Before
A girl about her age was walking down the sidewalk. She probably went to school, unlike Kestrel. She probably had a million friends, unlike Kestrel.
“Hey!” shouted Kestrel. “Hey, up here!”
The girl stopped. “Wow, you’re really high.”
“Wanna come up and play?” Kestrel held out her thrift store Barbie dolls—a blond doctor Barbie and a dark-haired lady in a ball gown.
The girl scowled, one nostril lifting, and said, “You still play with dolls?”
Kestrel loved dolls. They were her friends, reliable companions, and favorite playmates. But in that moment, she considered tossing them out of the tree like trash. To act cool and uncaring. To try to grow up.
She wondered, for the first time, was that what it took to be mature? Giving up the things you loved?
No! Something in Kestrel shouted from deep behind her heart, from the very core of her, which hadn’t yet been buried under layers of pain and fear. The stubbornness that was born from her bone marrow coursed hot through her veins.
“Yeah, I like dolls,” she said, “and anybody who doesn’t is BORING!”
Kestrel decided in that moment that, no matter what, she would never grow out of playing. Of fun. Of enjoying every day. And she utterly refused to ever stop loving.