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Heather Clark

and over, because no matter how hard this is, it’s better than
the alternative.
I hold the zip line while they scramble up. It’s only a few
feet down if they fall, but I run alongside, gripping the back of
Budge’s faded, red Mario shirt with claw fingers.

“Let go,” Janie begs. “Trapeze artists need to fly.”
They do seem stable, but that’s not the real reason I let them
make the second run alone. I don’t want to hear Janie say Mom

would let them again.
I still watch, though—got to make sure they don’t stand up,
hang off, or basically attempt to die in any other way.
I wipe the sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand
and shield my eyes as I tilt my face up to the washed-out sky.

It’s like all the blue has been erased by the burning afternoon
sun, even though it’s not directly overhead anymore.
“Hey, Morgan!” A voice calls from behind me. A voice I’d

know anywhere.
Keilani.
A wave of regret washes over me, and I turn, even though
I don’t feel ready to see her.
She waves from the sidelines of the soccer field. She’s wear-

ing the US Women’s World Cup Champion tee I gave her for her
twelfth birthday. That should be comforting. If she’s wearing
my gift, maybe she hasn’t totally given up on me as a friend.

Behind her, girls in cleats and shin guards warm up for soccer
practice. My old team—Blue Thunder.

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