Chapter 24: The Form

On Monday morning I walked Poppy through the front doors of her school.

I had stood at that gate for four years in the second row of mothers.

This time I walked through it with her hand in mine.

She wore the yellow raincoat, though the sky was clear.

The rabbit rode in her backpack with its ears sticking out of the zipper.

"Is my seat still by the window?" she asked, for the sixth time.

"The head of school said yes."

"What if somebody sat in it?"

"Then I'll make them move."

"You can't make a grown-up move."

"Watch me."

She giggled, and squeezed my hand.

The gray-coated mother was at the edge of the hall with her own son, a small boy in a green fleece.

She looked at me, and she lifted one hand, and she didn't say a word.

I lifted mine back.

Two other mothers I had never spoken to moved their strollers aside to make a space at the front desk.

The head of school came out from behind it.

She had a clipboard and a pen.

She was smiling, nervous and honest, for someone who had risked her job the week before.

"Welcome back, Poppy," she said. "Your seat's still by the window. I put a sticky note on it that says Reserved."

"Who's it reserved for?"

"For you."

Poppy considered this, and approved.

"There's just a form," the head of school said, and she turned to me.

"The enrollment record needs updating. New guardian information, emergency contacts, pickup list. It's a formality."

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