Milo gripped the straps of his rocket-ship backpack and stepped through the classroom door. A paper planet swooped from the ceiling and bumped his hat. He caught it just before it bounced away. Behind him, autumn sunlight striped the hallway floor.
Inside, chairs scraped and crayons clattered. Voices bounced from table to table, and Milo froze beside the doorway with the planet held against his shirt. The teacher pointed toward an empty seat. Milo thought, “One step first.”
Milo crossed the room slowly, one hand clinging to his backpack while the other carried the planet. At the empty desk, he lowered it carefully. The planet rolled away—r-r-r-r—and disappeared beneath a nearby table.
Milo crouched after it as shoes shuffled past. Under the table, the planet rested beside a wooden chair leg. He reached between the legs, careful not to bump anything. The classroom sounds became a jumble above him: scrape, shuffle, clatter.
Milo retrieved the planet and returned to his desk. Across the room, the shared crayon box waited beside the windows. He reached toward it, then pulled his hand back. Tap-tap-tap went a squirrel on the glass, while red and gold leaves fluttered outside.
A blue crayon slid across the table and stopped beside Milo’s paper. The classmate smiled. Milo looked from the crayon to her face, then drew a square window on his planet. Wax whispered over the page. “Thank you,” he said.
The classmate pointed toward the rocket-ship backpack. “Ready to blast off?” she asked. Milo glanced at the silver fins, then added one blue line beneath the window. “Ready,” he said, and the planet gained a tiny streak of sky.
Milo placed his finished planet beside the classmate’s drawing. Then he lifted his backpack onto its hook. The red rocket hung neatly among jackets and scarves. He looked at the two pictures on the desk and left them side by side.
