The gate screeched open. Sunlight flooded the grass. Peepo's wings pressed flat against her round body. Her tiny claws gripped the dirt. She did not step forward.
Peepo shuffled down the flower path. Crunch, crunch — soft petals under her feet. One step. Then another. The school wall leaned close.
The classroom smelled of chalk and warm wood. Peepo squeezed into the corner by the door. Wings tight. Head low. No one looked.
Thud. Thud. Thud. A wooden chair dragged across the floor and stopped right beside her. The classmate slid in, chin in hand.
The crayon box slid across the table. Tumble, clack, tumble. "For you," the classmate said, tapping the lid. Colors spilled out between them.
Peepo pecked the box open. She pulled out one waxy red stick. The smell of pine drifted between them. She held it tight.
Down went the red crayon. One long wobbly loop across the paper. Round and round, waxy lines curling. Squeak, squeak, squeak.
"Ooh — look! It's a bird!" The classmate snorted, pointing at the loop. Peepo tilted her head. She puffed her feathers wide and hooted.
Lunchtime. Peepo sat in the slid-over chair, red crayon in her beak. She drew the window. The flower path. The classmate's chair. Waxy scraps curled on the floor.
Peepo hummed a tiny song. The crayon squeaked back, scratch-scratch-scratch. Waxy shavings rolled off the page. She kept drawing. She kept humming.
