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“Fritzy, Daria, and Me,” Story 3.

1982.

No, Mum, I don’t want to see what’s inside.

No, Mum, I don’t want to make new friends.

No, Mum, I don’t want to unpack my pretty new lunch box.

No, Mum, I don’t want to know where my coat peg is, or my cubby, or where the sleeping mats are kept.

I want to go home, Mum.

I want to count the Smurfs on my Smurfs poster on my bedroom wall.

I want to watch Fraggle Rock.

I want fairy bread and lemonade for lunch like we had yesterday.

I don’t care that was supposed to just be a special day, Mum. I want it every day and I don’t want to be a big Kindie girl.

I don’t care how proud Dad would be.

I don’t care that you have to go.

I don’t care that Miss Daphne might be sad. 

I know I said I liked her, but that was before you said I had to stay here with her.

I’m going to cry, Mum.

Really, Mum, that will make you take me home. I’m going to cry.

That blonde girl is crying.

Yes, she is. I can see her wiping her nose.

If her mum takes her home, I’m really going to cry, too.

She looks at me.

Big tears are filling the corners of her eyes.

That’s a pity, because she’s got a nice face.

I smile. I don’t want her to feel so sad. She’s even sadder than me.

Her mother covers her face with a tissue and she blows hard. 

Her mum folds the tissue and wipes the tears away. Miss Daphne is kneeling beside her, talking softly.

I let go of my mother’s hand. She let me! She never does that. She always grips it tighter if I try to pull away. I walk to the blonde girl.

“I have a Garfield lunchbox,” I say.

She sniffles. “Is it Garfield or Odie?” she asks.

“Both,” I say, and she jumps in the air and claps her hands together.

“Can I see it?” she asks.

I take her hand and lead her to my cubby, leaving our mums and Miss Daphne behind.

“I’m Daria,” she says, “I’m four.”