Before Pria Mott got glasses, there was the magnifying glass. 

Pria’s mom took her to the eye doctor a week after she completed the third grade. With Pria’s report card that year came a hand-written note from Ms. Bianco. In the neatest handwriting Pria’s mom had ever seen, Ms. Bianco wrote: 

Pria is a bright student whose learning would be complemented by a trip to the eye doctor. Poor Pria squinted her way through the last few months of school! I’ll look forward to seeing her next year in the hallway and I hope she can LOOK forward to seeing me right back (and clearly!) 

Signed,
Ms. Bianco 

The two O’s in “LOOK” had little eyes drawn in them. Ms. Bianco was sweet, but Pria’s mom was happy to see the third grade come to an end. There were the field trips (six to be exact, which really rubbed Pria’s mom the wrong way.) There was the parent-teacher conference, during which Ms. Bianco asked where Pria’s dad was. It all rubbed her the wrong way. 

But, Pria was her only child, and if glasses would “complement” Pria’s learning, it was what needed to be done. So, about a week after she completed the third grade, Pria was in her mom’s red Honda on the way to the eye doctor. 

Knowing Pria would be nervous, her mom lured her there with talks of breakfast-for-dinner and a later bedtime. Nevertheless, Pria was nervous. She hated doctors’ offices. Breakfast-for-dinner sounded nice, but Pria wasn’t completely sold. The last time she had her yearly physical, the pediatrician called her by her boy-name and kept saying “he” while reporting information to the nurse. It didn’t help that Pria’s mom wasn’t exactly the type to speak up against authority. 

Pria clutched her mom’s hand as they walked into the office. It was cold in there, and the lady behind the desk was playing instrumental music. Pria could not think of anything worse than music without words. 

They checked in with the lady at the desk before sitting in the waiting area. Pria’s eyes were on the small TV in the corner, but she was already watching herself walk across the parking lot to her mom’s red Honda and heading home. 

After having the world’s quietest conversation about whether to stay or go, Pria’s mom knew that it was best to take her daughter home. Plus, something in her was happy to be conveniently disobeying Ms. Bianco. “Maybe next year,” she nearly mouthed to the lady behind the desk as Pria pulled her hand out of the office. 

It wasn’t until later that night that Pria’s mom discovered the reality of Pria’s nearsightedness. 

Pria sat at the table patiently as her mom prepared breakfast-for-dinner. They hadn’t gone through with the exam, but Pria’s mom thought that making it inside the office at all was cause for celebration. When Pria’s mom held up a surprise box of smiley fries to go with her dinner and Pria couldn’t make out what was on the box, she knew that Ms. Bianco had been right. As much as she hated to admit it. 

Over eggs and pancakes and smiley fries, Pria’s mom gently asked her about her vision. Was it hard to see the board, did it annoy her, did anyone point it out. Pria was diplomatic in her responses, saying that glasses weren’t “her thing”. She didn’t mind that she couldn’t see some things on the board. Her friend Max always relayed the information just fine. 

The following week, Pria and her mom made a trip to the library. This was one of their favorite things to do because, in Pria’s mind, libraries are the opposite of doctors’ offices. They were always the right temperature and they were always quiet. No no-word music. 

That night, as Pria and her mom took turns reading aloud from her favorite chapter book series, something truly amazing happened. “In walked the wise Dr. Bailey. She was tall, lean, and carried a bag over her left shoulder. Inez called her over to investigate the scene. Out of her bag, she took a magnifying glass and peered through it at different objects around the room,” Pria’s mom read. 

Pria stopped her immediately. “Why is she having a doctor look at her room?” The small hand that was around her mother’s index finger loosened its grip as the question poured out.

“Well, Dr. Bailey is a detective. She’s helping Inez with the mystery,” Pria’s mom offered. 

Pria thought about that for a second before pushing her bangs out of her eyes and moving onto the next paragraph. The familiar squeeze returned to her mother’s index finger. 

When the chapter was finished, Pria’s mom rubbed her head as she tried to sleep. This part of the day was always the worst for Pria— she absolutely loathed the time between deciding to fall asleep and the actual falling asleep part. After several quiet moments, Pria muttered quietly, “It’s cool that Dr. Bailey is a girl.” Pria’s mom agreed. “Maybe you’ll be a detective like Dr. Bailey,” she offered to Pria. That night, Pria dreamt of a doctors’ office full of Dr. Baileys. 

When Pria hobbled down the stairs the next morning and into the kitchen, she found a small box on the table. A magnifying glass of her own. Pria’s mom explained to her that this way she could see the board, didn’t have to wear glasses, and she could be like Dr. Bailey. Her favorite doctor. 

When Pria’s new fourth grade class saw her walk in on the first day with a magnifying glass on a string around her neck, they didn’t know about the note from Ms. Bianco or about the trip to the eye doctor or about Dr. Bailey. They just saw it as another thing that was weird about Pria Mott. And Pria liked that. She liked making people wonder.