EXTRA 2.4 – Folder

[Krei's POV – Age 9]


Dad’s hand rested on my shoulder while the big glass doors swung open. I could hear the grown-ups talking inside, their voices low and proper, the way people sound when they care more about money than lunch.

I tried to stand taller, like Dad did. I had my best shoes on— the ones with the stiff leather that squeaked when I moved too fast. Dad called it “making a good impression.” I called it “my feet hurt.”

Then I saw her.

She was standing at the far end, next to a man everyone kept shaking their hands to. She was the only other kid there— a girl older than me, maybe by a lot, maybe just a little. Hard to tell. Dad had called her “the Halberd girl” earlier when he told me to be polite. She had that look like she’d already decided who she's gonna be when she grew up.

Dad nudged me forward. “Go on, Krei. Say hello properly.”

I cleared my throat and said, "Hello,"

“Good afternoon,” she said back, crisp like a grown-up. Then she sat at my end of the table and opened her own little folder.

Who brings a folder?

While the old men talked about money, she flipped through papers, tapping her pen on the table like she wanted to correct them all. Once, she did. Cleared her throat. Everyone stopped. She pointed at a number and told my dad he’d written it wrong.

Dad laughed— the polite kind that sounded tight. But he didn’t say she was wrong.

I glared at her folder. She noticed. Leaned over, whispered: “Did you even read the forecast?”

I puffed up. “I know more than you think.”

She arched one eyebrow. Older kids shouldn’t be allowed to do that. “Prove it.”

I snatched my notepad and wrote a big number. Pushed it to her side. She read it, snorted, wrote a bigger number and underlined it three times.

I felt my ears burn. Wrote back: You’re just guessing.

She scribbled: I’m not. You are.

At break, she didn’t run off for juice like me. She stayed by the window with her arms folded like a tiny boss. I gathered all my courage and stomped over.

“Next time, I’ll be right,” I said.

She didn’t even blink. “Next time, do your homework.” Then she looked at my shoes. “And tie your laces properly. You look sloppy.”

I looked down. Untied. She was right.

Back in the car, Dad said, “You did good, kiddo. Everything we did today will matter when you’re older.”

I didn’t say it out loud, but I knew something he didn’t. One day, I’d know more stuff than my Dad. More than her, too.

Next time, I wouldn’t just show up— I’d win.

So, at the next meeting, I brought my own folder.

And this time, I double-knotted my shoes.