Poppy stands pressed flat against the classroom door. Her small fingers dig into the yellow backpack straps until her knuckles go white. The hallway behind her hums with lockers slamming and rubber soles squeaking on cold tile.
She peeks through the crack: a swirling avalanche of paper, forty kids mid-laugh, and not a single empty chair in sight. Poppy pushes the door open and steps inside. The room crashes over her—crayons snap, a ruler clatters to the linoleum.
She spots one gap: a desk between a girl with pigtails and a boy chewing a bread crumb. One step. Two. The floorboards groan under her red dress and forty heads turn. The pigtail girl slides off her chair and tugs Poppy's hand all the way across the room.
'You can sit here!' she announces, yanking Poppy into the creaky seat. Poppy's eyes catch the desk: a wobbly purple rocket ship, three squiggly smoke trails, drawn big enough to hold a whole backpack. The girl pats the desk twice, hard. 'I made it for you.'
'Your stuff goes on top of the rocket.' The morning bell blares and Poppy's mouth opens to say hello, but what comes out is a tiny giggle—short, startled, like a soap bubble popping. The pigtail girl claps both palms on the desk.
The purple rocket wobbles right off the edge. Poppy's grip on the yellow straps loosens; one strap slides off her shoulder and lands on the rocket's squiggly trail. She drops the backpack between her feet, digs a pencil from its pocket, and draws a little orange star beside the purple rocket.
The pigtail girl flips her own desk upside-down—there's a tiny green alien already penciled in the corner, waving one stubby arm. Poppy laughs, full and unclenched, and the red dress bounces up and down like a flag in the sun pouring through the window.
The orange star glows against the purple paint. The classroom noise fades into a comfortable hum. Poppy takes a deep breath, her shoulders dropping away from her ears. She is no longer pressed against the door. She is home.
