Along For the Ride

The smell of freshly cut grass and sweat clung to me, a familiar comfort after a hard-fought soccer game. We'd just clinched the championship, and the euphoria was still buzzing through my veins, making my tired muscles feel oddly weightless. My best friend, Jenica, and I were making our way through the crowded parking lot, the cheers of our teammates fading behind us.

Then I saw it. A life-sized cardboard cutout of my brother, Connor Jackson, perched incongruously in the window of a shoe store. He was grinning, perfect and airbrushed, an advertisement come to life. And surrounding him, a gaggle of teenage girls, giggling and posing for pictures.

"Excuse me?" a voice chirped behind me. I turned to see a girl, her eyes sparkling with excitement. "Could you take our picture?"

I couldn't help but smile, a strange mix of pride and something else, something akin to resignation, washing over me. "Of course," I said, taking her phone. The flash went off, capturing a moment I knew all too well: me, Katelyn Jackson, in the periphery of my brother's manufactured fame.