The missing yellow sock
Zoya’s yellow sock had vanished.
Its partner lay on the bed, looking lonely and slightly inside out. Zoya searched beneath the pillow, behind the basket, and inside a shoe that contained only a smooth stone.
Tomorrow was the school picnic. Her friends had decided to wear matching white socks and blue ribbons.
Zoya had a blue ribbon. She did not have white socks. She had one yellow sock, two green ones of different lengths, and a purple sock with a cheerful hole near the toe.
“I could stay home,” she told the bed.
The bed offered no opinion.
From beneath it came a small musical note.
Pling.
Zoya knelt. At the back, where dust usually gathered, stood a red velvet curtain.
“Excuse me,” called a voice. “Is the triangle player up there?”
“I’m looking for my sock.”
“So are several of us. Come in, if you like.”
Zoya lifted the curtain.
Beyond it, a staircase wound down through warm darkness. Music floated upward: a soft boom, a silver tinkle, and a squeak that sounded remarkably like someone sitting on a balloon.
She took her lonely yellow sock with her, just in case.
The grand laundry hall
The staircase ended in a concert hall built inside an enormous laundry basket. Moonlight shone through the woven walls. Handkerchiefs fluttered from the ceiling like little white clouds.
On the stage sat socks.
There were long socks and tiny socks, woolly socks and silky socks, socks with checks, socks with cherries, and one sock that appeared to be entirely heel.
A red-striped stocking conducted with a knitting needle.
“Welcome,” she said. “I’m Madam Hem.”
Zoya held up the yellow sock. “Have you seen its partner?”
“Possibly. We don’t arrange ourselves in pairs here.”
“But how do you know who goes together?”
Madam Hem looked across the stage. “We ask who would like to sit nearby.”
A spotted sock waved Zoya toward a cushion beside a small drum.
Zoya sat, keeping her feet tucked beneath her. She had put on the unequal green socks that morning and forgotten about them until now.
The orchestra began.
A blue sock played a reed flute. A thick grey one brushed a cymbal. From the back came that balloon-like squeak.
Nobody groaned. The conductor simply turned a page.
“That’s Percival,” the spotted sock whispered. “He is still deciding whether he’s a trumpet.”
A place in the music
Madam Hem offered Zoya a triangle.
“I don’t know the song,” Zoya said.
“Neither does Percival.”
“I might come in wrong.”
“You might. Would you like to listen first?”
Zoya nodded gratefully.
The music made pictures in the air. Low notes became rolling hills. Flute notes became birds with transparent wings. When Percival squeaked, a pink cloud bounced above the stage.
Zoya laughed and forgot to hide her feet.
The spotted sock noticed the green pair.
“Oh, lovely. One for shallow puddles and one for deep ones.”
“They’re supposed to be the same length.”
“Are they uncomfortable?”
“No.”
“Then they seem to be managing.”
Still, when Madam Hem lifted her needle for the next song, Zoya hesitated. Everyone here was different, but they all seemed certain about being different. She was not certain at all.
“Can I stay even if I don’t play?” she asked.
Madam Hem lowered the needle.
“Of course. That cushion isn’t rented by the note.”
Zoya loosened her grip on the triangle. She listened through a whole song, while silver birds circled the basket and the spotted sock leaned comfortably against her ankle.
The song that wore every colour
During the next piece, Zoya heard a quiet space between two drumbeats.
She touched the triangle.
Ting.
A tiny star appeared.
Percival squeaked in surprise, producing three pink clouds. The blue sock giggled through the flute, and the melody wobbled like jelly on a plate.
For one breath, Zoya thought she had spoiled everything.
Then Madam Hem conducted the wobble. The drums rolled beneath it. The cymbal shimmered around it. Soon the whole orchestra was playing music that skipped instead of marched.
Zoya joined when she wanted. Sometimes she missed the quiet space. Sometimes she simply watched.
At the end, her missing yellow sock slid down a handkerchief from the ceiling.
“There you are!” Zoya cried.
It landed beside its partner and gave a satisfied wiggle.
When Zoya climbed back into her bedroom, dawn was silvering the window. Both yellow socks lay in her lap.
For the picnic, she wore them with her blue ribbon.
“I thought we said white,” a friend remarked.
“I don’t have white.”
“Oh.” Her friend considered this, then lifted one shoe. “Mine have blue toes anyway.”
They spread a blanket beneath a tree. Zoya sat down among the lunch tins and grassy knees, carrying no instrument at all.
There was room beside her for another child.
A little light to carry
After that, Zoya kept a small cushion beneath her bed. She was not sure whether the orchestra needed it, but she liked knowing it was there. On quiet evenings, she sometimes heard a flute, a drum, and a squeak that had become no more trumpet-like than before. Percival, apparently, had not been asked to leave.
Zoya still enjoyed matching things: ribbons with flowers, cups with saucers, her two yellow socks. But she no longer thought every person had to match before they could sit together. Somewhere under the ordinary floor, a red-striped conductor saved a place for her whether she brought a triangle, a wrong note, or nothing but her listening ears.