She needed someone to choose her.
I moved through the crowd, cutting sideways to avoid drawing attention, and knelt beside her near the bleachers.
She had her hands pressed tightly over her ears, eyes squeezed shut, tears slipping down her cheeks.
“Ellie,” I said softly, crouching low. “Sweetheart, look at me.”
She opened one eye, startled.
“Come with me,” I said gently. “I’ve got an idea. A good one.”
She hesitated — then nodded.
I placed a hand lightly on her shoulder and guided her down the back hallway, past the lockers, into the supply closet behind the art room.
The bulb flickered once, then steadied.
The air smelled like old chalk and tempera paint.
I reached up to the shelf above the sink and grabbed two rolls of toilet paper.
“What’s that for?” Ellie asked, wide-eyed.
“It’s for your costume,” I said, smiling. “We’re about to make you the best one in the whole school.”
“But I don’t have a costume, Mr. B,” she said softly.
“You do now,” I replied, bending so we were eye level.
The hurt was still clinging to her, fresh and raw — but beneath it, I saw a flicker of hope, small but bright.
“All right,” I said, pulling the first sheet free and crouching beside her. “Arms up, Ellie!”
She lifted them slowly, and I began wrapping the toilet paper around her — gentle, precise movements. Around her waist first, then her shoulders, arms, and legs.
