Lilly

I have to run three miles for time at the end of this week. I haven’t done that since long before a surgeon put my ankle back together. That’s on top of three games a week until postseason, when rivalries get real and every game counts—you win or you’re out—and all I can do is hope that my joints hold together long enough to get me through to the summer.

Because it is so close; it’s a Calculus test and a History paper and an English presentation away, and it seems like all of that is going to seem so pointless, so irrelevant once it’s all over that it’s hard to focus. It’s hard enough to focus at soccer practice even with the constant reminder of our next competition held over our heads. It’s hard enough to feel real when I find myself too remote to concentrate on day-to-day things, but too guilty about it to do anything else.

But I have my better days. My best friend brings one of her male friends to a women’s college soccer game that we see together. They’re not officially a couple but I’m still third wheeling a little. That’s OK. He says he’s going to a university in the same city that I am next year. “You guys will both have to take the train to visit me,” says my best friend, her smile brighter than I’ve seen it in ages. I promise that I will, and the guy says, “Only as long as you visit us, too.” Us!

I come home sunburned. My legs and face are pink in the bathroom light and damp with aloe vera gel. I blink at myself in the mirror and ask myself if I feel real today. And I do. ♦