Ms. Perez asks.

“Um, yeah,” Yaz says, distracted. She shakes her head to clear it. “I mean, yes, ma’am.” She glances at Katie-Rose as she rises from her desk, but Katie-Rose won’t meet her eyes, or anyone’s. Katie-Rose is a scowl in the shape of a girl. Or a girl in the shape of a scowl? Preston just embarrassed her, and now Katie-Rose is hunched over her notebook, scrawling away like a madman. Or a mad girl. Her body is tiny. Her spine is curved. Fury radiates from her like scary blue sparks of electricity.

Yaz goes to the front of the room. “Do you need help with something?” she asks Ms. Perez. Yaz is kind of like Ms. Perez’s teacher’s assistant, an arrangement that suits them both. “Do you want me to grade yesterday’s math quizzes?”

“Thanks, sweetie,” Ms. Perez says. “But I need you to deliver another note for me. Can you do that?”

“Of course,” Yaz says. “To Mr. Emerson again?”

Ms. Perez blushes, which Yaz finds extremely interesting.

“Ah … yes,” Ms. Perez says. She lowers her voice. “To Mr. Emerson. Right.”

Yaz lowers her voice to match her teacher’s. “Okay. You look really pretty today, by the way.”

Ms. Perez’s blush deepens.

“What? You do,” Yaz says, indicating Ms. Perez’s crisp white blouse with shiny silver buttons. The top two buttons are unbuttoned, and Yaz catches a glimpse of … um … the fact that her teacher has a figure that is hugely different than a ten-year-old’s.

Yaz feels guilty for peeking and immediately looks away. She hopes Ms. Perez didn’t notice.

“Well, that’s nice of you to say,” Ms. Perez says, attempting a businesswoman tone. “You look lovely yourself. And here’s this.”

She hands Yaz a note, which, like yesterday’s, is folded over four times, making it roughly the size of a pack of gum. Ms. Perez doesn’t let go of the note after Yasaman grasps it, however, so for a few seconds they hold the note together. Suspended between them, it makes Yasaman think of a bridge. A bridge to what? she wonders.

Finally, Ms. Perez releases the note. “Be sure to come right back!” she calls as Yaz heads out of the room.

The air in the hall feels fresher, more open, and Yasaman enjoys herself as she strolls past the water fountain, the snack cabinet, the preschool rooms. The walls outside the preschool classrooms are bright and cheerful, plastered with taped-up art projects depicting sprawling rainbows and kitty cats and stick figures with round heads and crazy-big eyes. The girl stick figures wear triangle dresses; the boys wear rectangle pants and block-shaped shirts. Yaz scans the names on the bottom of each drawing, looking for one made by Nigar.

Ooo, there! Yaz smiles. To the left of Nigar’s preschool classroom is a piece of pink construction paper. Pink is Nigar’s favorite color. At the top of the paper is the title of Nigar’s drawing: I Am Grateful for Many Things! This was obviously written by Nigar’s teacher, as Nigar has barely learned her alphabet, and the only words she can spell are “Nigar,” “cat,” and, disturbingly, “Justin Bieber.” Beneath the title are a wobbling tower of line drawings, each drawing labeled by the teacher because that’s the way it works in preschool.

The base of the tower consists of four jelly-bean shapes with pokey-fingered arms and pokey-toed legs jutting out of them. The jelly-bean shapes are arranged in order of size, and the third-shortest jelly bean has long hair covered by what Yasaman knows is supposed to be a hijab, though it looks more like a doughnut with curtains.

It’s me! Yaz thinks happily.

The smallest jelly bean is Nigar. She’s drawn herself with her hair in doggy ears, each doggy ear embellished with a cute hair bow. Hair bows are Nigar’s trademark, according to Nigar.

Next to the clump of jelly-bean people, Nigar’s teacher has penned the words “My Family.” It’s beautiful. It’s beautiful, and it’s true, and Yasaman hopes Nigar will hold on to that trueness inside of her forever. Knowing who she is. Not being afraid to share it with the world.

Yaz peeks inside Nigar’s classroom but doesn’t spot Nigar. She’s probably over by the cage of the class hamster. She used to hate that hamster, but recently she’s grown fond of him, mainly because she likes to watch him nibble lettuce.

Yasaman keeps walking. When she arrives at Mr. Emerson’s room, she raps lightly on the open door and then steps inside. Milla and Violet see her, and Yaz wiggles her fingers at them. Milla waves back. Violet smiles at her.

Yaz notices the girl in the desk beside Violet’s: It’s the new girl. Hayley. Her body language … She looks aloof, as if she couldn’t care less what anyone thinks of her. And yet there’s something that makes Yaz wonder if the aloofness is just an act. Or not. Maybe Yaz is seeing what she wants to see because she hates the thought of anyone being alone, regardless of whether the aloneness is on purpose.

She forces herself out of her trance and goes to Mr. Emerson’s desk.

“From Ms. Perez,” she whispers. She nods to say, Okay? Note delivered, mission accomplished?

“Ah-ha,” Mr. Emerson says. He unfolds the note. “Why, thank you, Yasaman.”

“You’re welcome.”

She moves to go, but he stops her, saying, “Hold up, tiger.”

Tiger? Yaz thinks. But she turns around.

“The ambrosial musings of a lady most enchanting,” he murmurs.

“I’m sorry … what?”

He doesn’t respond. His eyes move over the note. Then he grins at Yasaman, and Yasaman has a fleeting image of what he might have been like as a boy. Like Preston, maybe, but not quite as annoying. Hopefully.

“Allow me a moment to inscribe a communiqué in return, hmm?” Mr. Emerson asks. Except he’s not really asking. He’s telling. He smacks a fresh piece of paper on his desk, sets a rock on the top left corner to hold it down, and scribbles away. Yaz is surprised by the rock until she takes the time to think about it. When Yaz writes, she steadies her paper with her left forearm. But if she didn’t have a left forearm …?

Well, there you have it.

Mr. Emerson is humming by the time he finishes his communiqué, which he signs with a flourish. Yaz is dying to know how he signed it—John? Mr. Emerson? Yours forever?—but he folds it in half before she can see. Then half, and half, and half again. Four times he folds his note, just like Ms. Perez.

They’re note-folding twins, Yaz thinks.

Mr. Emerson hands her the compact rectangle of paper. “Thar she blows,” he proclaims, “and a mighty vessel she is, too!”

Yaz doesn’t know what to make of his remark. Is he saying that Ms. Perez is a vessel? And not just any vessel, but a mighty one at that? He better not be.

“Off you go, slugabed,” he says, shooing Yaz away. “Can’t stay in my classroom all day, although I understand the appeal.”

Yaz returns to her classroom feeling both mystified and muddy-headed. She wants very much to read Mr. Emerson’s note, but she is Yasaman, so she doesn’t.