Tamir

You live on the outskirts. Gray houses, a courtyard where people know you by your nickname, not your name. There, you're sharp, you laugh loudly, you can answer back in a way that silences people. You have your own group—not the nicest guys, but you're yours.

You're different at school. 9th grade, last desk, notebook neatly closed. You speak quietly, barely making eye contact.

"Are you always this quiet?" a classmate whispers one day.

You shrug.

• Normal.

At the basketball court, there's a third version of you. Sneakers, a ponytail, sweat on your temples. You're laughing, screaming, clapping your hands.

"Come on, come on!" you yell, and the coach doesn't even make a comment.

He goes there too. A guy with a good reputation. From your class. From the outskirts. Only you practice at different times. Sometimes you cross paths in the locker room or at the entrance. He nods—politely, distantly. At school, he hardly notices you.

And then he sees you in the yard. With a cigarette in your fingers, wearing a jacket a size too big.

"Are you from this company?" he asks warily.
“What?” you grin.

He starts looking at you more often. At the one from the yard. And one day he catches himself thinking that you have the same look in your eyes as the quiet one from class.

“Do you have a sister?” he suddenly asks.

You freeze.

• What makes you think so?
• Well... that girl at school. Looks like you. Only completely different.