Birds. I hate badminton. Eye-hand coordination was never my strength.
"You'll have fun," Fanny told me.
I hate how the little birdies fall apart if you step on them. Which I always do. They're easier to miss, fallen in the long grass like puffs of dandelions.
"Tell her to play," Fanny told her brother. We avoided eye contact. Like we always did when she was around. Our secret.
"You'll have fun," he said, not looking at me. "I'll let you win."
I didn't want to beat anybody, least of all him. I wanted to fold him in my arms, cradle him in a nest of pillows.
We were on opposite sides. He was squinting at the setting sun.
"Hit it!" Fanny yelled as it came sailing over the net. She watched from the sidelines, a glass of lemonade in her hand. I think there was vodka.
I reached my arm out, the racket over my head. I smashed the birdie so hard it broke into shards of plastic.
I knew just how it felt.