I arrived at school mid-morning with my mother for my first day in 4th grade; for the second time that year. It was late September and school had been in session for a month already. Our new rental, a "Barn-Style" house, sat a mere two blocks away. My new next-door neighbor, who was two grades ahead of me, was charged with walking me to school every day; that was the extent of our relationship—safety and someone to talk with for ten minutes. I walked home alone.

My new school, named Washington, was one floor and looked quite long to me. Walking in, we stopped at the office and my mom introduced herself and me. The young secretary said,

"Welcome, Michael! We've been expecting you! Are you nervous or excited, or both?"

"I dunno. I'm wondering where the second floor is?" I replied, looking past the window into the open floor plan of the school. "And where are the classrooms?"

"Well, our school is pretty new and we have 'pods'!" she said, beaming with pride.

I pondered that for a moment while my mother replied, "Well that's progressive, huh?"

Now I had two words to grapple with, “pods” and “progressive”, so I mumbled, "Uh huh."

McKinley, my former school, had been my anchor since third grade, and it didn't have "pods." It was a traditional building with quite a hill to traverse to get to school. I walked in good weather, and during the Northern Midwest snowstorms, my mother drove me. Riding my bike was something I expected to earn someday, but we didn't stay there long enough for that dream to come true. Here, there were no stairs, no hallways, and seemingly no walls.

While the adults completed the final paperwork, my mother took me by the hand and we entered the pod area. Bookshelves and couches divided up the space, and kids were sitting in comfy chairs and modern couches. Adults were walking around, and what seemed like the teachers were perched at a stand-alone desk with a high-seated rolling chair that swiveled. We moseyed to the right a bit and behind two bookshelves I came upon my "classroom." Kids were sitting in a circle, and the teacher was reading to them. Snacks and water bottles were out, and pillows and blankets were spread across the floor. I even saw a few stuffed animals.

Two kids noticed my mother and me and one said, "Michael's here!"

"Michael," I thought. How does he know? My face grew hot, and I now realized that I was nervous. I squeezed my mother's hand and she squeezed back.

The teacher finished reading her sentence from the book, placed her long, threaded bookmark in, and swiveled toward me. "Well, hello!" she greeted us, "Welcome to 4th Grade!"

Every eye was on us, and my mother let my hand go. I didn't know what to do with my free fingers, so I placed them in my pocket. I caught the eyes of a group of boys smiling at me, sitting on a Cubs blanket.

"Come on in..." the teacher invited.

"Wasn't I already 'in'?" I said to myself.

With that same hand that held mine, my mother nudged me in the back, and I stepped forward. Committed to joining, I weaved my way through the girls' "camp-out blanket," my body tilting and twirling a bit as I did so, which created some giggles. I righted myself just in time to whisk to an open pillow on the Cubs blanket that seemed to be waiting for me.

At McKinley, the playground was rough, so I had learned to stride around with the classroom bully, if only to protect my skinny self. The classroom kids there were my audience for my silliness and unchecked hyperactivity; I found ample opportunities to get silly snickers from the girls and affirmation from the boys.

But here, before I could even try a routine, I was accepted. A few boys simply patted my back, nodded, and the teacher resumed reading from where she had left off.

I looked to my mother only to see her turning the corner, heading back toward the secretary, and then she disappeared.

All eyes were on "Mrs. R", as the little sign on the back of her chair read, and she spun from side to side as she happily continued her read-aloud. The book was a grey, hardcover book with a mustached man on the front wearing a funny cap and surrounded by penguins. When Mrs. R stopped her spin every so often, I was able to fully read the title: "Mr. Popper's Penguins."

She was at a part in the story when the penguins were parading around in the Popper basement doing all kinds of funny things. Apparently Mr. Popper had filled the basement with water that froze for the penguins. The author named the penguins as they engaged in their antics, and when Mrs. R read a name, certain kids would say, "He's my favorite," or, "She's the best."

I felt a little left out; not only coming in in the middle of a story, but in the middle of a school day and in the middle of the school year. I dropped my gaze to my hands and started picking at the blanket fray; finding a thread and pulling on it.

Mrs. R stopped reading and placed her bookmark. I looked up, thinking the read-aloud was over, and she was looking at me. Thread wrapped around my finger, I stymied, frozen in the attention I had gained.

"Michael," she announced, "have you heard this story or read this book before?"

"Um, no," I said shyly.

"Well, forgive me. You must feel a bit lost; out of sorts, so to speak, no?"

"Um, I dunno. I guess I'm not really sure what's going on," I admitted.

"Dear me," she admonished herself, "who would like to help Michael 'get up to speed'?" she asked of the kids.

Most of the girls raised their hands, and a few boys did, too. She paused, allowing the silence to be the leader, and stroked her thin chin, pleased to call on Lydia.

Lydia straightened her back and turned her whole body toward me in one fell swoop. Grabbing a stuffed animal to her lap, she began, "Well, Michael, you see..."

And by the time she was finished, I knew the names of the penguins, why they were in the Popper's house, and she had even posed a prediction for the next reading.

"Thanks," I complimented her. "Now I know."

"Dear me, it's time for our math centers, then we'll have 'lunch bunch,' for it's Wednesday, don't forget!" Mrs. R sang.

With that, the kids quickly wrapped up the blankets, placed the pillows in their respective places, and went to their round tables, grabbing pencils and erasers from the center bins. A boy, who had straight golden-brown hair parted to the side, faded corduroy pants, slightly dirty Nike shoes with three red stripes, and a shirt that didn't match, called me over to sit next to him.

"This is your spot this week," he told me. "We choose our spots every week. Here, take a pencil and an eraser. This is math centers. Mrs. R will lead us and the 'Person of the Day' who is Lydia, helps. She will pass out our manipatives, um, manupives, um, um, supplies." he managed to spit out. "Oh, my name is Jeffrey, at least that's what they call me," ending with a pleased-with-himself chuckle.

His stated math centers routine unfolded without a hitch, and I found myself looking at a pile of small, colored cubes and a piece of paper with what seemed like hundreds of squares on it. Prior to this new school, I had spent a month at McKinley. In that short time, I learned my multiplication facts and started working on two-by-one-digit multiplication (with no carrying). I also perfected the alphabet in cursive writing, which was one of my favorite things to learn.

But looking around now, the kids at my table were already using the cubes to make designs, placing them right in the little squares on the paper. I followed suit.

"All right, children!" was all Mrs. R said, and the designing stopped... all eyes were on her. "Today, being Wednesday, don't forget, we will continue our 'multiplication array exercises,' yes?"

"Yes," most kids chorally answered.

I looked around and felt a sudden wave of togetherness that the kids seemed to share.

Math went well. We completed our arrays and moved on to three different "centers" that Lydia helped set up while we were working on the arrays. The two clocks, one a circle clock like I was used to and one new digital-type clock right next to it, seemed to soar through their numbers as we worked.

"Now's the time and the time is now!" announced Mrs. R.

Apparently, that meant time to clean up because the room became a flurry of activity. I wasn't sure of the rhyme or reason of clean-up time as everyone else did so, I stood and watched; paying attention yet building confusion in my head.

Mrs. R placed her arm around me gently and said, "Now forgive yourself, Michael; I don't expect you to know this part of my classroom routine, at least not today. How did you like math centers, huh?"

"It was fun and went by fast," I said.

"Time flies when you're having fun!" interjected Greg as he whisked by us with cubes in his hands, dropping a few and not noticing. I bent down and picked them up.

"Where--"

"Over in cabinet three, bin A," directed Mrs. R, and she let me go, taking her leave toward her teacher desk.

Lunch Bunch was just that. A bunch of us eating lunch. There was no lunchroom here like in my other two former schools. There were no "lunch ladies" or large rolling garbage cans. We sat at our round tables with our classmates.

I pulled out my peanut butter and ketchup sandwich and began to scarf it down. No sooner had I taken the third bite did Alexander question my choice of "jelly."

"Is that strawberry jelly or raspberry? And it looks kind of thin, like it's gonna drip out," he questioned.

"It's ketchup," I replied proudly.

"Ketchup? No way. Really? Is it good? Can I try?" he asked, quite interested.

"Um, can we share food, too?" I asked, testing the rules of this new-fangled school.

"Sure, just tear off a piece and slip it over here. I'll pop it in my mouth and nobody'll know!" Alexander coaxed.

So I did. He popped it in his mouth, moved his eyes up into his head, and made those "tasting" sounds. After swallowing, he said, "Hey Mikey, he likes it!"

We all laughed.

I finished my sandwich with only two ketchup drips on my shirt, dove into the Chex mix my mother made, and finished it off with the ceremonious two Oreos and the warm milk provided by the school. Lunch Bunch was over and satisfying.

At 3:00 o'clock (a ninety-degree angle on the round clock), the "bell" chimed in a long "beeeep." It took me by surprise as it reminded me of a fire alarm. I quickly realized that it was ‘calling it a day’.

Mrs. R stood by the farthest bookshelf in our pod and serenaded us as we entered the open space. We had no homework! The boys speed-walked through the open space and found an actual hallway that led out to the playground. They grabbed me, and we ran two houses down to Jeffrey's house.

A football was produced, and all of a sudden they started running all over the place, trying to tackle the one in possession of it. Right before Philip was to be slammed, he launched the football into the air, and I caught it.

The focus was now me.

The chase was on!

I shimmied through open spaces between some boys, broke a tackle or two, and ran to the end of the fenced yard. Turning, I saw the group ambush me in unison, grabbing my body, arms, and legs. A surge of power filled my body, and I ripped away, dragging a kid or two with me, then broke free!

"Whoa!" exclaimed a few of them.

"Mr. Excitement!" Jeffrey dubbed me and came after me. This time, I relinquished myself, and they tackled me hard onto the muddy grass, adding stains to the ketchup from lunch.

We laughed. We rolled around. I threw the ball, and someone caught it.

When I got up, I looked to the side of the yard just beyond the fence and spied Lydia watching us. She smiled at me and gave a pinky wave. A slight smile crossed my face, and then the football hit me on the head from above.

She laughed out loud.

Mission accomplished.

I made her laugh. I was affirmed by the boys.

The next month brought deep colors on the trees, monstrous leaf piles in the streets, and decidedly crisp winds off Lake Michigan, some 20 miles away. Our classroom pod followed the routines Mrs. R had taught us and ran like clockwork.

My "classroom" shenanigans continued as they had at my old school, yet they were more tempered, more appropriate. Mrs. R laughed along with us when she caught me being silly and redirected us in response with a kind heart and a true educator's touch.

One Wednesday, Mrs. R helped me organize one of the bookshelves in the 2nd-grade pod; something us 4th graders did to help out around the school. As we were putting blocks and books in their proper places, she began talking to me about me.

"Hey Michael. Ya know, I've been talking with your mom, ya know. I know you've moved twice starting in 3rd grade, and this is your second 4th-grade class."

"Uh huh," I said. "I like this school better than my old ones."

"That's good. Thank you for that affirmation, or rather, that compliment," she replied. "I also learned that your family is renting your current house down the street. Is that right?"

"Yeah, I guess. The person who really owns the house lives in that creepy house across the street," I told her.

"Oh yeah, Mr. Felix. That house is quite old. I think it's the wrought-iron fence covered in weeds and the dismal look of the place that makes it creepy. He's a nice fella though," she explained. "Anyway, Mom says your family is looking for your own house here in town, right?"

"Yup. I think we may have found one. Not sure where it is, though," I said nonchalantly as we finished our organizing task. "Moving again, I guess."

That evening, my mother told me we were indeed moving. I asked, "When? Where?"

She told me, "Across the tracks over there," pointing out our window, "over Winter Break."

Just a few weeks away.

"Am I staying in my school?" I inquired.

"Well, I guess you could. Or you can go to the neighborhood school starting after Winter Break. Getting to Mrs. R's pod would mean much ado to get you there every morning. And you can walk to the new school by yourself. What'dya think?" she asked matter-of-factly.

I did think. Long and hard.

I liked my school. I also thought that another new one might be fun. I liked making friends and pictured making more. More people to make laugh, more people to outrun, more people.

The day that was to be my last fell on a Thursday. The whole class knew it was my last day, yet we went about our normal routines. The exception was lunch. Mrs. R arranged for me, Jeffrey, and Lydia to join her for lunch at McDonald's.

Waving goodbye to the other kids, we climbed into her car, settled in the back seat, and listened to Mrs. R and the secretary talk about the upcoming Winter Break. Lydia kept showing Jeffrey and me her new winter cap with a pink beanie on top. We giggled at how it bounced around. A cheeseburger, fries, and a chocolate shake later, coupled with a few laughs, and we were back in school finishing out the day.

I walked home alone that day, confident in my thoughts, secure in my ‘switching schools’ decision, and unaware of what was coming next. As I turned to walk up the small cement path leading to my front door, I looked toward the raised railroad tracks across the street. I realized that in the month I had lived in our rental house, I had never ventured to the other side of those tracks, even though the car underpass was right there along with a pedestrian tunnel; and mother said we would be living "over there".

The pedestrian tunnel grabbed my attention, for I saw a small figure standing there. The person was facing me; a child, about my age, I thought to myself.

I sensed they were watching me, and I grew weary of what we learned in school about "stranger danger." Despite my reservations, I stopped and took a closer look.

Bundled up in a dark winter coat adorned with a white scarf and matching hat, the person raised their gloved hand and waved to me with their pinky. A pink beanie on their winter hat bounced around as they waved.

A slight smile crossed my face, and I waved back.

Stomping up the unshoveled stairs, I opened the door, meeting the warmth from the entryway by saying, "I'm home!"

__________

From the Gallery

Every new situation asks us the same silent questions: Will anyone know me here? Will anyone accept me here?

In that little pod classroom, I found that the answer isn't always found over months or years. Sometimes it arrives in a smile, an invitation, a shared experience, a nickname from new friends, or one last look across a snowy street.

Those moments are easy to overlook while they're happening. They are nearly impossible to forget once they're gone.