Pick-up wasn’t the same. Helene pulled up in her usual, old car around the circle of the school green. She waited patiently in the everlasting line to get to her girls. The line slowly inched as if it were a worm to the front of the school. Helene just wanted to get her girls home, but the long line had other plans. 

Penny got in first. Her kindergarten class was always out before Pam’s first grade. She was escorted by Ms. Flax who gave Helene a wave and saw Penny off. Penny cheerfully climbed into the car, throwing her limbs this way and that. She tossed her bag to the floor, dumping its contents, which only emphasized her happy-go-lucky nature. She got herself situated in the car seat that Ms. Flax had been sure to buckle her into before attending to the other waiting children in her class. 

Pam was second. Helene was braced, prepared to see the heartbreaking reality of her eldest daughter collapsing into herself in fear, anxious to get into the car and see the heavy weight lifted from her as the car door closed. The click of the door locking was an opening intro to anything she shared, not a word was spoken until the click was heard. She was always quiet enough to hear it and never seemed to miss it. The click was predictable and comforting. 

Helene wasn’t too far off. Pam’s arms were crossed over her stomach and her shoulders were tight. She was gnawing on her bottom lip, but not yet creating the taste of metallic in her mouth. Yet, her hands were a little less clammy and she clutched a piece of paper in her hand protectively. Her eyes weren’t as alert as usual, they were wondering softly at her surroundings. 

Pam crawled into her car seat as Mr. Scott walked her halfway, saw she was in the car, then gave a wink to Helene. Helene gave her best effort to shake off the strange gesture. 

Click. The car door was secure.

Pam waited patiently as Penny continued her already-started story that she had begun before Pam’s arrival. Pam sat without interrupting, and listened intently, as listening was one of her strongest qualities. Yet, she held onto the thin notebook paper, her fingers squeezing into the paper securely. Her right leg bounced erratically, and she felt she had something to share. She remained silent until Penny finished her story of Ms. Flax’s impersonation of someone she didn’t know. 

Pam carefully smoothed out the piece of paper, removing the wrinkles. The flimsy paper sat in her lap until Penny’s conversation veered to Pam.

“Pam! What’s that?” Penny demanded.

Pam lifted it up as if it were inestimable porcelain to show Penny. It was a simple, pulled-out piece of lined notebook paper with ragged edges. In the middle was a neatly and flawlessly drawn stapler, with no varying lines and no stray marks. It was stiff and clearly drawn by a perfectionist. Yet, Pam’s little sister thought it was worth the world. 

“Mama! Look what Pam drew!” She snatched the paper from Pam’s hand before Pam could even process what was happening. Penny pushed her tiny hands forward to show her mom, but her short arms couldn’t reach the front seat from her car seat. Penny huffed in frustration.

“I’m driving hun, wait until we get home. Sorry. What’d you draw, Pammy?” Helene prompted.

“A stapler, Mama! And- and- and the boy, Jim, said it was good! I talked, but with the stapler!”

“Wait, what?” Helene questioned, looking for clarification but holding onto the notion that her daughter has spoken.

“The picture talked for me, Mama! And Jimmy said I have talent!” Pam chirped in response. She was bouncing in her car seat, eager to share with her mom.

Helene’s heart lurched at the bitter-sweet realization. She just wanted her to get a wave of courage and surf on it, without the current overtaking her, the sea foam mocking a missed chance. This was a first. The first time her daughter even thought about picking up the surfboard of communicating and walking toward the intimidating wave of the unknown. This was a step in the grainy sand, a step towards her putting the tip of her toe in the water and letting the fear surge like the shock of the cold salt water. Then realizing that after you push through that barrier of fear and discomfort, the water isn’t so cold. Yet, Pam wasn’t ready and didn’t think she was strong enough. She was too scared to let her voice be heard in the open, in the air.  

“Can we get some more pencils,” Pam asked politely. 

Drawing was a flip flop that protected her from the penetrating burn that the hot sun put reflected onto the sand. Jim was someone who ran across the sand with her, just because he cared.