The drive to school passed in a blur. The little girl sat in the backseat, legs swinging, boots flashing whenever she kicked against the seat. Karyn’s heart swelled each time she glanced in the mirror. By the time they reached the school parking lot, it felt natural, that she just was dropping her daughter off for kindergarten. As they pulled up, unknown to them both the stone gave a soft glow once more, as if affirming things bit by bit as they went.
Karyn crouched by the classroom door, straightening her daughter’s Pinkie Pie shirt. “Be good, sweetheart. I’ll be back after class.”
“Yes, Mommy,” the girl chimed, hugging her backpack tight.
But as she stepped into the classroom, Jon’s thoughts slammed back to the surface. The tiny desks, the smell of crayons, the chatter of five- and six-year-olds—it all made his stomach twist. No… this isn’t me. I don’t belong here. I’m Jon. I’m not—
“Welcome back, sweetie!” the teacher sang. “Your seat’s right over there.”
Jon’s small body moved toward it despite his panic. And then he saw it—taped to the front of the desk was a name written in bright marker, decorated with doodles of balloons and hearts.
“Emily....."
Jon’s heart stuttered. "No. That’s not my name. I’m Jon.... This morning I just put on.... Uggh...
But his little fingers brushed the label as he pulled out the chair, and a dizzy warmth flooded his mind. Emily… Emily’s my name! He shook his head hard. "No—it’s not. That’s not me..."
From across the room, a girl with braids called out, “Emily! Sit with me! You promised we’d finish our ponies today!”
The sound hit her hard, Jon flinched. "She called me Emily. Is that really ...
“I’m not—” he tried to say, but his voice cracked into the high, uncertain tone of a six-year-old. His body slid into the chair anyway, boots flashing and sparkling as he tucked his feet under the desk.
On top of it sat a half-finished coloring page: Pinkie Pie, mane only half-filled in. Next to it lay a worn pink crayon—its paper peeled back, edges dulled from constant use.
His hand trembled as he reached out. "No. I shouldn’t know this. I’m not her. I’m Jon.*
But his little-girl fingers wrapped around the crayon as if it belonged to him. 'her' friend giggled, scooting closer. “ooooh? You always use the pink one first. It’s your favorite, you and pinkie pie are so alike!"
Jon’s lips parted to protest, but instead a soft giggle bubbled out. “Yeah… it’s my favorite.”
The label on the desk glowed in his vision—Emily—and with every stroke of the crayon, it felt more natural....
