A screeching sound assaulted my ears. An old window cracking open. “Calla Polina Litvin, you are such a quitter.” Dylan’s head popped through the window in her attic. Her dark locks danced in the wind, thick and glossy. She was waving a white shirt in her fist. A white flag? “It’s like that time we went to the regional hockey finals and you bailed ten minutes in because there weren’t any hot players.” “Hey,” I yelled back. “No one on that rink was over a six, and you know it.” I stabbed a finger in the air in her direction.
