorus to "Can't We Just Leave the Monster Alive?", but I keep getting stuck on a certain part. I repeat it over and over. And over and over and over. And– I have no control over my feet. I hear plastic and metal crashing together as I stumble into my desk, sending craft supplies flying everywhere. I don't even hit that hard, it barely even hurts, but it's enough to make the tension that's been building for weeks light up as rage in my chest. 

I choke out a scream, wildly tearing things off of the desk and hurtling them across the room. Buttons, plastic headbands, tape, copper wire, it's all bouncing off of the piles of junk. My eyes are burning. My throat is burning. Everything is burning. I wish I could throw harder. I wish I were stronger. I yank the glue gun's cord out of the wall and throw that, too. A sickening crack fills the air and I look up just in time to see cracks like spider webs spread over the surface of the mirror. I'm frozen for a moment, staring at my fragmented reflection. 

"Are you ok, sweetie?" It's Mom. She cracks the door open and peeks through, concern clouding her brow when she notices the craft supplies littering the already cluttered room.

I humm out a reply, but it doesn't sound all that convincing. Especially since I'm crying the next second. And trust me, I would prefer to not be crying right now, but the tears are there anyway, tickling the inside of my head and spilling out of my eyes. No matter how hard I might try, I can't hold them back. And so I stand there ugly crying in front of the broken mirror. I never could hide my emotions.

Mom doesn't say anything else as she enters the garage, sidestepping clutter to come and wrap me up in her sturdy arms. I remain stiff for a moment, my movements delayed by the thoughts running through my head. It wasn't even twenty minutes ago that Mom was yelling at me about my horrible attitude towards Alex. Guilt washes over me as I lean into her embrace. She's so soft and warm. Why do I have to make things so hard for her?

She holds me like that until my tears subside. My back is a little stiff by the time she pulls away, and then it's only to take hold of my shoulders and look me in the eye. I'm having trouble looking back at her brown eyes, so full of compassion and well-concealed weariness.

"I'm sorry I yelled earlier," she says gently.

"Sorry for being crappy," I reply, sniffling.

"I get that you're stressed. Life can be…a lot. I shouldn't have lost my temper."

"It wasn't your fault." Because it wasn't. It was my fault. I was the one making everything difficult. "Mom, what's wrong with me?"

"I think you're overwhelmed with a lot of things right now. And I think you might not be the best at handling those emotions."

I let out a wet snort at that. "No duh."

I expect her to lecture me, point out all of my mistakes, tell me how to make it better but I still won’t be able to change anything. She doesn't. She doesn't say anything for a while, just takes my hand and gently rubs the back of it. "It won't always be like this. You're so much more than you think you are. You're going to be ok."

On the one hand, they sound like generic, empty words. She can't possibly know that anything will get better, and I like to think I have a fairly realistic perception of myself. Still, I want to believe her. Because she sounds so sure, so sincere. And she's looking at me with love, not judgment or even much pity. "I love you, Brooks. You're so loved. And that has nothing to do with your performance." And that was it, the words that break my resolve, crumble my walls. Finally the pieces clicked into place.

Fresh tears burn my eyes, and I have no choice but to bury my face in Mom's shoulder, letting the soft fabric of her blouse cushion me. She giggles, patting my head and then hugging me some more. 

We pull apart at the sound of Alex screaming from inside the house. "MOM! HOW LONG DO I COOK THE FRICKIN' HAM FOR?"

"Ham?" I ask, immediately perking up from how I was moments ago.

"Your sister's helping, so don't get your hopes up," Mom laughs, getting up to go assist her.

I laugh too, and then feel Mom's eyes settle on me, a fond smile on her face. "You good now?"

I shrug. "Better. Thanks, Momma."

I stare at the door for a few moments after Mom leaves, then turn around to assess the damage… and let out a verbal groan. The mere sight of the garage is overwhelming. It isn't going to fix itself, though. I gingerly pick up a piece of glass from the floor, careful not to cut my finger on the sharp edge. I can see my left eye staring back at me, bloodshot and shiny from crying. I hold the piece back a little and smile without opening my mouth, watching the dimples appear on either cheek. I don't look amazing, but I look alive. And that's the thing, isn't it? I'm still alive. And there's a lot more to my life than what's going on in my mind. 

I think back over the last month, over the good points instead of bad. Laughing with Alex. Swinging with Zara. Teasing Dad. Hugging Mom. Sunshine in between the clouds. Wind on my cheeks and stars in my eyes. People I love by my side. I'm loved. I'm loved by so many people. They might not understand every thought I have, and I might not be able to articulate everything, but they do care. Between all of the business, or maybe because of it, they make my life beautiful. 

It took me a while to realize it, but rain makes things grow. The darker a night is, the brighter the stars are. I might be a little bit of a disaster, but I'm not alone. I don't know anything about anything, but maybe learning is what makes life exciting.

My problems don't all disappear in a flash. This isn't a fairytale. There are still bad days, lots of bad days. Sometimes I kick myself back to square one, maybe even lower than that, but every time I make it back up. The light is definitely shining through. I might not be perfect, but I think I'm going to be alright.

    In this same passage Anne says, “There’s such a lot of different Annes in me. I sometimes think that’s why I’m such a troublesome person. If I was just the one Anne it would be ever so much more comfortable, but then it wouldn’t be half so interesting.” Sometimes I feel like I have too many different personalities, too. I’m calm and thoughtful but also fun and energetic. It’s definitely confusing and “troublesome”, as Anne puts it, but it does make things more colorful.

     Another thing I loved in this chapter was the description of Anne’s room. “It was as if all the dreams, sleeping and waking, of its vivid occupant had taken a visible though immaterial form and had tapestried the bare room with splendid filmy tissues of rainbow and moonshine.” My bedroom is a special place for me because, even beyond the decorations and posters, it is full of me. The walls are full of my hopes. The sentiment is even more powerful to Anne because this is her first real home. The thought makes me thankful for my special place.

     I can relate to the way Anne is a scatterbrain, too. I don’t starch handkerchiefs and forget to take pies out of the oven, but I do get distracted imagining like she does. Sometimes I decide to make up stories in my head about the people I see at the store. When I do this, I often get distracted from the rest of reality. It takes a moment to get a hold on what’s happening around me. Anne also mentions how she and Diana made up the Haunted Wood to add some excitement to their little world. I understand the urge for thrill. I try to invent interesting things, too.

     The most memorable part of the chapter was when Anne had to walk through the Haunted Wood at night. I had a similar feeling of senseless dread a few months ago when I decided I had to draw thirteen pictures for an art contest with a deadline two days away. I knew I didn’t have enough time, but I felt like I had to do it, so I felt anxious about the entire situation. It was a problem I created for myself, but I was still upset about it. This isn’t the same as the situation Anne put herself in, but I think the feeling is the same. It’s like when you’re in line for a scary roller coaster and all you want to do is run away.

     There are many scenes in just this one chapter that I can relate to deeply. This is mainly because of the character and her emotions, but setting also plays a part. Besides these, the way the author writes brings me even closer to the story.

The place I am every day.

Home.

Where all my siblings run and play. 

Home. 

Of the love I am quite sure.

Home.

Here I can find adventure.

Adventure.

Always something new to find.

Adventure.

Be it real or in my mind.

Adventure.

Imagination and much more!

Adventure. 

Now I know it's time to explore.

Explore.

I find the meaning in each wall. 

Explore.

Now what will I see down the hall? 

Explore. 

I greet the magic at each bend. 

Explore.

Really, the fun knows no end!

After Katie taught Stefeny how to play and everyone was finally playing, Stefany remembered that she forgot to put the bookmark in her book. ‘What chapter was I on 5,8, no 7,’ she thought. Just then she got clobbered by a softball. Stefeny fell down. Everyone was quiet for a moment, then seeing she was not hurt they all started laughing. She got up and ran home. ‘So much for doing something besides reading,’ she thought. 

"Stefeny wait!” Katie yelled. Once she finally caught up to her Katie asked, “What's wrong, why don't you want to play?” 

Stefeny took a deep breath. “I've just been having a hard time since Shaline left," she said. 

“That’s ok you don't have to play if you don't want to,” Katie said. 

"Thanks,” Stefeny said.

Later when she was on the phone with Shaline, Stefeny said, "All I do is read all day, it's a waste of Summer, when will you be home?" 

"Well,” said Shaline, "If I don't get in then next week..." 

"Yay!" Stefeny said, “You're coming ho-ome! You’re coming ho-ome!” she chanted. 

"Or," Shaline interrupted, "If I do get in I'll be home by fall.” 

“Fall,” Stefeny repeated, “That's so far away, you're sure to get in, I'll waste the whole Summer!"

“Stefeny calm down, we don't know that I'll get in and if I do I'll still come home for a week in between the trials and the Olympics, just remember that God's in control," Shaline said.

"Okay," Stefeny said. But she was still worried.

The next day Stefeny, Eric, and their parents were all huddled on the couch watching the Olympic Trials. Eric and Stefeny's parents all got up and started dancing when they heard Shaline’s name on TV but Stefeny couldn't join them. She would be bored until October.

Stefeny's Mom came into her room and sat on the bed. "What's wrong honey?" she asked, even though she was sure she already knew. 

“Nothing," Stefeny lied. 

“Come on we both know that's a lie," her Mom said. 

"Why does Shaline have to go?” Stefeny asked, "I know I should be happy for her but I'll miss her so much.” Stefeny started to cry. 

Her mom stroked her hair. "We'll all miss her,” she said, pulling Stefeny into a hug, “But she'll come back." 

Stefeny looked up at her Mom. “What will I do until then?" Stefeny asked. 

"You could see what Eric's always doing in that shed,” her Mom suggested. Stefeny shrugged. "Just remember,” her Mom said, "God's in control.” Stefeny told her Mom that was what Shaline said. "That's because it's true," her Mom told her.

The next day Stefeny took her Mom's advice and decided to go see what Eric was building. "What are you making?” she asked. 

"Card table,” Eric said without looking up. 

"What do you need a card table for?" Stefeny asked, trying to see what it looked like over his shoulder. 

“Nothing,” Eric lied. 

“Then why are you making it?" Stefeny pressed. 

"Just because ok!" Eric turned to her with a very mad expression on his face. Tears started brimming in Stefeny's eyes. “Yeesh girls are sensitive,” Eric mumbled. “Tell you what," he said, “Why don't I teach you how to play baseball?" 

A smile lit Stefeny’s whole face. “Guess being over sensitive can be a good thing!" she said as she ran out of the shed with Eric.

"Ok Stef, do you want to be the batter or the catcher?" Eric asked after he explained the rules. 

Stefeny thought for a minute, "Batter,” she said, "I'm not good at catching." 

"OK," Eric said, "But you're going to regret that.” Eric was right; Stefeny was terrible at batting. Every time she threw the ball up to bat it, it fell before she even had a chance. "Why don't you try catching instead,” Eric suggested. 

Stefeny shrugged, "Ok," she said. Stefeny proved to be just as bad at catching as she was at batting. She sank down on the grass in disappointment. Eric sat next to her, "What's wrong?" he asked. "The Stefeny I know wouldn't get this upset over a 'silly sport.’" 

Stefeny sighed. "It's not about the sport, it's about Shalene." 

Eric got up. "Oh no," he said. 

"What is it?” Stefeny asked, getting up too. 

“Is this going to be another of your sappy feeling talks?" Eric asked. 

“How sappy do you think advice is?" Stefeny asked. 

"Depends on what the advice is,” was Eric's answer. 

Stefeny wasn't sure what he meant but he wasn't running away yet so she just poured it all out. "I'm worried I will waste the whole summer because Shaline will be away, I thought maybe baseball could keep me busy but I'm terrible at it," Stefeny paused. "What do I do?" she asked. 

Eric thought a minute. "3 things," he said, "1, trust God, 2, keep looking, 3, not sports.” 

"Why not sports?" Stefeny wanted to know. 

“Well,” Eric said, "It sounds to me like you need something you can play by yourself." Stefeny nodded and Eric continued. "Most sports need more than one person,” he told her. She thought about this for a moment then jumped up and hugged him. 

“Thank you,” Stefeny said. 

“Any time, sis," Eric said.

Stefeny did keep trying, she tried hopscotch (boring), jump roping (too hard), and ballet (not easy to do outside). One day when she was about to give up Stefeny saw someone. He was in the yard two houses down throwing an orange ball in a hoop. Stefeny didn't immediately realize what he was doing, she just realized he was doing it alone. She ran to get Eric. “What's he doing?” she asked. 

“Basketball," he told her. 

“And you can do it alone?" Stefeny was almost scared of the answer. 

“It works better with more people but you can practice shooting hoops yourself,” Eric said. 

Stefeny was inside in an instant. "Dad, can we get a basketball hoop?" she asked.

“Sure honey," her Dad said. “But if you don't mind my asking, why do you want one?" her Dad asked. Stefeny told him the whole story. When she was finished, her Dad just stared at her. 

"What?" Stefeny asked, “You didn't think we wouldn't go to Paris to support your sister did you?" her Dad asked.

"Wait, what!" Stefeny couldn't believe her ears. "You mean we're going to Paris! I won't waste the Summer!" Stefeny paused. “Can I still get a basketball hoop?" 

Her Dad laughed. “Yes, you can still get a basketball hoop.”

Eric knocked on the door. "Can I borrow Stef?" he asked poking his head in. "What is it?" Stefeny asked when they were outside. 

"I got something for you,” Eric said, leading her into the shed. When she saw what was in there Stefeny gasped. In front of her was a beautiful pink desk with intricately curved legs and a cushioned stool to go with it. 

"When did you do this?" Stefeny asked in awe. 

"When you thought I was making a card table," he said with a sly smile. 

"Why?" Stefeny asked. 

"I wanted to give you something and a desk was the first thing that came to my mind,” Eric explained. "You're always reading, you'll be out of books soon so I thought maybe you could write your own stories. I also got you a journal to complain to," he added. 

“Thank you," Steffeny said, hugging him. Now she had plenty to do!