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A whole week had passed, and I swear, it felt like our house had turned into Gator Headquarters.

Every evenin' after school, Abby and I worked on our poster, spreadin' out across the kitchen table with markers, scissors, and glue sticks. Mama would peek over our shoulders, tryin' not to fuss about the mess, while Papa sat nearby, noddin' along every time we read off another gator fact.

We'd drawn a big alligator right in the middle—mouth wide open, teeth sharp as nails—and stuck little bits of paper around it with things like:

"Alligators can grow up to 14 feet!"
"They eat fish, turtles, and even small deer!"
"Their eyes glow red in the dark!"
"They can run up to 11 miles per hour on land!"

I even drew a little swamp in the background, with some cattails stickin' up and a dragonfly buzzin' nearby. Abby added tiny fish in the water. It was our masterpiece.

Now, it was presentation day, and my stomach was doin' flips.

Mr. Johnson stood at the front of the room, his crisp white shirt tucked in neatly, sleeves rolled to his elbows. He gave us all a polite smile as we settled into our desks.

"Alright, class. We've been working on our multiplication tables. Today, we're moving on to the ones. Now, the ones are simple, but they're still important." He paused and looked around the room. "Can anyone tell me what happens when you multiply a number by one?"

Jacob shot his hand up like he already knew the answer. Mr. Johnson nodded toward him.

"Uh... is it the same number?" Jacob asked, but his voice had that unsure wobble like he was afraid he might be wrong.

Mr. Johnson smiled. "That is correct! Multiplying by one always gives you the same number. One times any number is itself."

Jacob's chest puffed up a little. I could tell he was proud—and relieved. I was glad for him too. We had all seen him struggle last week with the zeros.

Mr. Johnson continued, "Multiplication can sometimes feel like adding quickly, but it's important you understand the difference. This time, it might feel easy, but don't get too comfortable—we'll be moving on to twos soon."

He passed out our practice sheets. I flew through mine, and so did Abby. It was all pretty simple—1 x 3 is 3, 1 x 5 is 5, and so on. I caught Jacob out of the corner of my eye, working faster than I'd ever seen him. He checked his answers twice, then leaned back with a grin.

"I got it all right!" he whispered—probably louder than he meant to—but I didn't blame him.

Mr. Johnson heard him too and gave a nod. "Nice work, Jacob. See what happens when you slow down and pay attention?"

Jacob grinned even wider.

After math, instead of reading, it was presentation time. I was very nervous.

When Mr. Johnson called our names, my heart started poundin' like a drum. Abby and I stood up, carryin' our big poster between us. The other kids had already done their projects—raccoons, owls, turtles—but I felt real proud haulin' that gator poster up to the front of the class.

"We're doin' ours on—" I started, then caught myself and straightened up, rememberin' what Mr. Johnson liked.
I cleared my throat.
"We are presenting on alligators," I said slow and careful.

Mr. Johnson gave a small nod of approval from his desk.

Abby held up the poster, and I pointed to the big gator we drew.

"Alligators can grow up to fourteen feet long," I said, feelin' a little bolder now.
"They livin' swamps like—"

"Live in," Mr. Johnson corrected, holdin' up his hand.

I blinked. "They live in swamps like the Okefenokee."

I glanced at Abby, and she bit her lip, tryin' not to laugh.

"They—uh—they eatin fish and turtles," I said slowly, emphasis on eat.
"And sometimes—"

"Eat, not eatin'," Mr. Johnson cut in, his tone gentle but firm.

I squeezed my lips together and nodded. "Eat fish and turtles. And sometimes small deer."

The whole class was watchin', some kids smilin', a few holdin' back laughs. Jacob was grinnin' like a fool, enjoyin' every time Mr. Johnson fixed me. But I didn't care—I was gonna get through this.

"They can run up to eleven miles per hour on land, but they mostly—uh—stayin' the water," I said carefully.
"They can hold their breath for—"

"Stay in, not stayin'," Mr. Johnson said again.

I huffed a little but kept goin'. "Stay in the water. And they can hold their breath for about an hour."

Abby jumped in then, talkin' about how gators' eyes glow red at night and how they make this deep growlin' sound when they're mad. She didn't get corrected once, which made me glare at her a little—but only for a second.

Finally, I reached into my pocket and pulled out my little wooden alligator—the one Papa helped me whittle on the porch.

"And, um... this is something I made with my Papa," I said, holdin' it up for everyone to see. "It's a wooden gator... I tried to get the teeth right."

The class actually leaned forward a bit, starin' at it.

"Carved, not made," Mr. Johnson said, but his voice was a little softer this time.
"And that's quite impressive, Emily."

That part made me stand a little taller.

When we were done, the class clapped, and I let out a breath I didn't know I'd been holdin'. Even Jacob looked like he thought the wooden gator was kinda cool.

Mr. Johnson smiled.

"Excellent work, girls. And Emily... good job working on your pronunciation."

I flushed but grinned. "Thank you, sir."

As we sat back down, Abby leaned over.

"You did good," she whispered.

I chuckled, wavin' my hand.

"Yeah... even with all the fixin'."

We both giggled.

But in my pocket, I felt my wooden gator—and that felt better than any gold star.

Over the next few days, I started catching myself more when I talked in class.

"Talkin'—I mean, talking," I'd say, tripping over the g sometimes, but I was getting there.

Abby noticed too.

"You sound all proper now," she teased at lunch one day.

I rolled my eyes. "I ain't— I mean, I am not proper. Just... trying not to get stopped every other word."

We both laughed, but I felt kinda proud. Even Papa noticed at home.

"You sound like one of them news folks on TV," he joked at dinner. "Just don't go forgetting where you come from."

Mama gave him a look like, "Let the girl be."

But I knew what he meant. I wasn't fixing to change who I was—just learning to talk right when I needed to.

Still, every now and then, that old way of talking slipped out—especially when I got excited or mad.

Like when Jacob said the boys would win the soccer game next week, and I blurted, "Y'all ain't winnin' nothin'!"
I slapped a hand over my mouth right after, but it was too late.

Mr. Johnson raised an eyebrow across the room, but he didn't say nothing that time. Just smirked a little.

We were packing up, getting ready for recess, when I heard his voice:

"Emily, could you come here for a moment?"

I froze. Abby glanced over, her eyes wide like, What did you do?
I shrugged, feeling a little knot in my stomach.

I walked up to his desk, holding my breath.

"Yes, sir?"

He folded his hands, leaning forward a bit.

"I can tell you've been working hard," he said, his voice steady and clear. "You are speaking more clearly, and you are correcting yourself. I appreciate that."

I relaxed, letting out a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"Thank you, Mr. Johnson."

He nodded, then added, "But do not be afraid to still be yourself. You do not need to sound perfect all the time. You have a voice worth hearing—no matter what it sounds like."

That... caught me off guard. I just stared for a second.
Nobody'd ever said it like that before.

"I— I like learning to talk better," I said slowly. "But... I still like the way Mama and Papa talk too."

"That is good," he said with a small smile. "You will figure out when to use both. That is what makes you strong."

I nodded. "Yes, sir."

"All right. Head outside and enjoy your break," he said.

I grinned. "Yes, sir!"

I ran out the door, heart lighter than it had been in a while.

I stepped out onto the playground, the sun peeking through the clouds after a couple days of rain. The ground was still a little damp, but that didn't stop the boys from already calling out.

"Soccer! Boys versus girls! Let's go!" Jacob shouted, grinning like he already won.

Abby nudged me with her elbow. "You feeling up for it?" she asked, her eyes glinting with that playful challenge.

I was feeling better after my wrist had healed up some, and the thought of winning back our bragging rights sounded good.
"You bet," I said, smirking.

We started gathering up, the usual teams falling into place. Some of the younger kids were watching, curious, and a few were already cheering.

Just as we were about to kick off, a voice cut through the chatter:

"Hold up, hold up!"

It was Mrs. Jenkins, the playground attendant. She always wore her bright pink visor and had that "don't-mess-with-me" look she carried like armor.
She crossed her arms, eyes sweeping over us.

"No soccer today. No rivalry games for a while," she said firmly. "Principal's orders. After what happened last week, we can't have anyone else getting hurt."

A collective groan filled the air.

"Aww, come on!" Jacob blurted, throwing his arms up.
"That wasn't even our fault!"

Abby put her hands on her hips. "It was just an accident. We're fine now!"

I rubbed my wrist instinctively, remembering the fall, but I wasn't gonna say nothing.
"We're careful," I added.

But Mrs. Jenkins shook her head.
"Rules are rules. Find something else to play."

Jacob scowled, kicking at a rock.

"Guess we win by default then," I said under my breath to Abby, grinning.

She covered her mouth to keep from laughing.

Jacob overheard and shot me a glare. "That don't count."

"Does too," I shot back.

Mrs. Jenkins clapped her hands. "Alright, y'all. Go on—play tag, climb the jungle gym—just no soccer."

We all scattered, grumbling a little but knowing there was no getting around it.
Jacob led his group toward the swings, still muttering about how the boys were gonna beat us next time—whenever that was.
Me and Abby found our way to the monkey bars, climbing up and hanging like we didn't have a care in the world.

But I knew one thing—the rivalry wasn't over.
It was just waiting.

Lunch smelled good today—chicken tenders, macaroni and cheese, green beans, and a little cup of peaches. I grabbed a chocolate milk, same as always, and followed Abby to our usual spot. We slid into our seats across from some other girls, but it was mostly just the two of us talking.

"My mom said we might get a puppy," Abby said, her eyes lighting up as she popped a green bean into her mouth.

I nearly dropped my fork. "A puppy? Really?"

"Yes, but my dad has to fix up the fence first. He says we can't have it running off into the road."

I nodded. "What kind are you getting?"

She shrugged. "We don't know yet. Maybe a beagle? Or something small. My mom doesn't want a big dog tearing up her flower beds."

I grinned. "I would want a big one. Something I could wrestle with."

Abby laughed. "You would. You'd probably ride it like a horse."

I laughed too, picturing it. "Hey, if it's big enough, why not?"

We kept eating, talking about dogs and how her cousin's cat had kittens, even though they thought it was a boy. That got us laughing so hard I almost spit out my milk.

"How did they not know it was a girl?" I asked, wiping my mouth.

"I don't know! My aunt said they never checked. They just called it Buddy and hoped for the best."

I shook my head, smiling. "Cats are weird."

"Yes, but the kittens are cute. Maybe we can get one of those if the puppy thing doesn't work out."

I nodded. "You're lucky. My Mama says we can't have any pets. She says it's enough taking care of me and my Papa."

Abby smirked. "You are kind of like a wild animal sometimes."

"Hey!" I swatted at her with my napkin, both of us giggling.

The lunchroom buzzed with voices, but sitting there with Abby, it felt like we were in our own little world—talking about puppies, kittens, and whatever else popped into our heads.

After lunch, the afternoon carried us into art class—my favorite part of the day, next to recess. The smell of crayons, paint, and glue greeted us as we filed into the room. Mrs. Wilson was already at the front, her hair pinned back with a bright yellow headband, and a paint smudge on her sleeve like always. She was the kind of teacher who didn't mind messes, as long as you were making something creative.

"Alright, everyone, take a seat," she said cheerfully. "We're starting something new today!"

I slid into my usual spot beside Abby, and we both perked up a little. New projects were always exciting.

Mrs. Wilson held up a big piece of paper with a colorful tree painted on it—leaves in red, orange, and yellow, like they were on fire. "We're going to make fall trees. I know it's still warm outside, but fall is just around the corner, and I want you all to practice blending your colors."

She went on, explaining how we could use sponges, paintbrushes, or even our fingers to make the leaves. We were to start with the trunk and branches, then add the leaves however we wanted—dots, swipes, or splotches.

I glanced at Abby. "This is gonna be fun," I whispered.

She nodded. "I'm using my fingers. It's faster."

I smiled. That sounded like something I would do.

We got to work. The room filled with quiet chatter, the occasional giggle, and the sound of paintbrushes tapping against water cups. I used a sponge for my leaves at first, but then I tried my fingers too. The colors mixed together—red blending into orange, orange fading into yellow. It looked like the kind of tree I'd seen near the swamp, where the sun hit just right in the morning.

Mrs. Wilson walked around, giving praise here and there.

"Beautiful blend, Sarah. Nice branches, Marcus."

When she got to me and Abby, she smiled. "Great work, girls. Those colors are wonderful, Emily."

"Thank you, ma'am," I said, feeling proud.

By the time class was over, my hands were stained with red and orange, and my tree was drying on the rack along with everyone else's. It had been a good class—one that made me feel a little more like myself.

As we washed our hands, Abby grinned. "Think we'll get to take 'em home soon?"

"I hope so," I said. "Mama would love this on the fridge."

I was just putting the finishing touches on my tree—adding little dabs of orange to brighten up the leaves—when the fire alarm blared through the room. That high-pitched ringing made me jump so hard I nearly dropped my paintbrush into my cup of water.

"Alright, everyone, you know what to do," Mrs. Wilson said calmly, though she had to raise her voice over the noise. "Line up by the door. Leave your things—don't take anything with you."

We scrambled to get in line, but something felt different this time. Usually, these drills were planned. We'd know about them ahead of time. But today, there hadn't been any warning.

Abby whispered beside me, "This ain't a drill, is it?"

I shook my head slowly. "I don't know."

We followed Mrs. Wilson outside, joining the rest of the school by the playground fence. The sun was hot, and the ground was dry beneath our shoes, but nobody was really thinking about that. Everyone was whispering—quiet, worried whispers.

"Did you see smoke?" one boy muttered behind me.

"No, but I heard one of the teachers say something about the cafeteria," another girl whispered.

Jacob was standing a few feet away, looking around like he was trying to find something. He caught my eye and shrugged, but even he looked uneasy.

Abby tugged on my sleeve. "You see anything?"

I squinted toward the school, but all I saw was the brick building, the windows reflecting sunlight like normal. No smoke. No flames. But that didn't mean nothing was wrong.

"I don't see anything, but... maybe it's inside?" I whispered back.

Teachers huddled near the front doors, talking quietly. Mr. Johnson had his clipboard, but even he looked more serious than usual.

The longer we stood there, the more the chatter grew. Kids were shifting from foot to foot, glancing toward the school, whispering guesses.

"What if the library caught fire?" Abby murmured, her eyes wide with worry.

"Or the kitchen?" I added, my stomach twisting a little.

None of us knew for sure.
And that made it worse.

We were standing there, the whispers growing louder, when we heard it—the distant wail of a siren.

Heads snapped around. Kids turned toward the road, eyes wide, and sure enough, a big red firetruck came rolling up toward the school, lights flashing.

Someone gasped. A few kids muttered, "I knew it!"

"There's really a fire," Abby whispered, her hand clutching my arm.

Even I felt my stomach twist, though I tried to keep my face calm. I stared at the school, half-expecting smoke to come pouring out any second.

The firetruck pulled to a stop near the front entrance. Firefighters climbed out—helmets on, gear heavy on their shoulders—but they weren't running. They looked... relaxed.

That's when I started to wonder.

The teachers were talking to them, but nobody was pointing or panicking. The firefighters were nodding, smiling even.

Then one of them—a tall man with gray at his temples and a badge on his chest—turned toward us. He held up his hand for quiet.

"Alright, boys and girls, listen up," he said, his voice deep but kind. "This was a drill. There is no fire. Everything's safe."

A wave of relief washed over me so fast my legs felt wobbly. All around me, kids sighed and groaned. Some said, "Aww, man," like they were disappointed it wasn't something more exciting.

Abby let out a breath beside me. "I thought the books were goners," she whispered.

I laughed, but it came out shaky.

The firefighter captain kept talking. "I just want to say—you all did an excellent job. You stayed calm, you listened to your teachers, and you got out of the building quickly. That's exactly what we want to see."

I saw Mr. Taylor—the principal—standing nearby with his arms crossed, nodding proudly. His wife, Mrs. Taylor, the music teacher, stood next to him, smiling.

"We hope we never have to do this for real," the fire captain continued, "but if we do, I know you all can handle it. Great work today."

Mr. Taylor stepped forward, his deep voice carrying over the crowd. "I'm proud of all of you. You represented Folkston Elementary well. Your parents would be proud too."

The teachers clapped, and soon all of us were clapping along. Even Jacob was grinning, elbowing his friend like he'd somehow been in charge of the whole thing.

The fear was gone, replaced with that feeling you get when you've done something right—like we were all part of a team that won a big game.