Thwack!  My sister’s foot connects with the ball.  It’s headed right toward me, but I don’t even bother to look up from my book.  First of all, I’m right at a really good part.  Second, despite the fact that I’m sitting in a chair placed in the middle of the goal in our backyard, I am one hundred percent positive that the ball won’t hit me. It never hits me—Andie’s kicks are too good.

“Score,” Andie shouts as the ball sails into the high right corner of the net.  “That’s fifty-two!”

“Yeah, but who’s counting?”  I tease.  Now that I’ve finished the chapter I look up for a second, and Andie flashes me a smile.

“I am, of course.”  She grins and raises an eyebrow.

I know she wishes I would actually play goalie instead of just sit in the goal reading, but that’s never going to happen.  I almost never play soccer with Andie.  And this book is great and I really want to finish it before school starts, which means I have until…tomorrow.

I dive into the next chapter while Andie flops down on her back in the grass with her ball.  Her head is just to my left and I can feel her gazing up at me with her green eyes—eyes that are exactly like mine.  Actually, her whole face is exactly like mine, with maybe a few more freckles from all of the time in the sun on the playing field.  The only other difference in our appearances is that she always wears her shoulder-length thick brown hair pulled back, and I always wear mine down.  Other than that, we’re identical, as in identical twins.

“Hey Cait,” Andie says, and waits.

“Hey, Andie,” I say back, giving up on reading and closing my book around my finger to mark my place.  I take a look at her face and know exactly what’s on her mind.  “You’re thinking about school, huh?”  I can read her thoughts as easily as my novel.  It’s a twin thing.  And I might as well give up on reading for now anyway because between my sister giving me the silent “let’s talk” look and my own excitement about starting school, I’ve read that last paragraph about five times.  I’m still not sure exactly what it says.

Andie nods and tosses her soccer ball into the air over her stomach, catching it easily.  “Can you believe that in less than twenty-four hours another glorious summer will be gone like the wind?”

I wrinkle my eyebrows and look down at her.  Andie never uses similes like “gone with the wind.”  “Since when are you a poet?”  I want to know.

“Didn’t I tell you?  I’m turning over a new leaf for junior high.  I’m going to become…”  she puts on her best serious expression and says, “scholarly.”