Hours drifted by. When the sun grew too intense, Emily shifted her position, always vigilant of the security guards who patrolled the perimeter. Mid-day brought another bell and the courtyard exploded with life again as children spilled out for recess, unpacking snacks that looked like feasts to Emily’s eyes. She watched the tag games and the secret whispers, her gaze dreamy and devoid of bitterness. She simply wanted to belong, to cross the invisible chasm that separated her world from theirs.
Occasionally, when the coast was clear, she would pull a salvaged notebook from her bag and mimic the students. She practiced writing her letters and solving arithmetic problems, using the dirt as a chalkboard when she ran out of paper. Once, she had found a nearly complete math textbook. It had taken weeks of counting on her fingers and drawing tally marks in the dust, but when she finally solved a two-digit addition problem, the rush of joy was intoxicating.
As the afternoon sun dipped lower, the dismissal bell rang. Emily watched the reunions, the gold-star papers being displayed to proud parents, the animated recounting of the day. She waited until the last car drove away before emerging from her hiding spot. On her trek back to her awning, she scanned the ground for lost treasures—a dropped pencil, a piece of chalk, anything to fuel her solitary schooling.
That night, Emily sat under the weak halo of a streetlamp, reading aloud from a storybook missing its cover. She imagined she was reading to a room full of friends. When exhaustion finally claimed her, she hugged her backpack to her chest, wrapped herself in the thin blanket, and lay on the cardboard that separated her from the freezing concrete. “Tomorrow,” she whispered into the darkness. “Tomorrow might be different.”
The next morning began with the same gray predictability. Breakfast was half a bruised apple salvaged from a park bin and the stale crust of bread from the night before. But as she began her walk to St. Thomas, the atmosphere felt subtly shifted. The sky was a brilliant, piercing blue, and a gentle breeze danced through the trees. Emily felt lighter, as if an invisible thread was pulling her forward.
Arriving at the school, she took her place behind the oak tree. The routine played out: the cars, the uniforms, the bell. But after the courtyard cleared, she spotted something new. In a side garden, typically obscured by overgrown bushes, there was a gap where the earth had eroded beneath the fence.
She scanned the area. The security guard was occupied at the main gate, helping a delivery driver unload heavy boxes. Her heart hammered against her ribs. It was a reckless thought, but the pull was undeniable. crouching low, Emily scrambled through the gap, the bushes snagging her hair as she squeezed through.
Suddenly, she was inside.
The garden was an oasis. The grass was impossibly green and soft beneath her bare, callous feet. Flower beds burst with color, and ancient trees offered cool, dappled shade. It felt like stepping into one of the fairy tales she read by streetlamp. She stood frozen, breathing in the scent of cut grass and privilege, until a soft sobbing sound shattered the spell.
Emily followed the noise to a wooden bench partially obscured by a hydrangea bush. A girl her own age sat there, head in her hands. She wore the pristine uniform, her blonde hair woven into two perfect braids. On her lap lay an open notebook.
Emily hesitated. Flight was the safest option. But the distress in the girl’s posture drew her in. She stepped softly onto the pavement. The girl was staring at a math worksheet with an expression of pure defeat. It was simple addition—problems Emily had mastered weeks ago in her alleyway classroom.
The girl looked up, jumping slightly. For a moment, they just stared at one another—two five-year-olds from opposite ends of the universe.
“Who are you?” the girl asked, wiping a tear from her cheek. “I haven’t seen you in our class.”
Emily swallowed hard. The girl’s blue eyes held curiosity, not malice. “My name is Emily,” she whispered.
“I don’t… you don’t go here,” the girl said, frowning slightly. “Why are your clothes so dirty?”
Shame flushed Emily’s cheeks hot. She looked down at her stained dress and grimy feet. “I just wanted to see what a school looked like inside,” she murmured, backing away. “I should go.”
“Wait,” the girl said quickly. “I didn’t mean to be mean. I’m Sophie.” She patted the empty space on the bench. “Do you want to sit? I’m trying to do this homework, but it’s really hard. The teacher will be upset if I don’t finish.”
Emily approached cautiously and perched on the edge of the bench. She glanced at the paper. “Can I help?”
“I know how to add,” Sophie said, sounding defensive but unsure. “You do? But you don’t go to school.”
Emily offered a tentative smile. “I don’t need to be in school to know math. Can I show you?”
Sophie pushed the notebook toward her. Emily picked up the pencil with reverence. “Look,” she said gently. “You have three fingers here, right?” She held up three dirty fingers. “And five here. Now, count them all together.”
Sophie mimicked her, counting slowly. “One, two… eight. The answer is eight!”
“Exactly,” Emily beamed. “Now try the next one.”
Sophie looked at ‘4 + 2’. She used her fingers, tongue poking out in concentration. “Six! It’s six.” Her face lit up. “How did you learn that? You’re so smart.”
Emily hesitated. “I teach myself. With books I find in the trash.”
“By yourself?” Sophie’s jaw dropped. “Without a teacher? You must be a genius.”
Emily laughed, a rusty sound. “I’m not a genius. I just like to learn.”…
