Those are the words she had to repeat in her head when she played. That was the method her father had taught her.
Terrence was more of a croquet man, himself, but he figured his high school profession would come in handy if only to keep Ezra’s mouth shut about her hateful words on their rich culture.
They weren’t hateful to Ezra, of course. To her, they were the truths given on their myopic white supremacy. He took one good look at his fifteen-year-old daughter.
Her bright blonde hair was tied back and her muscles tensed when the ball would fly past her. He chuckled each time.
It was true that he was enlightened by the small moments of this daughter’s frustration, but it was only fair given all the frustration she gave
Ezra stretched out her arm and hit the ball from the rim of the racket before it could fly past her again.
Shockingly enough, it was a successful hit that flew right past her father who was unprepared for that shot.
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