My heart broke for her. I knew how cruel kids could be — and how their words could linger for years.
I kept the layers loose enough to move but snug enough to stay put. Every few seconds, I paused.
“You okay?” I’d ask.
Ellie nodded, her eyes wide, the corners of her mouth beginning to twitch upward.
“Oh, this is going to be amazing!” I said. “You know mummies are some of the most powerful creatures in Egyptian mythology, right?”
“Really?” she whispered.
“Oh yeah, little miss,” I said, tapping the roll lightly against her shoulder. “Feared and respected. People believed they had magic — that they were guardians.”
She smiled — for the first time that day.
I pulled a red marker from my pocket and added a few eerie, blood-red splotches across the paper. Then I reached for a small plastic spider I’d tucked away from last year’s decorations and clipped it gently near her collarbone.
“There,” I said, stepping back. “Now you’re a terrifying, unbeatable Halloween mummy.”
She turned toward the mirror on the back of the door and gasped. Her fingers brushed the paper.
“Is that really me?!” she cried in delight.
“You look incredible,” I said. “Seriously. You’re going to knock them dead out there.”
She squealed and threw herself into my arms, hugging me so tightly I nearly stumbled.
“Thank you, Mr. B! Thank you so much!”
When we returned to the gym, the noise quieted. A few kids stared. One of the older boys even stepped aside.
Ellie stood taller — chin lifted, eyes bright again.
