Liora grips both backpack straps and presses them flat against her chest. The hallway swallows her — shoes stomp, lockers bang. She stops. A hundred feet rush past. She is the only still thing in the whole loud hall.
Her fingers dig into the straps. Stomp-stomp-stomp go the sneakers past her ankles. Bang goes a locker. She does not walk. The tile floor shimmers with sunlight while everyone else blurs into a grey streak.
Liora pushes the classroom door open. It swings wide with a creak. Twenty little desks stare back at her. She freezes. Her backpack hangs on both shoulders while she blinks.
She shuffles to the back row. Scrape, scrape go her sneakers on tile. She plops down and clutches the backpack between her knees like a little shield. The other kids do not even look up.
The girl with bouncy curls pops up and pats the empty seat wider. "You can sit here!" She grins, wiggling the pad, waiting.
Liora plops into the chair. Her knees bump the desk with a thud. She slides forward, closer to the girl's elbow. The backpack settles on the floor, forgotten.
Pip tips the little wooden box between them. Thirty crayons clatter, bounce, skitter across the wood. Yellow. Blue. Green. They scatter like tiny confetti.
One waxy red crayon skids, spins, and stops right on Liora's open hand. She stares at it. The wax is soft under her thumb. Warm.
"It's for you," Pip says, chin propped on her hand. Liora picks up the red crayon. She turns it over once, twice. The little tip points at the paper between them.
Liora draws a long wavy line. Pip scribbles a zigzag and a lopsided star. Sunlight pours through the window and makes every color glow. Liora sets her crayon down, looks at the room, and just keeps drawing.
