I stared at those two red words until they blurred through my tears.
Denied. After everything I’d been through, after paying forty dollars, after waiting all day, after believing that maybe, just maybe, the system would work in my favor? Denied.
I folded the paper and stuffed it in my pocket, then rode my bike home as slowly as possible. I didn’t want to face my parents. I didn’t want to see the disappointment in their eyes when I told them I’d failed again.
When I finally walked through the front door, Mom took one look at my face and knew.
“Oh, honey,” she said, wrapping me in a hug. “I’m so sorry.”
“They denied it,” I said, my voice cracking. “I don’t understand why. I filled out all the forms. I paid the fees. I did everything they asked.”
Dad appeared in the doorway. “What was their reason?”
I pulled out the crumpled paper and handed it to him. He read through the legal language, his frown deepening.
“This is ridiculous,” he said finally. “They denied it because you’re under eighteen and don’t have a business license. But you don’t need a business license for a temporary vendor permit. That’s the whole point of the temporary permit.”
“So what do I do now?” I asked.
“We fight it,” Mom said firmly. “This isn’t over.”
But that night, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, I wasn’t sure I had any fight left in me. How do you fight city hall when you’re twelve years old? How do you argue with official stamps and legal language you don’t understand?
I’d tried so hard to do everything right. I’d learned about permits, filled out forms, paid fees, waited patiently. And for what? To be told I wasn’t good enough, wasn’t old enough, wasn’t official enough.
Maybe Mr. Griggs had been right all along. Maybe this was a grown-up world, and I was just a kid playing pretend.
The next morning, I was eating cereal and wallowing in self-pity when the doorbell rang. Mom answered it, and I heard a familiar voice.
“Mrs. Rodriguez? I’m Mrs. Patterson from the tournament. Is Kiora home?”
I looked up from my bowl, confused. Mrs. Patterson was here? At my house?
“Kiora,” Mom called. “You have a visitor.”
I found Mrs. Patterson standing on our front porch with a clipboard in her hand and a determined expression on her face.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said. “I heard about what happened with your permit, and I wanted you to know that a lot of us parents think it’s completely unfair.”
“You do?”
“Absolutely. My son hasn’t stopped talking about your candy bars. He said you were always polite and had fair prices. Meanwhile, that food truck guy was charging five dollars for a hot dog.”
She held up her clipboard. “I’ve been talking to other parents, and we want to help. We started a petition to get your permit approved.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “A petition? For me?”
“For you,” she said with a smile. “Look at this.”
She showed me the clipboard. There were already twenty signatures on it, with comments like “Support young entrepreneurs!” and “Kiora deserves a chance!” and “Better than overpriced food trucks!”
“Mrs. Chen from down the street signed it,” Mrs. Patterson continued. “And the Johnsons, and the Martinez family. Even Coach Williams from the tournament signed it.”
I felt tears starting again, but this time they were good tears.
“I don’t know what to say,” I managed.
“You don’t have to say anything. Just don’t give up, okay? We’re going to take this petition to city hall and make them explain why they’re denying permits to hardworking kids.”
After Mrs. Patterson left, I showed the petition to my parents. Mom wiped her eyes as she read the comments.
“This is incredible,” she said. “Look how many people believe in you.”
“I’m calling the newspaper,” Mom announced. “If the city won’t listen to reason, maybe they’ll listen to public pressure.”
“Mom, no,” I said quickly. “That seems like too much.”
“Actually,” Dad said, “your mom might be onto something. But let’s try talking to them directly first.”
That afternoon, Dad put on his best shirt and tie. “I’m going to city hall,” he announced. “It’s time for a parent-to-bureaucrat conversation.”
“Can I come with you?” I asked.
“Not this time,” he said. “Sometimes adults need to handle adult business. But this is still your fight, and I’m just backup.”
I spent the rest of the afternoon pacing around the house, checking the clock every few minutes just like yesterday. But this time felt different. This time, I wasn’t alone.
At 4:30 PM, I heard Dad’s car in the driveway. I ran to the window and watched him get out, but I couldn’t tell from his expression whether it was good news or bad news.
He walked through the front door, and I held my breath.
Then he smiled and pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket pocket.
“One temporary vendor permit,” he said, “approved and signed.”
I grabbed the paper with shaking hands. At the top, it had my name. At the bottom, instead of a red “DENIED” stamp, there was a beautiful blue “APPROVED” stamp.
“How did you do it?” I asked, still staring at the permit in disbelief.
“I showed them the petition,” Dad said. “And I explained that denying permits to young entrepreneurs sends the wrong message about supporting small business. Turns out, the clerk who denied your application made a mistake. You never needed a business license for a temporary permit.”
“So I can sell snacks again?”
“You can sell snacks again,” Dad confirmed.
I hugged the permit to my chest like it was made of gold.
I was back in business!