Zehava burst through the door. Her arms were full of opinions.
"The seats are too blue!" she told the bus driver on the phone. "The pancakes look weird!" she yelled at breakfast. Her family exchanged glances while the kitchen timer dinged like a tiny siren.
At school, the teacher announced a snack surprise. Zehava leaned forward and said she hated snack surprise.
"Chocolate isn't coming today," the teacher whispered. Zehava stomped her foot and the cup holders rattled.
After school, her dad held out a folded paper. She snatched it, declared it boring, and threw it on the couch. He picked it up gently and showed her — it was a drawing of a rocket ship with her name on it.
Zehava stared at the rocket. Her mouth was still open.
The next morning, her mom pointed outside. A giant bounce house was inflating in the backyard, wobbling and creaking. But a tall grown-up waved Zehava back. She had missed the first ride — she wasn't on the list.
That evening, Zehava sat beside her dad on the couch. He opened a thick brochure about the science museum — planetarium shows, robot demos. She didn't say a word. When he finished, he asked, Want to go?