By the time Mr. Crow finishes taking attendance, and going over the classroom rules, and passing out our new books, it's time for our first recess. When everyone starts running outside, I realize I don't have Elizabeth to run outside with. Most of the boys head to the soccer field. Brooke is giggling with two other girls, Meeka and Jolene. Randi is playing basketball with Rusty and Quinn. Jenna grabs the last two swings: one for her and one for Stacey. That leaves me with nothing to do and no one to do it with. So I just wander around the playground by myself, pretending to be very interested in kicking rocks.
When we get back inside, it's time for silent reading, which, luckily, doesn't require any friends at all.
When it's time for lunch, Jenna grabs Stacey by the arm and starts dragging her off to the lunchroom. But Stacey glances at me and stops.
"What about Ida?" she says to Jenna.
"What about her?" Jenna replies.
Stacey turns to me. "Do you want to eat lunch with us, Ida?" she asks.
Even though I wish it was Elizabeth inviting me to lunch, it's a relief not to have to eat alone.
I nod.
Stacey smiles.
Jenna rolls her eyes. Then she links arms with Stacey and heads down the hall. I follow along.
When we get to the lunchroom, Jenna informs us that she has a cold lunch—bean sprouts on a whole wheat bagel, baby carrots, soy milk, and for dessert (yum-yum) carob brownies. So while she and her lunch go looking for a table, Stacey and I get in line for our UFOs (Unappetizing Food Options).
"Is the food any good?" Stacey asks.
"It's okay," I say. "If you don't mind food poisoning."
Stacey smiles her big crayon smile right at me.
"The food at my last school was so bad even the cook brought her own lunch."
"Oh, yeah?" I say. "Where was your last school?"
"Oh, not far," Stacey says, her voice trailing off. "Actually, technically, my last school was in my house. My parents wanted to spend more time with me, so they homeschooled me for awhile."
"But I thought I heard you say that your parents are always traveling because of their important jobs?"
"Oh, d-did I?" Stacey stammers. Stammering is what you call it when your mouth moves faster than your brain. "Well, they usually take me along when they travel, so they taught me while we were ... um ... on the road."
I nod like I believe her, but I raise one eyebrow like I don't.
"So, what do you like to do, Ida?" Stacey asks, like she's trying to change the subject or something.
"Oh, you know," I say. "The usual. I like getting up in the morning. Going to school. Going home. Going to bed. Stuff like that."
I am trying to sound as uninteresting as possible, but Stacey gives me a friendly laugh, anyway. "You're funny, Ida."
This conversation is going from bad to worse. Thankfully, the line moves forward and it's our turn to examine today's UFOs: turkey tetrazzini, buttermilk biscuits, and green beans.
"What'll it be, girls?" Mrs. Kemp asks, in her grumpy school-cook voice. Her pea-sized eyes blink at us over the thick rims of her steamy glasses.
Stacey and I look at the globs of turkey and noodles floating in gravy. We look at the rock-hard biscuits. We look at the soggy beans. Then we look at each other.
"Well?" Mrs. Kemp says. "Do you want hot lunch or not?"
Stacey and I gulp. Then we nod.
We get our food and Jenna waves Stacey over to a table where she is sitting with Brooke, Meeka, and Jolene. Stacey takes the seat across from Brooke. I sit next to Jenna.
"You're going to eat that?" Jenna says, wrinkling up her nose at my lunch. "Disgusting," she says, looking at me. Then she looks at Stacey and smiles. "Be sure to bring a cold lunch tomorrow, Stacey. Then you can swap desserts with us." Jenna gives a glance to Brooke, Meeka, and Jolene.
"We swap lots of stuff," Brooke says. "Earrings, bracelets, shoes..."
"That's right," Jenna interrupts. "This necklace is Meeka's and this bracelet is Jolene's," she says, pointing at her neck and wrist. "Bring something to swap tomorrow."
"Su-ure," Stacey says. "I'll ask my gr—...my aunt if it's okay."
"Of course it's okay," Jenna says. "We do it all the time."
I scoop up some turkey tetrazzini on my fork and think about last summer when Elizabeth and I swapped flip-flops. We never got around to swapping them back before she moved away.
I'm right in the middle of remembering how much fun we had gluing pom-poms and plastic lobsters onto those flip-flops when I notice Jenna is glaring at me again.
"Wha?" I say through my turkey tetrazzini.
"You know what's in that turkey, don't you?" Jenna says back.
"Um, no," I say, swallowing. "I didn't realize there would be a quiz."
Jenna just shakes her head. "Horbones," she announces to the other girls. "Lots and lots of horbones."
"What's that?" Stacey asks, poking suspiciously at the food on her tray.
"That's the stuff that makes turkeys so fat," Jenna says, giving me a glance. Then she starts to explain how my turkey spent its whole life inside a crowded pen eating horbones day and night with all the other unfortunate birds.
Three minutes into Jenna's lecture, I'm wishing I had warned Stacey not to show any interest in anything Jenna has to say. But then, I'm trying not to say much of anything at all to Stacey Merriweather.
I tune out Jenna's yakking, nibble on my rock-hard biscuit, and get a better look at Stacey.
She has pretty eyes and pretty, evenly spaced teeth. And pierced ears. Her hair smells the same way my mom's hair does after she gets a perm. I can't imagine having any friends if I smelled like that. Not that smelling the way I do has gotten me lots of friends. It hasn't. Oh sure, I've had the regular kind of friends. The kind you wander around the playground with, making up excuses together for why you don't want to join the dodgeball game, when really you just don't want to look stupid when the red rubber ball smacks you in the face.
But that was before I met Elizabeth. She was the kind of friend who made it worth getting up and going to school every day just so I could sit by her on the bus and play with her at recess. The kind who told me secret things she never told anyone else. The kind of friend I never thought about having to say good-bye to until she all of a sudden decided to move away.
As I sit and watch Stacey listen to Jenna's description of her family's summer camping trip ("We had to brush our teeth with baking soda and pee in a hole. It was great!"), I think about Elizabeth and wonder if she's eating lunch at that exact same time, too. I wonder if she's as happy in her new school as Stacey Merriweather seems to be in hers. I want to say, Excuse me, Stacey Merriweather, but don't you miss your old best friend at all?
But before I have a chance to say anything, I see it. A spitball. Right in the middle of my turkey tetrazzini.
I look up and see another one fly. This time it sticks in Stacey's curly hair.
I look around the lunchroom. Two tables away, Rusty Smith and two other fourth-grade boys, both named Dylan, are cracking up. A shredded napkin lies in front of Rusty. A straw is in his hand. I look at Stacey again. She's still eating and listening to Jenna talk, but I can tell by the way her eyes stop sparkling that she knows she's being used for target practice.
Then I see Rusty take aim again. And again.
After six direct hits, Stacey sets down her fork and quietly says, "Excuse me, ladies." She walks over to Rusty. He's so busy laughing with the Dylans that he doesn't notice Stacey putting her hand on his bony shoulder.
But he starts paying attention when she smiles at him and says in a sticky sweet voice, "You like me, don't you?"
Everyone within earshot turns and looks.
Rusty looks, too. "Huh?"
"You do!" Stacey squeals. "You like me!" Then she puts her arm around him and practically sits on his lap.
Now everyone in the whole lunchroom is turning and looking.
Rusty peels Stacey's arm off his shoulder like it's a poisonous snake. Stacey puts it back. Everyone laughs. Then the Dylans start singing "Rusty li-ikes Staa-cey ... Rusty li-ikes Staa-cey..."
Stacey smiles and scoots even closer to him.
By the third round of the song, the lunchroom sounds like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. And Rusty's ears look as red as his hair. He wiggles out from under Stacey and bolts out the door.
I sit there, staring at Stacey Merriweather and wondering how a person with six spitballs stuck in her hair can do something like that.
Then Stacey gets up and walks back to our table. She sits down, picks up her fork, and finishes every last bite of her lunch.