"Oh my gosh, honey, what happened?"

My mother dashes towards me as I walk—no, stumble—into the living room with a melting ice pack pressed to my bruising eye. I can see out of a mere quarter of it and almost slam into the wall, saved by Levi running in from the kitchen. He leads me to an armchair as my mother hovers over my head.

"I got hit by a tennis ball," I say, falling into the brown cushion. My funny bone hits the hard armrest, and I suppress yelling out a profanity. Anything else you want to do to me, world?

"It looks terrible!" she cries, crouching down next to me. "How did this happen? You don't even play tennis, Whitney. Wait, this was your friend Mina's idea, right?"

"Maybe you should let her rest for a moment," Levi says warily, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his white shorts. "A hit to the head or eye like this can cause a concussion in some cases. Do you feel dizzy or nauseous, Whitney? Have double vision?"

I shake my head. "No, God, I don't feel that bad. Really, I think I'll be okay with another ice pack."

Levi hurries back to the kitchen to the freezer, clearly preparing for his future medical career. At the same time, my dad walks into the living room clad in a navy suit, tie half undone. I slowly look up. When he zeroes in on my eye, horror overtakes his blank expression.

"Oh, dear God, Whitney, what did you do? Get into a bar fight?"

"Gee thanks," I mumble dryly. "I got hit by a tennis ball, thank you for your concern."

He comes to the side of the armchair and peers at my face. "Sorry, didn't mean it like that. How did this even happen, honey? You're not exactly the sporty type."

Embarrassed, I half explain the story, knowing deep down, he wishes I was more like Poppy. She was always willing to go throw a ball with him because guess what?

She could actually catch it, unlike me.

At the thought of her, Poppy walks in, and I begin to wonder if my mom has planned another family gathering, only I'm the guest of honor this time.

"Oh my gosh, Whitney, what happened?"

I can't take any more questions and announce that I'm going upstairs. I shut my bedroom door behind me, throw myself onto my bed, and stare up at the ceiling.

With one eye, of course.

***

I sigh as I walk out of my front door, overhearing some of Levi and my dad's discussion on the porch. Craning my neck, I try to spot my mom in the yard but remember she's still out on her daily run around the neighborhood, making me the only member of the family who doesn't live outside in the summer. Even my dad, who spends more hours working than sleeping, finds enjoyment in nature whenever he's not in the office.

I simply cannot fathom how you can pick grass and mosquitoes over air conditioning and leather sofas.

"Whitney, good that you're here; you're coming with me!" In a turn of events, my mom is back from her run and standing in the driveway, a walking advertisement for Lululemon.

"Um, why?" I ask, taking a nervous step back on the asphalt.

"We are going shopping."

I nod at the affirmative answer, hoping we're going to the mall and even better, makeup shopping. I've been needing some new eyeliner. I open the door and slide into the passenger seat of her silver Range Rover.

"Where are we going?" I ask as she backs out of our driveway.

"You," she begins, wiggling her index finger in my face, "are getting workout clothes." My happy expression disappears, a wince replacing it. First, the application form, now workout clothes; this camp is becoming too real. "Look, Whit, I can't force you to go to that fitness camp, but I can definitely motivate you, so I'm going to start with some good old-fashioned retail therapy."

"But Mom, my eye is still purple," I whine, looking at the concealer-covered bruise in my phone camera. I would have never thought tennis balls could do this much damage.

"We've already established you're fine," she says, unamused, opening a window and letting in the breeze. "Think of a better excuse."

I sigh and slide my phone back in my wallet. "You're right. I've been contemplating this myself, and although I hate to say it, I will do it."

Wait, what did I just say?!

In about twenty minutes we reach the mall, driving around the parking garage until we find a space to park. While Connecticut is a nice, quaint state, it can be quite boring, one of the main reasons why everyone is either out shopping at the mall or lying on the beach, contemplating whether or not they should move somewhere more fascinating.

"Now where do we start?" I ask, once we walk through the entrance.

"The athletic store; we're here for a reason, remember?"

She darts ahead, and I jog as fast as possible in my stiff flip flops to catch up to her as she takes the escalator to the second floor. We walk into the store together, and the athletic vibes seeping off the walls blind my lazy soul.

Running shorts, sneakers, soccer balls, yoga mats; my worst nightmare comes to life.

"Look over here," my mom calls, shuffling through a rack of cropped and full-length leggings. I pass on the tie-dye and camo ones that she somehow thinks are cute and get distracted by the fact that they all come with matching sports bras and sweatbands. "Will this size work?"

"I think so," I say, taking the pile of leggings from her with a thank you.

She shuffles through the tank tops and hands me a colorful assortment and then dumps a pile of short sleeves and mesh shorts on top. I follow the store associate's lead to the fitting room while trying not to send my heavy pile of clothing to the floor.

"I'm Tracy if you need anything else, okay?" the worker says, holding the door open for me.

I smile and lock the door behind me and take off my boyfriend jeans. The leggings fit, but I know it's going to take some time for me to get used to how I look in bottoms as form-fitting as these are. I then pull on the tank top and tug at the end, standing up straight and feeling like an absolute idiot.

I always admire how girls can look so cute and fit wearing this kind of attire in their posts on Instagram, but I just look like an out-of-place Whitney. As I'm about to open the door to show my mom, I hear a high-pitched whine coming from the room next to me.

"Mom, seriously, these extra smalls are too big! Is there an extra-extra small here?"

I'm pretty sure I wore an extra-extra small in fifth grade, making me wonder if there's an actual child next to me—but the voice is oddly familiar. She calls for her mother again, and I back up into the wall, my back slamming into the solid surface.

I know exactly who this voice belongs to.

Willow.

"Whitney, are you done yet?" I hear my mom call, and I cringe, sliding farther down the wall. Of all times, she had to yell out my name.

"In a second," I hum, fiddling with the lock and stepping out.

As I do, Willow walks out on my right. Our eyes meet, and we each take one large step back.

"You look so cute," my mom gushes.

Willow rotates between staring at me and the ground, until her mother makes a grand entrance. "Whitney, so nice to see you!" Claudia exclaims.

I take note of the gray pencil dress and ashy-blonde hair twisted in an updo, despite the fact she is only out shopping at a mid-tier mall. The only reason she even knows me is from the years of volunteering she did at my high school, never realizing the sheer animosity between her daughter and me.

"It's great running into you, too," I say awkwardly, trying to make eye contact.

Willow's mother reaches over to shake my mom's hand. "Claudia."

"Jennifer, nice to meet you."

"It's funny we haven't met before," Claudia says, retracting her hand. "Your daughter is a lovely girl. You must be so proud to be the mother of this year's valedictorian."

I am about to vomit hearing a compliment from Willow's mom while Willow herself is just standing there, arms folded across her chest, staring at me as if a ripe lemon is lodged behind her flat lips. Neither of us dare utter a word to each other, and my mom takes notice.

"I think we need to go now, Mom, right?" I ask and give her another fake smile.

I send my fake goodbyes to Satan and Satan's mother and drag my mom out of the fitting rooms, clothes spilling out of my arms. She buys them all for me, even though I haven't even tried half of them.

"What was that for?" she hisses once we step away from the entrance. "You didn't even talk to the girl."

I bite the inside of my lip. "Mom, that was Willow. The Willow."

Her eyes widen. "Wow, how am I just realizing you've never shown me a picture of her? Huh, and to think her mother seems so lovely."

"I guess it's not always like-mother-like-daughter..." I grumble.

I take a left to my favorite makeup store indiscreetly, but my mom notices and steers me away to the escalator. I try to forget about Willow as my mom drags me into a shoe store and gravitates to the rows of running sneakers, the only apparel I have yet to buy to finally make this awful decision feel official.

Here goes nothing...