Half a dozen plastic cups are strewn across the table.  I sit on a wooden gym bench.  A girl with long blond hair sits next to me.  She wears black leggings and a long-sleeved red shirt with a graphic.  Her legs are stretched under the table and her feet pointed. Her socks are striped with miscellaneous neon colors.  She has brown eyes.  Freckles scatter across her nose.  She wears her hair so the strand tucked behind her ear is curtained and woven through her hair.  .  It is reminiscent of how Tolkien would imagine an elfin Queen.  She is stacking the solo cups into a pyramid now.  Her fingers are long, her nails unpainted. We are waiting for our scene.  She is a butler and I am a lady. 
I ask her if she plays any sports.  “Soccer,” she says.  I know she plays soccer.  I have asked her before.  I know she plays soccer four days a week in a rep league.  I know she is excellent.  She mentions none of this.  Soccer is her secret.  She asks for no recognition of her accomplishments.  She hides her skill, her effort, her talent.  She is frustratingly modest.  I do not know why.
Yet her reserve is admirable.
Perhaps she is a queen after all.