Mom zipped the schoolbag shut. Junie B. fingers hovered on the handle. The bus engine rumbled outside, shaking the kitchen window. She thought she was ready. The rumble disagreed.
On the bus, a quarter slipped from her hand. It clinked and rolled past folded newspapers and scuffed shoe tips. It came to a stop against the driver's heavy boot. Junie B. thought she could hear the whole bus go quiet. She scooped it up fast.
The classroom door stood open. Chalk dust and crayon wax drifted out like a promise. Junie B. gripped her schoolbag straps and stayed very still. She thought about turning around. She thought about going home. The bell rang anyway.
A pair of bright red sneakers tapped against the linoleum. The girl who wore them waved both arms. Junie B. felt her smile arrive before she could stop it. The sneakers kept tapping. Tap tap tap. Come on.
She slid into her desk and popped the schoolbag open. Inside: a shiny red apple, a half-eaten cracker, and a crumpled library book. She bit the apple. Crunch. The classroom filled with the sound of pages turning and chairs scraping.
The teacher wrote three big letters on the board. A B C. Junie B. traced them in the air with her finger. She thought the letter B looked like a belly. She thought the letter C looked like a moon. The class repeated the letters out loud.
During show and tell, the girl in the red sneakers held up a seashell. It was spiral-shaped and pink. Junie B. leaned forward. She thought it looked like a tiny house for a snail. When it came to her turn, she held up the apple core. It was the best she had.
The recess bell rang. Junie B. ran outside with the red sneakers girl. They raced to the slide and went down together — whoosh. Junie B. thought school wasn't so bad after all. She thought maybe she could come back tomorrow.