Mia jumped for the spike, but the ball whizzed past her fingers and bonked her on the head. She rubbed her forehead, giggled, and picked up the ball again.
She decided to practice her serve instead. Mia tossed the ball, swung her arm, and sent it sailing straight into the neighbor’s rose bushes.
She tiptoed over, reached in, and pulled out a single pink petal. She wiped dirt off the ball and tried again.
Next, Mia practiced footwork by tapping the ball against the garage wall. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack — but on the fourth tap, the ball stuck to the wet paint and refused to drop.
She jumped, stretched, and finally gave it a gentle push; it landed with a soft puff.
At the neighborhood tournament, Mia stepped up to serve with the score tied. She tossed, jumped, and spiked hard — but the ball sailed wide and out of bounds.
The other team cheered. Mia’s knees wobbled, but she walked back to the line anyway.
The next morning, Mia was back at the empty court. She served, and this time the ball arced cleanly over the net.
She didn’t cheer. She just nodded, picked up the ball, and prepared for her next serve.
She tossed the ball again. And again. Each serve better than the last.