The bell had already rung. Milo pushed through the classroom door, his backpack bursting at the seams with crayons, colored pencils, and glue sticks still wrapped in plastic. He found the only empty desk and sat down. Around him, other children were already paired at tables, laughing and sharing. The bell rang again. Nobody glanced his way.
Milo carefully unpacked every supply onto his desk. He lined them up in a neat, meticulous row — crayons, colored pencils, glue sticks, scissors still in their plastic wrap. A boy at the next table turned and asked, 'Can I borrow a blue crayon?' Milo wrapped his arms around his box and shook his head. The boy shrugged and returned to his drawing.
Milo watched the boy color with a stubby, worn-down crayon. From his geometry set, Milo took out a brand-new metallic gold pencil and twirled it between his fingers. It caught the light. Three desks over, the girl in the yellow dress dropped her red crayon. It rolled across the floor — straight under Milo's desk — and came to a stop against his sneaker.
Milo picked up the red crayon and held it out. The girl reached past him toward a different kid who had a fresh box. He looked down at the red crayon in his hand, then back at his own untouched supplies. Milo sat very still. He thought about how long those supplies had stayed wrapped in plastic, how they had waited just for him.
Milo stood up. He walked to the boy at the next table and held out the red crayon. 'Here,' he said. The boy looked surprised. He took the crayon, and then — with a gasp — he pulled a tiny folded piece of paper from his crayon box. He unfolded it and read aloud: 'You are my favorite person to color with.'
Milo stared at the paper. Then he stared at the boy, who was grinning so wide his teeth showed. Milo laughed. A breath he didn't know he was holding finally escaped. The boy folded the note back into his crayon box and slid the gold pencil toward Milo.
Milo pulled his chair over next to the boy. He spread his supplies between them — crayons, pencils, the gold pencil, the scissors. They drew side by side as the morning light flooded the room. Milo didn't notice that half his backpack was now empty. The boy held up their two drawings — one a lopsided sun, the other a tall tower made of impossible colors.
'Same color?' Milo asked. The boy handed him the gold pencil. 'We both have it now,' he said. Milo nodded. He took the pencil and held it out — not all the way, but enough.
The classroom buzzed around them now. Children shouted and laughed, chairs scraped, someone dropped a glue stick. Milo stayed focused on his drawing, the gold pencil moving across the paper. He didn't look up when the teacher called roll. He didn't look up when the bell rang at last.
When Milo finally looked up, the classroom was nearly empty. His new friend was packing his bag, humming softly. 'See you tomorrow?' the boy asked. Milo smiled. 'Yeah,' he said. 'Same color?'
Milo walked to the door, his empty backpack swinging gently at his side. He paused and looked back at the desk where they had drawn together. The gold pencil was still there — the boy must have forgotten it. Milo picked it up and held it close.
The next morning, Milo pushed through the classroom door with his usual backpack. But this time, he carried two boxes of crayons. He walked straight to the boy in the striped shirt and held one out. 'Same color?' Milo said. The boy grinned. 'Yeah,' he said. 'We both have it now.'
