It was Halloween morning at Lakeside Elementary, and the auditorium shimmered with plastic crowns, glitter capes, and superhero masks.

The air buzzed with laughter—a wild mix of excitement and sugar. I was 48 then, slightly graying, still clinging to the title of “favorite art teacher.”

Amid the chaos, I saw her.

Lena.

She moved into the room like a shadow sliding beneath a door. Plain T-shirt, gray pants, hair pulled back too tight. No costume. No smile. She looked like a black-and-white sketch in a room full of neon paint.

Before I could reach her, it started.

“What are you supposed to be, Lonely Lena?” a boy shouted, tugging her ponytail. Others laughed, circling her like vultures.

“Did your dad ditch you again?” another sneered.

The chant rolled in like thunder.

“Lonely Lena! Lonely Lena!”

My instinct was to yell at them, but I knew this girl didn’t need another spotlight on her pain. She needed someone to choose her.

I slipped through the crowd, knelt beside her. Her hands were pressed to her ears, tears streaking her cheeks.

“Lena,” I said softly, “come with me. I have an idea.”

I led her behind the art room into the supply closet. The air smelled of chalk dust and poster paint. I grabbed two rolls of toilet paper.

“What are those for?” she whispered.

“For your costume,” I told her. “We’re about to turn you into the most powerful mummy in school.”

She looked doubtful, but a flicker of hope lit her eyes.

“Arms up.”