Hiro phoned the next morning to let us know he was sick. Charlie took us to school and said he’d pick me up—Kiki again had plans with friends. As I sat through my morning classes, I fiddled with the empty film canister that had been in my pocket since that day in the orchard. I didn’t like how I’d left things with Hiro. Had I been wrong to warn him? Did he think I was judging him? Or that I questioned his father’s patriotism?

By the time I got to lunch, I had decided to apologize. I was mulling over whether to take Hiro rice porridge after school or wait a couple of days till he got better when my thoughts were interrupted.

“Can I sit here?” The gentle voice came from behind me.

I turned to a pair of hazel eyes and a bush of caramel curls: Ruth Allred.

I swallowed a slimy mouthful of green beans. “You want to sit … here?” All around us, the cafeteria echoed with the sounds of students chatting and laughing.

Ruth nodded. I glanced around. My table was empty. A couple of Japanese girls I usually ate lunch with had gotten the same bug as Hiro, and the others were still getting their food.

But white kids didn’t sit at this table. Even though it had been less than two weeks since Pearl Harbor, it was essentially a rule. A few Japanese kids—like Kiki—had been lucky enough to retain their spots in white cliques. But no white kid wanted to sit with a Japanese group.

Still, Ruth slid her tray next to me. She sat, unfolded a handkerchief, and placed it on her lap. I chewed silently. Around the room, gazes stumbled on Ruth. At the old table, Beau and Hank stared, and SueAnn’s expression was unmistakably hostile.

Ruth smiled shyly. “Um, what did you think of Mr. Percival’s lecture this morning?”

I shrugged. Mr. Percival had spent the better part of the hour talking about the shortages the war would bring to the country. “S’okay, I guess.” At least it was better than when he talked about the Japanese.

Ruth grinned sheepishly, her full cheeks dimpling. “Sorry. I know there are better things to talk about than civics. It’s just that’s the only class we have together. But we can talk about something else …”

I nodded, but inside I was thinking, Like what? Why was she sitting here?

“So … what do you like to do?” Ruth asked. Her fingers twisted in her lap, but her nervousness didn’t seem to be about the student body around us. Her eyes were focused on my face—as if she was worried what I thought of her.

“Um, I don’t have a lot of spare time,” I said. “When it’s warmer, I work on my dad’s farm a lot.”

“Oh, really?” Ruth asked, and her eyes lit up. “That’s neat.”

It wasn’t the reaction I’d expected. I raised my eyebrows. “Working on a farm is neat?”

“No, really!” she insisted, blushing. “My dad’s not a farmer, but he has an incredible garden. I help him weed and mulch and fertilize—it’s my favorite thing.” Her eyes dropped with her voice, and her face flushed peach. “I guess that’s not normal, is it?” Her eyes drifted back, now filled with a look I knew well—the fear of judgment.

My face relaxed into a smile. “Probably not. But I can see loving it—gardening, I mean, not fertilizing.”

Ruth grinned, and she speared a bean. “Anyway, I can’t imagine how … fulfilling it would be to have a whole farm and see it all come to life.”

I suppressed a laugh. “The way you say it is more romantic than it really is.”

“Yeah. I guess it must be different as a hobby than when everything depends on it.” Her eyes held no shadows of pity or judgment.

“That’s for sure,” I said.

A wad of something sailed in an arc through the air above our table, landing on the floor next to our feet.

“Wha—?” Ruth bent to pick it up.

I looked around. Scooter and his group of pals snickered as they pointed our way. My stomach squeezed. Ruth picked up the balled-up newsprint and unfolded it.

JAP LOVER! The words were scribbled over the top of an article about battles in the Pacific. Ruth crushed the paper back into a ball and let it fall to the ground.

“Why are you sitting here?” The question bubbled out of me before I could stop it.

“You want me to go?” Ruth asked, her voice faltering.

“That’s not what I mean … But don’t you worry?” Scooter’s group tried to muffle their laughter as a teacher scolded them for throwing things. “I mean, sitting with me is sitting with … the enemy.”

I looked back at the old table. SueAnn had turned so her back was to us, but Hank kept sneaking glances our way, and Beau stared, a strange, maybe sad look in his eyes.

Ruth shook her head emphatically. “You’re not the enemy. Scooter’s a caveman. I mean, we’ve all known you forever, and all of a sudden we’re supposed to think you’re a spy or something? I refuse to believe that.” Her voice was stronger than I’d ever heard it, though her face was as fair as ever.

“But sitting with me … It’ll make you a target.”

Ruth tilted her head. “Am I making things worse for you?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. They hate me regardless,” I said, glancing over at Scooter.

Ruth exhaled a tiny, satisfied sigh. “Then … I can handle it,” she said, shrugging. “I mean you were always with Beau. But”—her cheeks went pink—“I always kind of wished we could be friends.”

Her words hung in the air. The truth was that I had felt the same thing. And somehow I dared to say it. “Me too.”

We went back to eating, both hiding shy smiles.