The next morning started like any other—me runnin' a little late, stuffin' my notebook into my backpack while Mama reminded me not to forget my lunch. The bus ride was bumpy, and me and Abby talked the whole way about our gator project. She said her daddy saw one last summer that was "bigger than a car," though I figured she was stretchin' it just a little.

When we got to Folkston Elementary, we filed into class, and Mr. Johnson stood at the front like always, all straight-backed with his pressed shirt. He gave us that calm, clear "Good morning, class," and we all answered back—most of us anyway. Jacob kind of mumbled his "mornin'," and I saw Mr. Johnson's eyes narrow just a little. He didn't say nothin', but we all knew he noticed.

Math was first again, just like yesterday, and we were still workin' on our times tables—the zeros.

"Alright, class," Mr. Johnson said, steppin' up to the chalkboard. "Let's review. We talked about the zeros yesterday. Does anyone remember why multiplying by zero always gives you...?"

He paused, waitin'.

I shot my hand up quick. "Zero, sir."

"That's right, Emily. And can you remind the class why that is?"

I sat up a little straighter. "'Cause when you multiply somethin' by zero... it's like you don't have anythin'. Like, if you have five groups of nothin', you still got nothin'."

Mr. Johnson smiled and nodded. "Very good, Emily. That's exactly right. Five groups of zero is still zero. Or seven groups of zero is zero. No matter what number you start with—if you multiply it by zero, you end up with zero. Because... you have nothing."

He wrote it out big on the board:

5 x 0 = 0
7 x 0 = 0
12 x 0 = 0

It made sense to me now. It was kinda simple once you thought of it like that.

But then, Jacob raised his hand, his face all scrunched up.

"But... wait... so... what's zero times five? Is that still zero?" he asked, soundin' confused.

A few of the kids snickered, but Mr. Johnson held up his hand for quiet.

"Yes, Jacob," he said, patient but firm. "It works both ways. Zero times any number is still zero. Think of it this way—you can flip the numbers around. It's the same. Zero groups of five is still... nothing."

Jacob frowned, tappin' his pencil against his desk like he was battlin' it out in his head.

"So... zero times a hundred... still zero?"

"Yes."

"Zero times a thousand?"

"Yes, Jacob."

"...What about zero times a million?"

Mr. Johnson chuckled softly. "Still zero."

A few of us laughed, includin' me, but Jacob smiled too, finally gettin' it. I think.

"Alright, let's practice," Mr. Johnson said, handin' out some worksheets.

I started on mine, scribblin' through the zeros quick, feelin' pretty sure about 'em now. But I glanced over and saw Jacob still sittin' there, starin' at his paper, pencil hoverin'.

I leaned over just a bit, whisperin', "Hey... it's all zeros. Don't overthink it."

He glanced at me, then back down at his paper. I saw him write a big zero.

He gave me a little thumbs-up under his desk.

I smiled.

Math was tough sometimes... but at least we were all figurin' it out together.

After math, we had a quick break before reading class started. I was still feelin' pretty good about helpin' Jacob out earlier, but I knew readin' wasn't his favorite part of the day.

Mr. Johnson stood at the front of the room, holdin' a paper in his hand. His voice was clear and steady like always.

"Alright, class," he said. "This month, we're startin' somethin' new. You'll each pick a book to read, and at the end of the month, you'll give a short presentation about it."

There were a few groans, mostly from the back, but I leaned forward, curious. I liked readin'. Not as much as runnin' around outside—but still, I liked a good story.

"I've made a list of some books you might enjoy," Mr. Johnson continued. He held up the sheet and started readin' off names.

"The Bad Guys by Aaron Blabey."
"Charlotte's Web by E.B. White."
"Stuart Little by E.B. White."
"Little House in the Big Woods by Laura Ingalls Wilder."
"James and the Giant Peach by Roald Dahl."
"Pippi Longstocking by Astrid Lindgren."
"The Trumpet of the Swan by E.B. White."

I knew a couple of those names. Mama had read Charlotte's Web to me when I was little, and Papa had told me about Little House in the Big Woods—he said it was kinda like the stories his grandma used to tell about growin' up.

"You don't have to pick from this list," Mr. Johnson added. "But you do need to pick a chapter book. And when we go to the library today, I want you to start lookin' for one you're interested in."

I saw Jacob slump back in his seat a little, and I knew he was hopin' for somethin' with more pictures and fewer words. But Mr. Johnson didn't give him much time to complain. He clapped his hands.

"Alright, line up. Let's head to the library."

We all got up, chairs scrapin' against the floor, and made our way down the hall. The library smelled like paper and floor polish, and the shelves were packed with books that seemed to stretch up forever—at least to us kids.

Mr. Johnson reminded us once we were inside, "Remember—this is a time to look for a book for your report. Comics are fun, but they're not what we're lookin' for today."

He gave Jacob a little look when he said it, but that didn't seem to sink in.

I started wanderin' through the shelves with Abby, pickin' up a few books here and there. She grabbed James and the Giant Peach off the list and said her sister loved it.

"I think this one looks fun," she said, flippin' through the pages.

"Yeah, it's got bugs in it," I said, grinnin'. "Sounds good to me."

I was still tryin' to decide when somethin' caught my eye near the back corner—a book with a big ol' gator right on the cover.

Alligators and Crocodiles: Predators of the Swamp.

My heart jumped a little. It was like the book had been waitin' for me.

I pulled it off the shelf, flippin' through the pictures of sharp teeth, scaly tails, and wide, powerful jaws. There were facts about how they hunt, how fast they can swim, and even how their eyes glow at night.

"This is perfect for our project," I whispered to Abby, showin' her a page with a huge gator in the water.

Her eyes got wide. "That thing's huge!"

I nodded. Papa would love this—I just knew it. And it'd help us make our poster even better.

While I was checkin' out the gator book, we heard a little commotion over by the comics section.

"Oh no," Abby muttered. "Look."

We peeked around the shelf and saw Jacob standin' there, holdin' a Garfield book, with a stack of Peanuts comics right beside him. He had this guilty look on his face, like he knew he was caught.

Mr. Johnson was right there, arms crossed, brows raised.

"Jacob," he said, his voice firm but not mean. "I believe I mentioned chapter books, didn't I?"

"Yes, sir," Jacob mumbled, slidin' the Garfield book back onto the shelf.

"You can check those out another time," Mr. Johnson said. "But today, you're findin' a proper book for your report."

"Yes, sir," Jacob repeated, red in the face.

Me and Abby ducked back behind the shelf, tryin' not to laugh.

---

As we stood in line to check out our books, Abby nudged me with her elbow.

"So, what chapter book did you pick out?" she asked.

I held up my second book—it wasn't the gator one, though I was still clutchin' that close. This one had a little girl on the cover, sittin' on a pile of books, with her finger restin' on her chin like she was figurin' out a big secret.

"It's called Matilda, by Roald Dahl," I said, squintin' at the name. "I think he wrote that peach book you got, too."

Abby peeked at it. "What's it about?"

I shrugged. "I dunno... but it looked like a good book."

That was the truth. I didn't have a clue what it was about—but somethin' about the cover, and the big stack of books, made me think it'd be interestin'.

"Probably better than Little House on the Prairie," Abby whispered, grinnin'.

I giggled. "Yeah... though I bet Mama woulda liked that one.

When we all checked out our books, I carried my gator book like it was gold. I couldn't wait to show it to Papa. He'd probably know half the stuff in it already—but still, it felt like I'd found somethin' special. Like a piece of home right there in the library.

When the bell rang after class, we all bolted out onto the playground like a stampede of wild horses let loose. It was hot—real hot—the kind of heat that made the air shimmer and the dirt hard as bricks beneath our shoes. But that didn't matter. Me and Abby were ready, and so were the boys.

Jacob was already callin' across the field. "Y'all ready to get whooped this time?" he hollered, bouncin' the soccer ball on his knee, a cocky grin spread across his face.

I smirked, hands on my hips. "We'll see who's gettin' whooped!"

We all knew the drill. The sticks got set up for goals, same as always. No goalies, no refs, just pride on the line. The boys versus me and Abby. We weren't about to let 'em win easy.

Mr. Anderson, the playground attendant, leaned against the chain-link fence with his sunglasses perched on his nose. He had that easy kind of watchful look, arms crossed, but we all knew he didn't put up with foolishness. If anyone got too wild, he'd be right there in a heartbeat.

The sun beat down on us like it had a grudge. Sweat already trickled down the back of my neck, and my hair stuck to my forehead. The dust from the field clung to our shoes and made little clouds with every step.

The game started fast. Jacob and Brian pushed hard, tryin' to get that first goal. Jacob was quick, and Brian had a powerful kick, but Abby cut 'em off fast, her face all set with determination. She sent the ball my way with a sharp tap.

"Here, Emily!" Abby shouted.

I took off, my legs burnin' but feelin' strong. The wind rushed past my ears, and my heart pounded in time with my footsteps. I could hear the boys closin' in behind me. Jacob was fast, but I was faster—or at least I felt like I was.

I passed it back to Abby, and she dashed forward like a blur. The boys weren't givin' up, though. Elbows out, feet flyin'—we were all breathin' hard now, the game gettin' rougher by the second. Nobody wanted to lose.

Then it happened.

I was movin' fast, tryin' to block Jacob from takin' a shot. My eyes were locked on the ball, my mind thinkin' one step ahead. But I didn't see it—a root or a rock, half-buried under the dirt. My foot hit it hard. Everything went wrong in an instant.

I stumbled forward, arms flailin', my knee scrapin' against the dry ground before I landed hard on my side. My left arm twisted underneath me in a way it shouldn't have. Pain shot up from my wrist to my elbow—sharp and quick, like fire shootin' through my bones.

"Ow!" I yelped, tears stingin' my eyes before I could stop 'em. I curled around my arm, holdin' it close to my chest. It throbbed somethin' awful.

Everything froze for a second. The boys stopped, their faces shiftin' from tough to worried. Abby skidded to a stop beside me, her eyes wide and mouth tight.

Jacob stood there too, his cocky grin gone. His face looked kinda pale. Maybe he thought it was his fault.

"Emily, you okay?" Abby asked, kneelin' beside me. Her voice was soft, but there was worry underneath it.

I tried to nod, but my voice was shaky. "I—I think I hurt my arm..."

Before anyone could say more, Mr. Anderson was already stridin' over, his sunglasses pushed up on his head now, eyes serious.

"What happened here?" he asked, his voice calm but firm.

"She fell, hit her arm," Abby explained fast.

Mr. Anderson knelt down, his hand gentle on my shoulder. "Alright, let's get you to the nurse. You think you can walk, sweetheart?"

I nodded, even though my wrist throbbed somethin' fierce. He helped me up slow, keepin' a steady hand on my back as we started toward the school.

Before I got too far, I turned back, holdin' my sore arm close. "Keep playin'! Beat 'em for me!"

Abby stood up straighter, eyes flashin' with determination. "We got this!"

Jacob gave a small nod, lookin' sorry but ready to keep goin'. The game roared back to life—dust risin', shoes poundin' the ground. Abby led the charge now, and I knew she wasn't about to let them win without a fight.

As I walked inside with Mr. Anderson, the pain in my arm was bad, but there was somethin' good about knowin' Abby was out there, playin' her heart out for both of us.

The air inside Mrs. Tate's office felt colder than the rest of the school—too cold—especially after comin' in from the hot sun. My cheeks were still flushed, my hair stuck to my forehead, and my wrist was throbbin', feelin' like it had its own little heartbeat.

The room was small and tidy, with white walls that made everything feel even colder, and cabinets lined with plastic bins labeled with black marker—Bandages, Ice Packs, Cotton Balls. There was a faint smell of alcohol wipes and that weird rubbery scent from the gloves she always wore.

Her desk sat in the corner, neat and organized—a black phone, a lamp, and a row of those little plastic trays holdin' papers. I noticed a bowl of peppermint candies, the kind that melted quick in your mouth, sittin' right next to a box of tissues.

"Alright, sugar, come on and sit right here," Mrs. Tate said, pullin' out a metal stool with a padded top, the kind that squeaked every time you shifted.

I climbed up slowly, cradlin' my arm, tryin' not to move it too much. It still hurt, but I didn't wanna cry—I was tougher than that, but the sting was still workin' its way up to my elbow.

Mrs. Tate knelt down beside me, her hands gentle as she looked me over. She had short, gray hair cut neat like Mama's friend from church, and reading glasses on a chain danglin' around her neck.

"Let's take a look," she said softly, her fingers cool and smooth against my skin as she touched my wrist.

I winced.

"Hm... Sore, huh?"

"Yes, ma'am," I mumbled, starin' at the scuffed tips of my shoes to keep from lookin' at what she was doin'.

She turned my hand slowly, checkin' my range of motion—bending my wrist up, then down, then side to side. I bit my lip when it hurt, but I didn't say nothin'. Her fingers pressed around my wrist bone—gently at first, then firmer—lookin' for any spots that might be worse off.

"Does this hurt?" she asked, pressin' on the side.

"A little," I said, my voice tight.

She nodded, like she already knew the answer.

"Looks like just a sprain—nothin' broken. You're lucky," she said, reachin' over to grab a roll of white bandage wrap from the bin labeled 'Wraps & Splints'.

I watched as she unrolled it with a soft whooshing sound, then started wrappin' it around my wrist and up toward my hand, snug but not too tight. The fabric was slightly rough against my skin, but the pressure made the ache dull down just a little.

"This'll keep it supported. You'll need to take it easy today, alright? No more soccer, no climbin', no horsin' around."

I nodded, though it stung to hear that. No soccer? That meant watchin' from the sidelines tomorrow, and that just didn't sit right with me.

"You want some ice?" she asked.

I thought about it but shook my head. I didn't want to stay here longer than I had to.

"Alright, but if it starts swellin', you let me know," she said, patting my knee lightly.

I glanced toward the bowl of peppermints on her desk.

She caught me lookin' and smiled. "Go on, take one."

I slid off the stool, feelin' the squeak of it under me one last time, and grabbed a peppermint from the bowl. The wrapper crinkled loudly in my hand, and I popped the candy into my mouth. Sweet and cool, it melted fast—like it always did—but it made me feel a little better.

"Tell your teacher I said you're good to go, just need to rest that arm," Mrs. Tate said, scribblin' a quick note on a yellow slip of paper with my name on it. She folded it in half and handed it to me.

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, tucking the note in my pocket.

I stepped out of her office, back into the hall, the air suddenly feelin' warmer again. My wrist still hurt, but now it was wrapped up tight, like a badge of honor from the day's battle.

And the peppermint? Well, that made the pain just a little sweeter.

The bell rang, and the game was over—Jacob's voice ringin' out louder than anyone's.

"Boys win! Five to four! Y'all better be ready tomorrow!" he hollered, arms in the air like he was some kinda champion.

I was just steppin' out of the nurse's office, my wrist wrapped up tight, when Abby caught up with me outside the cafeteria doors. Her face was twisted in that mix of mad and disappointed.

"They got us," she grumbled. "Jacob scored the last goal. He won't shut up about it."

I glanced past her and sure enough, there was Jacob and Brian, laughin' and carryin' on like they'd won a trophy.

I sighed, holdin' my wrist close. "I figured. You okay?"

"Yeah, just... we almost had 'em," she said, kickin' at the floor a little.

"We'll get 'em tomorrow," I said, givin' her a grin that was part encouragement and part challenge. "Soon as my wrist's better... they're goin' down."

That got Abby smilin' again, just a little. "Yeah. We'll make 'em sorry."

We headed to our usual spot in the cafeteria, but instead of gettin' in line for hot lunch, I dug my brown paper bag outta my backpack.

Inside was the sandwich Mama made this mornin', with the bread she baked last night. It was soft and warm when we pulled it outta the oven yesterday, and now it still smelled better than anything you could buy in town.

I peeled back the baggie, takin' a big bite—ham and cheese with a little smear of mustard, tucked between those fresh slices Mama had worked so hard on.

"Homemade bread again?" Abby asked, eyein' my sandwich.

"Yep," I said, mouth full, but happy.

She unwrapped her peanut butter and jelly, but I caught her sneakin' another glance at mine.

"You can have a bite if you want," I offered.

"Nah," she said, but I could tell she was tempted.

Jacob's voice carried across the lunchroom. "Y'all know that goal was perfect, right? I mean, right through the sticks."

I rolled my eyes, chewin' my sandwich slower.

"We'll shut him up tomorrow," I whispered.

"You better believe it," Abby grinned.

I took another big bite of Mama's fresh bread sandwich, the soft crust still tastin' like yesterday even after sittin' in my bag all mornin'. Jacob's voice drifted over from his table like he was tryin' to make sure the whole lunchroom heard him.

"I mean, did y'all see that goal? Best shot I ever made. Ain't no stoppin' me tomorrow," he said, laughin' with Brian.

Abby sighed and rolled her eyes.
"He's gonna be talkin' 'bout that goal all week."

I grinned, wipin' a crumb from my mouth.
"Let him. We'll see how much he talks when we beat him next time."

She smirked but then leaned in a little closer.
"So... Matilda, huh? What's it about?"

I shrugged.
"I don't know much... I just liked the cover. It looked kinda... fun?"

Abby nodded, takin' a sip of her chocolate milk.
"So Roald Dahl wrote both of them. He must be pretty good if we both grabbed his books."

I smiled. "Guess we'll find out."

She thought for a second, then grinned.
"You think it's like James and the Giant Peach? Like, does Matilda live in a giant fruit?"

I almost spit out my drink laughin'.
"I don't think so... but that'd be kinda funny!"

We both giggled, imaginin' some poor girl livin' inside a watermelon or somethin'.

"You're gonna have to tell me if it's good," Abby said. "If it is, maybe I'll read it next."

I nodded.
"Deal. You gotta let me know if that peach book's any good, too."

We clinked our chocolate milk cartons like we were makin' some kind of official pact.

Jacob's voice cut through again, still loud, still full of himself.
"We're runnin' y'all into the ground tomorrow. Just get ready."

I shot him a quick look, but Abby nudged me.

"Let him run his mouth," she whispered. "We'll handle him later."

I grinned, takin' the last bite of my sandwich.
Mama's bread tasted even better knowin' we had a plan.