Trilina Pucci

I walk next to her, wondering which way we’ll take, a little sad, but she reaches down and takes my hand, letting me hold hers half of the way back—the long way

It’s the start of Thursday, and Mr. Green is already on the warpath, but I don’t care because my eyes are on the girl two rows over. Caroline sits at her desk and reaches inside for her morning journal when she stops and leans sideways to see inside.

Here we go.

She pulls out a small blue Tiffany’s box—one I stole from my mom—and a folded paper bag. Her head turns my way, but I’m already looking forward, pretending I don’t notice. I wait for a few more seconds and look back over, watching her unfold the bag and pull out the chocolate chip cookie—the cookie I made. Well, made with the help of our chef.

Caroline brings it to her nose, inhaling it, and places it back in the bag. She pushes it aside and opens the box, checking again over her shoulders to make sure nobody is watching her. The top lifts, and the scraps of tissue paper I ripped up fall out. Her delicate fingers reach inside and pull out the Care Bear sticker I stole from the nurse’s office days ago.

I’m staring, watching as her fingers brush over the top of the puffy sticker, and this time when she looks my way, I keep my eyes on hers. I point to the top of the box, and she looks back down, flipping it around, confused until she sees the writing on the inside of the top.

For the girl that feels everything and wears her heart on her sleeve.

Happy birthday, Carebear.