The worn sneakers hit the sun-baked concrete as little Michelle Jones jumped off the bus. Parents watched as the little girl in her purple skirt and long-sleeved shirt squeezed through the crowd of parents collecting the children and went on her merry way, skipping over the cracks in the footpath. Her bag bounced against her bony back, the books and empty lunchbox rattling together. Dark, frizzy curls bounced around her amber eyes, glowing in the May sunshine. 

Michelle was an odd little girl, reserved, but watching the world with a quiet energy, She was often in her own world, her thoughts far above the clouds as she read diligently in the patch of sun on the school playground, her thick mane of curls shielding her face from the world. Michelle was also incredibly bright, far ahead of the rest of her grade, but she didn't seem to notice. She kept to her self, not mingling much with any of the kids, except for one boy on occasion.

The 5-year-old continued on her merry way, kicking at dandelions to watch the seeds fly into the sky. She had to be home soon. Just over the hill and around the corner. A yellow butterfly darted across her path, drawing her attention. She forgot her hurry and followed the golden wings as they flitted across the road and down an alley. Butterflies always enchanted Michelle: there was something so fantastical about their bright colours and delicate wings. Sometimes she wondered if they were tiny fairies, dressed in wool or cotton to protect them from the cold air as they collected nectar for tea parties. 

The butterfly jerked upwards suddenly, vanishing over the rooftops and into the clouds. Michelle watched, her chest rising as she let her thoughts wander. Her mother's voice cut through them like a blade and she snapped awake, bolting out of the alley and up the hill. I mustn't be late, I mustn't be late, I mustn't be late, she thought over and over as she ran down her street. Houses flung by, her feet pounding on the footbath and the bag bouncing rapidly against her backside. She stumbled up the stairs and stopped, her chest heaving as she tried to calm her breaths. Slowly, she opened the door and crept inside, shutting the door quietly behind her and slipped off her shoes. The house was dark, as usual, as she walked quietly through the house to her room, her feet hardly making a sound against the wooden floors. She stepped over the creaky board and hopped into her room, shutting the door softly behind her and hanging the bag up. 

It was a small room, but Michelle loved it. It was her own little world, a small haven. Drawings she did during lunch breaks and at night dotted the walls, from flowers to the view of her window to kids running around. They were pretty basic, but quite good for such a small girl. The old wooden bookshelf had a handful of early reader books, a long line of EJ12 books (she loved spy and adventure books,) and a couple of Tintin comics. There were also some kids books on how the world works with models and diagrams for children that she enjoyed, but she had read them over and over again a hundred times. Her bed was still unmade, so Michelle straightened the blanket and adjusted the pillow, There. Perfect.

She had nothing else to do, so she got out her pencil case and a piece of paper, a large book and sat on the floor, drawing a butterfly in the clouds. Her dad always told her that she would be a famous artist when she grew up. Michelle loved her dad. He was kind, gentle, a bit goofy at times, but mostly quiet. He worked as a barber's assistant, cutting men's hair. He had given Michelle her middle name: Zendaya. It meant 'to give thanks.' Michelle wasn't quite sure while he gave her that name, but she liked it. She liked to imagine that she was a beautiful princess in a magical African country called Zendaya, with gorgeous hair and bright, colourful dresses, spending the day painting and reading in her massive library. That would be her dream.

The front door opened and Michelle paused, listening. It shut softly and she relaxed, continuing with her drawing. Her dad was home. Her bedroom door soon opened and Aaron Jones-Watson stuck his head in the doorway. "How's my little Mickey Mouse?"

She giggled and gave him a tight squeeze. "I saw a butterfly today!" she said softly.

"Really?"

"Mhm! And it was yellow!"

Aaron gave her a gentle smile, his tired eyes brightening. "I love yellow."

"It's pretty, but not as pretty as purple." Michelle held up her drawing. "See?"

Aaron gave a dramatic gasp. "Oh my, we have a new Da Vinci! Watch out, Mona Lisa, you're going to be replaced!"

Michelle giggled, her face lighting up. Her father gave her a smile, kissing her gently on the scar on her eyebrow. "Guess what I got?"

"What?"

"An apple." He pulled out a glossy, red apple, Michelle's favourite. Her eyes went wide and she snatched it from his hands, giggling gleefully. "Let's cut it up first."

They quietly moved to the kitchen, Aaron sitting his daughter on the benchtop and began slicing the apple neatly. A young woman walked in, her blond hair dishevelled as though she had just been sleeping. She yawned, stretching her arms. "Ugh. I have the worst migraine."

Aaron silently slid a glad of water over to her, taking the last slice of the apple. Elizabeth watched him from over the rim of the glass, sighing as she put the now empty glass on the bench. "Where'd you get the apple from?"

"I bought it," Aaron said simply, watching as Michelle walked the plate over to the sink.

Elizabeth frowned slightly. "You didn't save any for me?"

"It- it wasn't for me, it was... it was for Em."

Elizabeth muttered something under her breath. Michelle didn't hear what she said, but her dad certainly did. He scooped her up gently and ushered her back into her room, giving her a hurried hiss on the forehead. "Stay here for a little while, sunbeam. Daddy's got to look after mommy's headache for a bit."

Michelle nodded. Aaron slipped out and Michelle pulled a book off the shelf. She grabbed her pillow and set it down in the little patch of sunlight and began to read. Her stomach growled, but she ignored it. Her tummy did that sometimes. Eventually it grew dark and the little girl was left to the light of her own lamp. She didn't know what time it was, but she was ready for bed, so she pulled on her pyjamas and crawled into bed, whispering a little goodnight to the moon as she slowly fell asleep.