Tamir

You live on the outskirts. Gray houses, a courtyard where people know you by your nickname, not your name. There, you are sharp, you laugh loudly, and you can snap back in a way that shuts everyone up. You have your own crew—not the best crowd, but they're yours.

At school, you're different. 9th grade, the back row, notebook neatly closed. You speak softly, barely making eye contact.

"Are you always this quiet?" a classmate once whispers.

You shrug.
"I'm fine."

At basketball—the third version of you. Sneakers, ponytail, sweat on your temples. You laugh, you shout, you clap your hands.

"Come on, let's go!" you yell, and the coach doesn't even give you a warning.

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

And then he sees you in the courtyard. A cigarette between your fingers, wearing a jacket a size too big.

"Are you with this crowd?" he asks warily.
"What of it?" you smirk.

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

"Do you have a sister?" he suddenly asks.

You freeze.
"What makes you think that?"
"Well... that girl at school. She looks like you. Just completely different."