Blossom Street Bundle

“What’s for lunch today?” Anne Marie asked.

Ellen pointed to one of the students at a nearby table, spooning macaroni and cheese into her mouth. “That.”

At last! The eight-year-old actually had a voice.

The line started to move. “Macaroni and cheese used to be one of my favorite lunches,” Anne Marie said. “Do you like it, too?”

Ellen shrugged.

“What’s your favorite?”

She expected the universal response of pizza. Instead Ellen said, “Chili and corn bread.”

“I like that, too.” Well, she didn’t hate it, but it wasn’t one of Anne Marie’s favorites. Thus far they didn’t seem to have a lot in common.

Their lunch consisted of macaroni and cheese, a gelatin salad, carrot sticks, milk and an oatmeal cookie. Carrying her tray, Anne Marie followed the girl to a table near the back of the room. Ellen chose to sit at the far end, away from the other children.

Anne Marie set her tray across from Ellen, then pulled out her chair and sat down. Ellen bowed her head and folded her hands on her lap for a silent moment before she reached for her silverware. Apparently she was saying grace before eating her lunch.

Anne Marie took a sip of milk once Ellen had taken her first bite. “I understand you like to read,” she said conversationally.

Ellen nodded.

“I own a bookstore. Have you read any of the Harry Potter books?”

Ellen shook her head. “My grandma said they’re too advanced for me. She said I could read them in fourth grade.”

“Your grandmother’s probably right.”

Ellen crunched down on a carrot stick.

“Who’s your favorite author?” Anne Marie asked, encouraged by the girl’s response.

Ellen swallowed. “I like lots of authors.”

Again, this was progress. Of a sort. And the girl didn’t talk with her mouth full, which meant she’d been taught some manners.

“When I was your age, books were my best friends.” Anne Marie could recall reading in her bedroom with the door closed to drown out the sound of her parents arguing.

That comment didn’t warrant a response. Anne Marie took another bite of her lunch as she mentally sorted through potential topics of conversation. It was hard to remember what she’d liked when she was eight. She didn’t think Ellen would be interested in hearing about her widowed friends or her list of Twenty Wishes.

They continued to eat in silence until an idea struck Anne Marie. “Do you like dogs?”

Ellen nodded vigorously.

“I have a dog.”

For the first time since they’d sat at the table, Ellen looked up. “A boy dog or a girl dog?”

“A boy. His name is Baxter.”

“Baxter.” A hint of a smile flashed in her eyes.

Anne Marie felt a surge of relief. She’d hit pay dirt. Ellen liked dogs. “He’s a Yorkshire terrier. Do you know what kind of dog that is?”

Ellen shook her head.

“Baxter is small but he has the heart of a tiger. He’s not afraid of anything.”

Ellen’s eyes brightened.

“Would you like to meet him one day?”

Ellen nodded again. “What color is he?”

“Mostly he’s black but his face is sort of a tan, and he has funny-looking ears that stick straight up.”

“My ears stick out, too,” Ellen said in a solemn voice.

Anne Marie studied the child. She could see the faint outline of Ellen’s ears beneath her straight hair, which hung just below her chin. “I had ears like that when I was your age,” Anne Marie told her. “Then I grew up and my ears stayed the same size and everything else got bigger.”

Ellen took another bite of her macaroni and cheese.

Anne Marie did, too. She finished the lunch period by telling the girl stories about Baxter. Ellen asked dozens of questions and even giggled once.

The other children gradually left the lunchroom, drifting out to the schoolyard. The muted sound of their play could be heard through the windows. Anne Marie looked out several times; when she asked if Ellen wanted to go outside, the youngster declined.

The bell finally rang, signaling the end of lunch. Ellen stood.

So did Anne Marie.

Ellen carried her dirty tray to the kitchen and showed Anne Marie where to place it.

“I guess you have to go back to class now,” Anne Marie said.

Ellen nodded. Anne Marie walked her to the classroom door and just as she was about to leave, Ellen whispered something she couldn’t quite hear.

“What did you say?” Anne Marie asked.

Ellen glanced up. “Thank you,” she said more loudly.

“You’re welcome, Ellen. I’ll see you next Wednesday.”

Ellen smiled, then quietly entered the room and walked to her desk.

As Anne Marie watched, her chest constricted with a sensation that felt alien to her. It was a good feeling, though—one that came from reaching out to someone else.

Elise was right; Anne Marie did feel better for volunteering. Little Ellen Falk needed a friend.