All summer long, Isla talked about kindergarten.
She picked out a backpack — purple, with a shiny silver zipper. She picked out new shoes. She picked out a lunchbox with a dinosaur on it, even though she liked cats better, because she said kindergarten was a time for trying new things.
"I can't WAIT," she told her grandma on the phone.
"I can't WAIT," she told the mail carrier.
"I can't WAIT," she told a squirrel in the yard, and the squirrel ran away.
Then the morning came.
Isla's mom opened the curtains. Sunshine poured in, warm and golden. The purple backpack sat by the door, all zipped up and ready.
And Isla pulled the blanket over her head.
"I don't want to go," she said.
Her voice was small under there. Muffled. Like talking into a pillow.
"Sweetheart," said her mom. "You've been waiting all summer."
"I changed my mind," said Isla. "I want to wait another summer."
Her mom sat on the edge of the bed. She didn't pull the blanket off. She just sat there, and the mattress dipped a little, and Isla rolled toward her, still hidden.
"What if nobody talks to me?" Isla whispered.
"Hmm," said her mom.
"What if I can't find the bathroom?"
"Hmm," said her mom.
"What if I eat lunch and the dinosaur on my lunchbox scares someone and then they cry and then the TEACHER cries and then everyone is crying?"
Her mom was quiet for a second. Then she said, "That would be a LOT of crying."
Isla peeked one eye out from the blanket. Just one.
Her mom was smiling. Not a big smile. A little one. The kind that meant I know this is hard and I'm right here.
"What if," her mom said slowly, "we just go see the door? We don't have to go in. We just look at the door."
Isla thought about this.
"Just the door?"
"Just the door."
So they walked. Isla held her mom's hand tight — really tight, like she was holding a rope over a river. The purple backpack bounced on her back. Her new shoes went squeak, squeak, squeak on the sidewalk.
They got to the school. It was big. It was SO big. It had a million windows. Or maybe twenty. But it felt like a million.
And there was the door. A red door, propped open.
Isla looked at it.
From inside, she heard something. Not crying. Not silence.
Laughing.
And then — a CRASH. Something fell in there. Something loud. And a kid's voice yelled, "THE BLOCKS! THE BLOCKS FELL DOWN!" And then more laughing.
Isla squeezed her mom's hand.
"Someone knocked over the blocks," she said.
"Sounds like it," said her mom.
Isla took one step closer. She could smell something now. Something good. Like crayons and carpet and maybe a little bit of goldfish crackers.
Another kid walked past them through the red door, wearing a cape. Just — wearing a cape. Like that was totally normal.
Isla watched him go.
She looked up at her mom.
She looked at the red door.
Her fingers loosened — just a little. Not all the way. But a little.
"Maybe," Isla said, "I could just look at the blocks."
Her mom squeezed her hand once. Then she let go.
And Isla walked through the red door, her new shoes going squeak, squeak, squeak — and the purple backpack bouncing, bouncing, bouncing behind her, its shiny silver zipper catching the light.
