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Sort of Like a Seed

The outside of a seed has a hard coat or shell, and the inside, which Daddy says is called an embryo, comes alive when you water it. Sort of like a seed, there’s this thing inside of me that’s nothing like my outside, and it’s alive.

Some days it comes alive a lot, and other days it happens maybe only once or twice, kind of like a sneeze or hiccup.

Sometimes it keeps me from paying attention. And not paying attention can get me into humongous trouble—trouble that wraps around me tighter than a cocoon and is almost impossible to wriggle out of.

I really never know when it’s going to come alive, but once it gets going, it’s kind of like a bowling ball that’s rolling faster than fast down the lane toward the pins—impossible to stop.

Like yesterday, for example.

After school, I was walking home past the park where a girls’ soccer game was being played. I was on a soccer team once, but I quickly found out that I stink at sports. So I did what most people do who stink at sports: I quit. But sometimes it’s fun to watch, so I stopped and stared through the chain-link fence. The players’ feet were tangled around the ball, everyone trying to get control.

And suddenly, it—the thing that’s inside of me, which I guess you could call my wild imagination—came alive and she—Imaginary Zoe—appeared.

Zoe G. Reindeer, super forward, was on the field with the ball, in a perfect position. Her eyes zeroed in on the goal. She aimed and kicked with all of her might. The ball zoomed through the air. Their tall goalkeeper stretched sideways like she was made of rubber, trying desperately to guard the net, but she failed, and the ball crossed the goal line. Zoe’s teammates hoisted her in the air!

When the buzzer signaling the end of the game sounded, I blinked, and just like that, the real Zoe was back. The real me was still peering at the players through the fence, watching the winning team give each other high fives. The real me still stunk at sports and was now going to be late getting home from school.

The real me, a shy, perfectly plain girl-person, wears glasses. The real me never stands out, not at school, not at home, not at anywhere. The real me doesn’t like loud crowds. Mostly, the real me likes the quiet of the Wonderland’s pond and greenhouse and of half-empty movie theaters. The real me has only one friend. Plus the real me has big feet, feet that make me resemble the letter L. The real me can’t even whistle. If they gave awards for being boring, I’d get a gold medal.

But Imaginary Zoe is everything the real me isn’t. Instead of being eleven years old, she’s already a teenager and even has her driver’s license. She’s really pretty and can sing and dance and has friends who hover around her like a flock of pigeons, and she gets really good grades without studying a lot, and she never forgets things, and everyone loves her, especially her parents and brother and sister and even teachers. Plus she doesn’t stink at sports.

Sometimes I try very hard to keep Imaginary Zoe from disappearing, but because my real world keeps interrupting with all of its stuff like chores and homework and getting annoyed and having to brush my teeth and sometimes being forced to eat pickled beets, Imaginary Zoe vanishes.

Now that I’ve explained how I’m sort of like a seed and also about Imaginary Zoe, I can tell you about the real seeds.