“What color means sharks?”
“Blue.”
By Friday, there were many blue stickers and too many pink ones.
The district announced an emergency board meeting for Monday night.
Public comment allowed.
Three minutes per speaker.
Janelle said, “Three minutes is plenty of time to start a fire.”
But before Monday came, the fire came to us.
On Saturday morning, I found a white envelope taped to my front door.
No stamp.
No return address.
Inside was a single sheet of paper.
A copy of Lily’s medical file.
Across the top, someone had written in black marker:
DO YOU REALLY WANT EVERYONE LOOKING AT HER?
For a moment, my vision blurred red.
Not fear.
Something older.
Something closer to the animal part of a parent’s heart.
Janelle read it and went completely silent.
That frightened me more than if she had screamed.
“They’re using private records now,” she said.
I called the police.
The officer who came was polite but careful. He took the envelope, asked if I had cameras, and said it could be difficult to prove who left it.
Lily watched from the hallway.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes.
“I’m seven, not a lamp.”
Janelle coughed to hide a laugh.
I knelt in front of Lily.
“Someone tried to scare me.”
“Did it work?”
I looked at the paper in the officer’s evidence bag.
Then at my daughter.
“No.”
Lily nodded.
“Good. Sharks don’t get scared of paper.”
On Monday night, the district building overflowed.
People stood along walls, filled hallways, and crowded outside under the yellow glow of security lights. News vans lined the curb. Parents held folders. Children held hands. Someone had made signs that read LET THEM BELONG.
I had not asked anyone to do that.
Somehow, that made it harder to look at.
Lily insisted on coming.
At first, I refused.
Then she said, “It’s my school too.”
There was no answer to that.
So she came wearing her blue cardigan and shark hair clips, her chin lifted like she was attending court.