The Rock

"It's just a rock," she said, raising a brow.
The boy picked it up anyway, from the river, turning it over a few times. "Nuh-uh! Look at it! It's one of those cool rocks - it's got something special inside."
She rolled her eyes, pocketing her hands. "It's just a rock."
He stuck his tongue out at her, wading out of the river, holding it up in the sun. It was shiny and purple, striped and fantastic. "It's beautiful!"
"Someone painted it, idiot," she muttered, yanking it from him and turning to a tree. She scraped the side against the harsh bark, and the paint wore off to be a muddy color, one that was completely average and nondescript.
He snatched it back, sticking his tongue out again. "I bet it's still got something cool inside, or no one would've painted it."
"I bet it painted itself," she chuckled, watching as he threw it at another, larger rock. It broke into a few pieces, which he examined.
The girl watched smugly as he stood. "I guess it didn't have anything after all," he laughed after a moment, turning back to her.
"I told you," she teased. "I could tell it wasn't special from the moment you picked it up. Little faker."
And then they left, and the rock truly didn't have anything at all.