“How did you learn to do this?” I ask her. Part of me wonders if it was something her mom had shown her, and maybe that’s why she likes doing it so much, but I haven’t quite figured out how to bring up her mom again. “Did someone teach you?” I ask instead.

“No, I just learned from videos online,” she says. “And books too.”

“Oh, that’s cool. I thought maybe it was like a family tradition sort of thing.”

“Not really. After my mom, you know, passed,” she begins, “I wanted to learn more about my Japanese side and found all these videos about it. My counselor said it might be good to learn how to do something crafty—like it would help with my anxiety. I just keep doing it. And I guess, in a way, it sort of makes me feel closer to my mom.”

“That makes sense.” I think about it for a minute, and tell her, “I had a lot of school anxiety at the beginning of the year. Drawing helps me with that stuff too.”

“Yeah,” Macy agrees. She opens her mouth like she was going to say something more, but then closes it and looks away.

“What?” I ask her.

“It’s kind of weird,” she cautions, her eyes meeting mine once again. “But I actually have a special plan at school. For my anxiety stuff.”

“What kind of plan?” I ask.

“Like, I’m allowed to be late sometimes, or leave the classroom for a few minutes if I need to get up and walk around. And that’s why Ms. Avery never says anything about my origami-ing during class and—wait, why are you looking at me like that?” she says, stopping in the middle of her sentence. “Your eyes are all big, and you’re staring at me like you stuck your finger in an electrical socket!”

“Sorry,” I start. “It’s just—do you have something called an IEP?”

“Ye-yeah,” she stutters. “You know about those?”

“I have one too. But mine is because I have this learning di—” I start to say disability, but then I switch it at the last second to the word Moms say—“difference. Which is also part of why I was having such bad anxiety about school.” I swallow and clear my throat. “You know, my lessons?”

Macy nods.

“I actually have to go to the Resource Room on those days, for math lessons. Sorry if I let you think I was going for music lessons.”

“It’s okay. I mean, I sort of let you think I had doctor’s appointments, didn’t I?” she tells me. “But it was only because I thought I was the only one in our class with an IEP.”

“Me too.” I feel my face beaming at her. “Is it weird that it makes me feel so much better knowing you have one too?”