James snapped his schoolbag shut, flattening the last paper corner beneath the clasp. From the doorway, Sister Jackie called, “The bus is puffing at the corner!” He dashed past toast crumbs scattered across the table, his socks skidding once on the polished floor. Outside, a low engine grumbled.
At the gate, James stopped so suddenly that one schoolbag strap swung forward. The tall yellow bus waited at the corner, breathing gray little puffs into the morning. Its folding doors opened: Hissss. James stared at the steps, counting them with his eyes before taking the first one.
James climbed aboard beside Sister Jackie and gripped the bumpy blue seat with both hands. The bus rumbled away from the corner. Houses slid past the windows—brick walls, garden gates, bright washing on lines—while James kept watching until the school roof appeared ahead.
The assembly bell clanged through the school yard, and James followed a neat line into the hall. Flags trembled above the polished floor while the first notes of the national anthem rose. James stood straight beside the rows of chairs and shaped the familiar words quietly, watching the fabric flutter overhead.
After the final anthem note faded, the principal stepped to a shiny microphone. “Today, every question is welcome!” the morning speech echoed around the hall. James looked at the bright microphone, then at the flags, and tucked those words away like a small, important note.
Back in class, James pressed his pencil carefully along the dotted lines. A tall A appeared, then a round O, then an S that curved too far at the bottom. He rubbed the stray mark with his eraser and tried again, listening to pencils whisper across nearby pages.
At the counting table, James nudged bright bottle caps into tidy groups of five. Red, blue, yellow—he touched each one with a fingertip and whispered the totals. Beside the window, the classroom tadpole flicked its tiny tail through a glass bowl, making a silver ripple.
The teacher set down the picture book and faced the room with a waiting smile. “Now,” she said, “everyone may share one question.” James watched the tadpole’s ripple fade, then raised his hand halfway, holding his elbow close to the desk.
James lifted his hand higher, but the words waited behind his teeth. Another child answered first, quick as a pencil tap, and James lowered his hand to the desk. He looked at the tadpole circling its bowl and thought, I still have my question.
Plip! The tadpole flipped a sparkling splash of water onto the teacher’s nose. Laughter bounced from every table around the sunny classroom. James’s hand shot up again. “Will it grow legs?” he called, while the teacher blinked at the tiny drop and smiled with a bright grin.
At recess, skipping ropes slapped the pavement—tap, tap, tap—and children called, “Come play!” James jumped into a turning rope game, landing beside a muddy chalk star. Between turns, he traded questions about tadpoles and planets with a schoolmate, then hopped again before the rope swept past.
The school bell rang again, clear above the playground noise. James paused by the chalk lines, grinning at the muddy blue and yellow marks stamped across his shoes. He gave one last look toward the rope, then followed the others inside, carrying a new question for tomorrow.
