Chapter 2: Childhood Games, Hidden Hearts

Caleb’s two years older than Aubrey and me. When we were little, he was the king of our apartment building, always daring us to jump hedges or prank Mrs. Kaplan. His laugh would echo down the stairwell, wild and unstoppable.

Aubrey’s always been fearless—a charmer who could talk her way into an extra popsicle on the Fourth or snag the best seat at the school play. Her laugh sparkled, her eyes always shining, like she belonged in the center of every room.

The relatives adored her. Aunts pinched her cheeks; uncles lifted her onto their shoulders. Even the oldest grandparent would chuckle at her antics.

Me? I’d stand awkwardly to the side, clutching a soda, wishing I could disappear behind the snack table. After everyone finished raving about Aubrey, they’d look at me and say, "The younger one is so quiet," like I might break if they spoke too loud.

When the neighborhood kids played, Aubrey led the charge—setting off fireworks, catching tadpoles, racing barefoot through sprinklers, her hair streaming behind her. She’d start every game and finish every one, always the last to leave when the streetlights blinked on.

I never fit in. I’d just sit in the sandbox, hugging a plastic bucket, letting sand run through my fingers. I told myself I was building something important, even if no one noticed.

One summer day, Caleb got bored and plopped down beside me, a lollipop dangling from his mouth. The swings were too hot to touch, and his shadow stretched across my sandbox. He watched me, head cocked, curious.

Under his gaze, my heart raced. I started piling sand into my bucket, desperate to build the best castle anyone had ever seen. My hands shook, and my cheeks burned.

"What are you doing?" he asked, sounding way older than he was—a little professor with a sugar stick. Gravel crunched under his sneakers.

I slammed the bucket down in front of him, lashes trembling. "For you. It’s all for you."

My words tumbled out, my heart pounding so loud I was sure he could hear. I stared at the sand, wishing I could vanish.

Caleb just stared, stunned. His lollipop dropped into the dust, and for a second, he looked almost scared.

After a while, he mumbled, "You’re something else, Natalie," his voice soft, like he couldn’t figure me out.

Caleb was a troublemaker. In elementary school, he barely passed, snuck comics into math, doodled on tests. Once, he wrote "Help!" on a spelling quiz in red, and Aunt Lisa had to come in. She’d chase him around the house with a wooden spoon, her scolding echoing through the building—everyone knew Caleb was in trouble again.

But in middle school, something clicked. Suddenly, he was acing math, reading novels, joining debate. People said he "grew up overnight."

He never left the top spot in his year, and after graduation, Northwestern was his dream—and he got in.

The whole block partied when they heard. Even Mrs. Kaplan baked a cake with the Northwestern logo in purple frosting.