She did, her fingers flying. The data populated on screen—heavy call buying, institutional size.
“That’s not retail,” I said. “That’s smart money positioning before a move.”
“So, we’re thinking breakout?” Her eyes were bright, excited. This was her element. This was where she came alive.
“I’m thinking you set an alert above resistance and wait for confirmation. Don’t chase it. Let it come to you.”
She nodded, already marking the level on her chart. “What’s your entry strategy? You wait for the break and retest, or do you buy the breakout?”
“Depends on the setup. If it’s clean—strong volume, no resistance overhead—I’ll buy the break. But if it’s messy, I wait for the pullback. Rather miss a trade than lose money trying to force it.”
“That’s smart.” She pulled up another chart, this one showing a stock that had gapped down at the open and was now trying to recover. “What about this? Gap fill play or dead cat bounce?”
I laughed. “You really do know your shit.”
“I told you.” She glanced at me sideways, that hint of a smile playing at her lips again. “I don’t play about my money.”
We went back and forth like that for the next hour, pulling up charts, debating setups, challenging each other’s reads. She was sharp—sharper than most traders I knew who’d been doing this for years. She understood risk management, position sizing, and the psychology of the market. And she wasn’t afraid to disagree with me when she thought I was wrong.
I liked that.
Liked the way she’d tilt her head when she was thinking, the way she’d bite her bottom lip when she was analyzing a pattern, the way she’d light up when a trade went her way.
“There,” she said, pointing at her screen. “That stock you told me to hold? Just broke through resistance.”
I looked. She was right. The momentum was building, volume surging.
“You still in?”
“Hell yeah, I’m still in.” She was grinning now, watching the price climb. “I’m letting it run.”
“Good. Don’t get greedy, though. Set a trailing stop.”
“Already did.” She showed me her exit strategy. Clean and disciplined. “I’m not trying to catch the whole move. Just my piece of it.”
“That’s the difference between traders who make it and traders who blow up,” I said. “Knowing when to take profit.”
She closed the position a few minutes later, locking in a clean gain. The satisfaction on her face was worth more than the money.
“See?” I said. “Told you to trust your read.”
“Yeah, yeah.” But she was smiling. “Don’t let it go to your head.”
A kid came by then, maybe ten years old, pushing a cooler on wheels. “Dixie Cups! Two dollars!”
Truth looked up, her expression softening. “What flavors you got?”
“Strawberry, grape, lemon, and wedding cake.”
“Wedding cake?” I raised an eyebrow.
The kid grinned. “It’s strawberry with sprinkles. My mama’s special.”
Truth laughed—that real laugh again—and reached for her purse. But I was already pulling out my wallet.
“Two strawberry,” I said, handing him a ten. “Keep the change.”
The kid’s eyes went wide. “For real?”
