The morning bell rang, sharp and bright. Pippa stepped into the classroom, her arms wrapped tight around her yellow raincoat. She peeked out from behind the high collar as a dozen children chattered like sparrows.
She climbed onto the back chair and tucked the raincoat over her knees. She breathed in the sharp smell of fresh crayons and listened to the scuff of sneakers on the floor. The room felt enormous.
A boy with messy hair slid onto the desk beside her. He leaned close, his eyes landing on her glasses. He tapped his own clear lenses and asked, 'Do you have a picture inside those?'
Pippa hesitated. Her fingers traced the edge of her raincoat. Then she slowly lifted it from her face. She held up her glasses between two hands, like something precious.
Behind one lens, a tiny photograph winked back. It was her golden dog, captured mid-wag, ears flying, tongue lolling in a silly grin. Pippa had slipped it behind the glass herself.
The boy's eyes went wide. He let out a delighted squeak and pressed his nose close to the glass. 'That's the best picture I've ever seen,' he whispered.
Pippa sat a little straighter. The raincoat slipped down from her shoulders. She didn't pull it back up. The boy kept staring at the tiny dog, smiling so hard his cheeks dimpled.
The classroom sounds settled around her — the scuff of sneakers, the rustle of paper, the teacher's voice — into something that almost felt like music. Pippa smiled at the tiny dog in her glasses, and the world felt just a little bit bigger.
