Jim gently zipped open his oversized backpack, even for a tall first grader, and pulled out the same blue notebook. He opened it up and swiftly found the page he was on. The page was white, a new, untouched canvas. In messy, almost illegible handwriting he wrote “the best prank ever!!” and smiled to himself, rereading it to make sure he didn’t misspell anything. He tapped his pencil on the paper with a soft rhythm, looking for Pam. 

The other kids were filling into the classroom as they arrived at the school. Each sat in their self assigned spot and nonchalantly chatted with one another. Jim shifted his position and fingered the metal of his spiral notebook. His eyes were searching for a certain girl to walk into the classroom. Each time the door opened, his heart sunk a little as he waited for Pam.

Eventually, the familiar red head opened the door, her sleeve covering her hand. Her long sleeve purple shirt was stretched over her palms, as if she was avoiding the germs and the cold of the metal. She looked still and panicked, looking longingly back at the door as Micheal tried to ease her into the classroom. Immediately he saw her freeze and her spin on her heels, going into flight mode. Jim noted her adrenaline that suddenly appeared as she turned to escape the room filled with discomfort for her. Micheal calmly put a hand on her shoulder, and whispered something to her quietly. Pam stayed silent, but he could see the gears overworking in her head. Jim heard Micheal mumbling numbers and taking deep breaths as Pam meticulously followed. Her shoulders dropped a little and the vulnerable looking girl gave a silent nod, as if someone was holding her back, standing in her way of opening her mouth. He was relieved to see the other students preoccupied with their own games and conversation, knowing her disliking for attention. She was tense and anxious in the spotlight. 

••

As silly and childish as the deep breaths that Micheal had instructed Pam to do, she felt her chest loosen up a bit and head feel a little clearer with its renewed access to oxygen. Her eyes frantically searched for something familiar and stable. Something predictable and comfortable. Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Jim give a careful wave towards her, and she looked up at Micheal expectingly, assuming Jim was requesting his attention. 

Instead, Mr. Scott gave a reassuring nod, “He wants you, Pamalama ding dong,” he answered. Her stomach dropped. Her brain opened up every filing cabinet of why her presence may be requested, mostly consisting of situations of worst-case-scenario. She firmly pressed her index finger into her thigh, the thin layer of legging protecting it from the jagged edge of her bitten nails breaking the skin. Micheal carefully pushed her forward, not giving her the choice to stand still in the fear. Once she was in motion, he spun around to greet Darrel to show him his new “Best Teacher Ever” mug he had bought for himself.

••

Pam slowly shuffled to Jim’s seat, as if each step took a mound of courage. To him, it felt like she was the first to walk on the moon as his excitement rose as her closeness increased. The corner of his mouth pulled his lips into a tight frown as she pulled out a seat two away from him. At first he took offense, conceded he had frightened her or upset her. After a few seconds, he pieced the sources and could see the longing look in her eyes as she almost had a staring contest with the cheap, plastic chair. 

“Listen, I don’t want a whole burnt in the chair next to me with the way your eyeing it. I’d feel much safer if you just sat there and maybe eyed one next to Dwight,” he said jokingly to her.

Pam’s figure loosened at the joke and the break from her thoughts. He could see her considering her options through her big eyes. She got up and quietly pulled out the chair next to him and gracefully sat. She kept herself tight, as if someone had drawn a circle around her and told her she couldn’t touch the lines. 

Jim tapped his notebook promptly, “So, I’ve been working… and all I’ve got is jello.”

Pam looked up from wriggling her hands together, harshly creating a soothing friction between them. She smiled. She looked at her neatly arranged pencils then back him.

“Oh your a genius! Let’s put his school supplies in jello,” Jim complimented. 

Pam’s soft smile returned and she gave a quick nod as she looked at him, impressed with his understanding. 

“Now, what exactly do we put in the jello?” Jim questioned, but mostly asking himself. 

Pam’s thoughts stopped. His stapler! Dwight used his stapler religiously and excessively. Mr. Scott had already had to take it from his possession multiple times because of his irresponsible use of the supply. The word stapler circled her head, spinning with excitement of being of value. The word bounced and began to prod at the lock that blocked  her words from escaping her mind and into the open air. It wanted to be blurted out, quick and sharp, without fear or shame. The word continued to fiddle with the lock, until the keeper of her words dashed into action. It quickly lassoed the word and chained it too the ground, despite its resistance. Eventually, it gave in to defeat. Through sheer exhaustion, it sat back and let the keeper take charge, the word losing its excitement. Pam looked up at Jim, her lips pressed together and the electricity of anxiety pumping through her. 

••

Jim’s heart ached as he saw her eyes light up with brilliance. They looked rambunctious and fulfilled. As quick as the spark came, it was dimmed and replaced with the dull, sage green. Her anxiety was radiating off of her, heating his skin. It was as if she was in a jinx, and promised to silence. He almost thought for a moment that maybe she was just waiting to buy him a coke, but he quickly remembered they would have had to talk for there to be something that was jinxed. He looked to the notebook and her perfectly aligned pencils at her boring, grey desk. Each pencil was a shade of pink with something corny written on it, such as,  “be you!” or “you got this!”. His eyes fell on the pencil whose color would fall between the middle of the color scale. 

In yellow letters at the end of the pencil where the eraser sat, “art speaks words” was written on it in typewriting font. A picture speaks a thousand words he thought to himself, remembering the quote from his mom when he gave her a drawing for Christmas. It has been a simple teal teapot, but she had loved it.

He pushed the notebook towards her understandingly.

“Draw it,” he said, smiling. He knew she had something to share… but she just couldn’t find the courage to speak the words.