Brook stood at the front of the school gates, her fingers curled tightly around the straps of her backpack. The sky above was grey; the building towering, and unfamiliar. Inside her bag was her device, books, pens and her lunch, wrapped neatly by her mother. It gave off the faint, spicy smell of turmeric. She hoped no one would smell it. It was her first day at the new school in Cromwell, in a new country. Everything felt louder here : the bell, the voices, even the way people laughed. Back home, school had been noisy too - but in a language that wrapped her a blanket. Here the words were sharp and fast and Brook had to run to keep up.

She walked into her classroom. Twenty-five faces turned towards her. She gave a small polite smile. The teacher, Mrs. Parker introduced her in a kind voice. “This is Brook. She just moved here. Please make her feel welcome.” A few students smiled. One girl waved. But a group of students at the back snickered. Brook caught the word “scarf.” Her cheeks burned. She had worn her favourite scarf today. It has a bright blue with golden threads; one her grandmother gave her before she went to school. She thought it was beautiful. By lunchtime, Brook’s head throbbed. She found an empty bench under a tree and opened her lunch box quietly. The smell of her mother’s cooking floated up.

Before she could take a bite, a group of girls that mentioned her scarf voice called out. “Ew! What is that?” Brook looked up. A girl with perfect slicked back hair and shiny sneakers stood nearby, wrinkling her nose. Two other girls laughed behind her. “It smells weird,” the girl said, loud enough for others to hear. “You should bring normal food.” Brook closed the lid slowly and pushed her lunchbox away. Her stomach twisted with hunger and shame. After school, Brook’s mum picked her up and said, “How was your first day of school?” Brook answered, “Not bad at all,” vacantly looking out the window. That night at home, she didn't tell her mother what happened.

She just asked, “ Can you make me a sandwich tomorrow?” Her mum paused, then nodded. She didn't ask why. The next morning, Brook left her scarf at home. She pulled on jeans and a hoodie like everyone else. Her lunch was plain bread with cheese. She spoke less, smiled less and no one paid her any attention. Somehow, that felt worse. Days passed. Every night she missed herself a little more. Then one afternoon, a girl whose name Maya sat again with her in the library. “Hey,” Maya said. “You don't talk much anymore.” Brook hesitated and said, “I don't want to stand out.” “But you did stand out, in a good way,” Maya said.

“I like your scarf. and that smell of your food is amazing.” Brook looked up. It was her first time someone had said that. Maya smiled. “There is a culture day next week. You should totally bring your food to share with everyone. Wear your scarf, too.” Brook wasn't sure. Part of her still wanted to disappear. But part of her- small but steady, missed feeling like herself. On culture day, she dressed slowly. Her scarf shimmered in the light. Her mum helped her to pack the lunch : spiced rice, flatbread and her favorite sweet dumpling wrapped in foil. When she walked into school, she felt eyes on her; she kept her chin up.

Brook entered her classroom, wearing her traditional dress with the scarf that grandma made from her. She felt so nervous about what people might say about her dress. Her teacher Mrs Parker said, “Oh, look at that beautiful dress. I haven't seen one like this before.” A group of people at the back were giggling, but Brook ignored them. “Thank you, Mrs. Parker,” Brook said. At lunch,tables were filled with food from around the world. Some students wore traditional clothes, like folk costumes, Chinese costumes, and Filipiniana. Maya waved her over, “Sit here!” Jess, the girl mocked her, walked by and raised an eyebrow. “Didn't think you’d actually wear that again,” she said under her breath. Brook didn't respond. Instead, she unwrapped the food.

A few students leaned over. “That smells so good. What is it?” one asked. “It's biryani,” she said. “It has rice with spices, chicken and potatoes.” She explained how her grandmothers taught her how to cook it. How every Saturday back home smelled like this. Mrs Parker, her English teacher, stopped by and took a bite. “Delicious,” she said. “ Thank you for sharing this with us.” Brook felt something loosen in her chest. Her scarf warmed her shoulder like a hug. After lunch, Maya leaned closer. “You shouldn’t hide who you are. That's the best thing about you.” Brook smiled. It wasn't a loud, flashy smile. It was quiet, steady like her. That afternoon, Brook walked home a little shower, noticing the sky above.

It wasn't grey anymore. It was soft and blue, just like her scarf.