![]() ![]() ![]() As I veer toward her, I feel a familiar twinge of envy. She has a dancer’s body-like a living, breath- ing Degas sculpture. She’s by her Camry, hauling our black-and-gold flags from her trunk, already dressed in our outfit: black leotard with sheer lace sleeves that catch the light, the matching skirt rippling over her long, lean legs. We’ve danced together all the way through high school, along with our twelve-member flag corp and dance squad. Normally, I’d stop and look, as in look, but today, all I want is to talk to Megan, my best friend since kindergarten, when we both joined Zeigler’s Ballet Studio. A guys’ soccer match runs full tilt, a mad dash of Chagrin Falls orange jerseys versus blue from Solon, a rival high school. Puffy storm clouds close over the sky, the remnants of a typhoon kicked up in Asia, according to the weatherman. Ten minutes later, I jog onto the field behind the high school. ![]()
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