Example stories · First Day of School · Ages 8 to 10

The Map to Room 12

A read-aloud bedtime story, about 6 minutes.

Nadia had memorized the map three times, but the moment she stepped through the front doors of Crestwood Elementary, the hallway numbers stopped making any sense at all.

Room 9. Room 10. Room 11. So far, so good. Then the hallway split into two, like a river dividing around a stone, and neither branch had a single number on it.

Nadia was supposed to be in Room 12. She was supposed to be there in four minutes, according to the clock above the trophy case, and the bell would ring whether or not she had found it.

This was Nadia's first day at a brand new school, in a brand new town, and so far the only thing she knew for certain was that Crestwood Elementary was built like a maze designed by someone who truly enjoyed confusing ten year olds.

She tried the left branch first. It led to Room 6, then Room 5, then a drinking fountain that dripped in a sad, steady rhythm. Wrong way.

She doubled back and tried the right branch. Room 20. Room 19. The numbers were going the wrong direction entirely.

Nadia felt something hot and prickly rising in her chest, the kind of feeling that comes right before tears, and she did not want to cry on her very first day, not in a hallway, not in front of anyone.

"You look lost," said a voice.

Nadia turned. A boy about her age was sitting cross legged on the floor by a bulletin board, retying his shoe with the careful concentration of someone who had done it wrong twice already.

"I'm looking for Room 12," Nadia said. "I think this school was built by someone who hates children."

The boy laughed. "That's just what everyone says about the East Wing. I'm Diego. I got lost here on my first day too, back in kindergarten. I ended up in the janitor's closet."

"That is not comforting," said Nadia, though she felt, just slightly, less alone.

"Here's the trick," Diego said, standing up and slinging his backpack over one shoulder. "The numbers reset every time you cross a set of doors. This hallway isn't really connected to that one. You have to go back to the trophy case and take the stairs, not the hallway."

Nadia looked at the clock. Three minutes now.

"Come on," Diego said. "I'm in Room 12 too. Mr. Okafor's class. We can run, but the halls are actually not for running, so we should power walk very fast instead."

They power walked very fast indeed, past the drinking fountain, past the trophy case, up a narrow staircase Nadia had somehow missed twice, and down a short hallway that, sure enough, opened onto a bright yellow door with a paper number 12 taped to the front, decorated with a cheerful, hand drawn sun.

They slid into their seats just as the bell rang, both of them a little out of breath, both of them grinning in the specific way people grin when they have solved something together.

Mr. Okafor, it turned out, was the kind of teacher who kept a bowl of smooth river stones on his desk for no announced reason, and who began the day by asking everyone to share one true thing about themselves.

When it was Nadia's turn, she almost said something small and safe. Instead she said, "I got lost in the East Wing this morning, and Diego rescued me, and I think this might be my new favorite hallway in the whole world, because it's where I met my first friend here."

The class laughed, warmly, and Diego turned faintly pink and gave a small proud nod, as if he had personally designed the East Wing himself.

The rest of the day unfolded the way first days do when the worst part is already behind you. There was a science lesson about how rivers carve canyons over a very long time, patient and slow. There was a worksheet about fractions that Nadia actually enjoyed, which surprised her. There was a lunch table where Diego introduced her to two more kids, a girl who could recite every dinosaur name in order and a boy who was building an elaborate paper airplane fleet in his desk.

By the final bell, Nadia could have walked from Room 12 back to the front doors with her eyes closed. The maze had turned into something else entirely, a place with a shape she understood now, corners she recognized, a yellow door with a paper sun that felt, already, a little bit like hers.

Her mom asked about her day on the drive home, and Nadia talked so much about Diego and the river stones and the fraction worksheet that she barely noticed they had already pulled into the driveway.

That night, tucked into her new bed in her new room, Nadia lay still and listened to the quiet house settling around her, the way houses do.

She thought about the East Wing, and how frightening it had felt for exactly seven minutes, and how ordinary and friendly it felt by lunchtime.

Tomorrow she would know the way. She would not get lost again, not really, not in any way that mattered.

Her eyes grew heavy, the prickly feeling from the morning long gone, replaced by something warm and settled, like a river slowing as it reaches the sea.

Somewhere across town, she guessed, Diego was probably falling asleep too, dreaming of yellow doors and paper suns.

Nadia closed her eyes. The map was safe in her backpack, folded neatly, not needed anymore.

Goodnight, East Wing. Goodnight, Room 12.

Goodnight, Nadia.