“Fine,” I tell everyone, but when Max asks me at dinner if my first day of sixth grade was as exciting as his first day of kindergarten, I snap, “It’s complicated, Max. You wouldn’t understand.” Then I stare into my bowl of pasta and try to ignore the hurt look on his face. After dinner, I go upstairs, drag my desk chair over to my closet, and take down my bin of dolls. I don’t consider it babyish that I still play with them sometimes, even though I don’t tell anyone about it in case they think it is. But tonight I don’t even make up sophisticated scenarios or dress them for an event. I just brush and brush their hair, like I used to when I was in kindergarten.

The next afternoon, when Mr. Sandler walks in, he hands out photocopies of a poem and asks us to read it to ourselves a few times. The class goes quiet with concentration. I look at the poem—it’s short and seems simple, about a red wheelbarrow left out in the rain, and how much depends on it.

“So,” Mr. Sandler says after a few minutes. “What do you think this poem is trying to tell us?”

I frown. What is it about? The whole poem is only sixteen words, but I suddenly suspect there is something deeper behind each word. I keep my hands in my lap. I don’t want to say something stupid.

No one else is raising their hand either.

“Anyone care to take a stab?” Mr. Sandler asks.

It’s very quiet. Something flashes through my head. I raise my hand tentatively.

“Yes, Milla?” He doesn’t need to see my name card. He remembers it from yesterday. I take a deep breath.

“Um, well, little things can be important?”

“Okay. Can you say more?” Mr. Sandler asks. He’s looking at me with interest.

“Well, people say, ‘Don’t sweat the small stuff,’ but sometimes small details are really important and can make all the difference. We don’t know why the red wheelbarrow is important, or why so much depends on the red wheelbarrow, but we know that it is important to someone, and that someone feels that everything depends on it. Maybe?”

“Very nice, Milla,” Mr. Sandler says. I try to suck in my cheeks so no one can see that I’m smiling too obviously. It’s hard.

“Okay, that’s great,” he says to the rest of the class, rubbing his hands together. “Now, what do you make of how the poem is built? What might the poet, William Carlos Williams, be trying to tell us by how he constructed each sentence?” It gets very quiet. People have their heads down again, trying to scrutinize the poem.

“Be braaaave,” Mr. Sandler says in a spooky movie voice. “No … wrong … opinions.” Everyone laughs a bit, but no one raises their hand. I take another deep breath and raise mine, all the way up this time.