The gate CLANGS shut. Other kids flood past, chattering. Mitu grips her backpack straps so hard her knuckles turn white. Her sneakers stand very still on the cold concrete.
Squeak, squeak, squeak — sneakers on shiny tile. The giggles bounce off the walls. Left. Then right. Then straight ahead.
Mitu pushes open a door. A girl with a white chalk smudge on her nose spins around. "You can sit here — I just got here too!"
Both empty chairs creak in the quiet room. The girl grins, showing a gap where a tooth used to be. Mitu slides into the chair across from her.
The chalk-dust girl pulls a pencil from her hair and scrawls her name on the desk. She points the pencil at Mitu's blank desk. "Want to write yours?"
Mitu uncaps her pencil. The wood squeaks. She writes M-I-T-U. Big letters. The girl laughs — a full, real laugh.
The afternoon bell rings. Mitu's backpack straps hang loose now. She zips her bag up with both hands, easy.
In the sunlit courtyard, the chalk-dust girl waves from across the grass. Mitu waves back. The sun paints the iron gate gold.
