Permission Slip
1502 Words
The announcement came halfway through Biology.
Mr Peterson clapped his hands once at the front of the room, the sharp sound slicing through the low hum of conversation.
“Alright, settle down. I have an announcement.”
Amelia straightened automatically. Beside her, Lola continued doodling something abstract in the margin of her workbook, only half-listening.
“There will be a compulsory Biology field trip next week,” Mr Peterson continued. “We’ll be spending the day at the coastal reserve studying marine ecosystems. Tide pools, biodiversity surveys, environmental impact assessments — the works.”
A ripple of mixed reactions moved through the class. A few groans. A few excited whispers.
Amelia felt something spark in her chest.
A whole day out of the classroom.
A bus ride. Open air. Ocean.
“For those of you concerned,” Mr Peterson added dryly, “yes, there will be an assessment attached.”
The groans grew louder.
Amelia didn’t care. She was already picturing it — the sharp smell of salt, wind in her hair, notebooks balanced on her knees while she crouched over rock pools. It felt like something different. Something that wasn’t routine.
She glanced at Lola, expecting at least a raised eyebrow.
Lola barely looked up. “Great. Sand in my shoes,” she muttered.
Amelia smiled. “It’ll be fun.”
“It’ll be cold.”
“It’s practically summer.”
“It’s still wind.”
Mr Peterson began handing out permission slips down each row. The paper slid onto Amelia’s desk, crisp and official.
She ran her fingers over it like it might disappear.
“Forms due by Friday,” he said. “No form, no trip.”
Lola finally lifted her head properly. “Is it all day?”
“Yes.”
“Tragic.”
Amelia nudged her lightly with her elbow. “Come on. A day off normal classes.”
“We still have to do work,” Lola pointed out. “In nature.”
“That’s the best part.”
Lola gave her a look like she’d just admitted to enjoying cold showers.
“You are such a nerd.”
Amelia didn’t even deny it. She was too busy imagining the ocean.
The rest of the lesson blurred into talk of intertidal zones and species identification, but Amelia found herself paying closer attention than usual. She underlined things. Made neat notes. Asked a question about data collection methods that made Mr Peterson look pleasantly surprised.
Beside her, Lola tapped her pen rhythmically against the desk.
When the bell rang, Amelia gathered her things quickly.
“This is going to be good,” she said as they stepped into the hallway.
Lola shrugged. “If I get blown into the ocean, I’m haunting you.”
“I’ll hold your hand near cliffs.”
“How romantic.”
Amelia laughed.
It felt light. Easy.
For a moment, everything felt normal again.
At lunch, Amelia unfolded the permission slip carefully on the picnic table.
“I need Dad to sign this tonight,” she said, half to herself.
Lola stabbed at her salad with a fork. “Mine will sign it without reading it.”
“Lucky.”
“Debatable.”
Amelia hesitated.
Trips meant logistics. Money for packed lunches. Making sure the twins were sorted. Making sure Dad remembered.
Her excitement dimmed slightly at the edges.
“You’re still excited, aren’t you?” Lola asked, noticing the shift.
“Yeah,” Amelia said quickly. “Of course.”
Lola studied her for a second longer than necessary.
“You can borrow my jacket if it’s freezing,” she said casually. “I know you’ll pretend you’re not cold.”
Amelia smiled at that.
“Thanks.”
That afternoon in art, Amelia found herself sketching waves absentmindedly instead of faces.
Curved lines. Foam. Motion.
There was something calming about the idea of water — unpredictable but rhythmic. Chaotic but patterned.
She imagined standing on the rocks next week, wind tugging at her hair, the whole class scattered along the shoreline. For once, everyone focused on something other than each other.
No lockers. No hallways. No whispers.
Just open space.
The thought settled warmly in her chest.
When school ended, they walked toward the gates together.
“You’re way too excited about this,” Lola said, bumping her shoulder.
“You’re not excited enough.”
“I’ll get excited if someone falls in.”
“That’s concerning.”
“It builds character.”
Amelia shook her head, smiling.
As they parted ways at the corner where Amelia turned toward the twins’ school, she glanced back once.
Lola was already walking away, phone in hand, head tilted down.
Amelia turned forward again, permission slip folded carefully in her bag.
For the first time all week, she felt something close to anticipation instead of anxiety.
A field trip.
A day out.
Something new.
She didn’t know yet that sometimes it’s the days that start with excitement that shift everything.
When Amelia got home, the afternoon folded into its usual rhythm.
Backpacks dropped by the door. Shoes kicked off in opposite directions. The twins talked over each other about spelling tests and who ran the fastest at lunch. Amelia nodded in the right places while mentally calculating dinner, homework, laundry, and whether there was enough milk for tomorrow.
She helped them sound out words at the kitchen table, corrected backwards letters, stuck their worksheets onto the fridge with a magnet shaped like a pineapple. She stirred pasta on the stove while reminding them to wash their hands. She checked their bags for notices. Signed what needed signing.
The permission slip sat on the counter the entire time, slightly curled at the edges.
Every now and then her eyes flicked to it.
Field trip. Coastal reserve. All day.
She felt that small spark of excitement again.
After dinner, she supervised showers, negotiated over which pyjamas were acceptable, read half a chapter of a book she’d already memorised from repetition. She kissed their foreheads, turned off the light, and closed their door halfway — just how they liked it.
Usually, that was when she would shower and collapse into bed.
Tonight, she stayed up.
The house grew quiet around her. The clock above the stove ticked loudly in the silence. She sat at the kitchen table with the permission slip laid flat in front of her, a pen placed carefully beside it like it might convince him to notice.
Headlights eventually flashed across the living room wall.
Her chest lifted.
The front door opened. Her dad stepped inside, keys jangling, the faint smell of aftershave and outside air trailing in with him.
“Hey, kiddo,” he said automatically, already loosening his tie.
“Hey.”
He glanced at the clock. “You’re up late.”
“I just needed you to sign something.”
She slid the paper toward him before she could lose momentum.
“It’s for a Biology field trip next week,” she added quickly, words tumbling out brighter than she meant them to. “We’re going to the coastal reserve — like proper tide pools and ecosystem surveys and stuff. It’s all day. I’ve never been there before.”
He skimmed the top of the page without really reading it.
“Sounds cool, kiddo.”
She waited for a question. What will you be studying? Who’s going? Are you excited?
Instead, he reached into his wallet and pulled out a couple of notes, placing them on top of the form.
“That should cover it, yeah?”
“Yeah, but—”
He signed his name in quick, practised strokes.
“There you go. Have fun.”
Amelia hesitated, still standing there, still holding onto the moment like it might stretch if she didn’t let it go.
“It’s going to be really interesting,” she tried again. “We’re doing biodiversity reports and collecting samples and—”
“Mm.” He was already heading toward the hallway. “That’s great. Good experience.”
He paused at his bedroom door. “I’m going to get ready for bed. had a long day today.”
And just like that, the moment was over.
The house felt bigger again. Quieter.
Amelia looked down at the signed permission slip in her hands. The ink was still slightly wet where his signature cut across the bottom.
She’d imagined telling him about the ocean. About the wind and the rocks and how she’d probably have to wear sneakers because the terrain was uneven. She’d imagined him asking questions. Maybe even teasing her for being excited.
Instead, she had money and a signature.
Which, technically, was enough.
She folded the paper carefully and slipped it back into her bag. The notes he’d given her felt heavier than they should have.
As she turned off the kitchen light and headed down the hallway, the earlier spark of excitement was still there — but dimmer now.
Muted.
Like something seen through glass instead of held in your hands.
- Writer
