25

My alarm clanged a full hour earlier than it needed to. As fast as I could, I turned it off for fear of waking Joel or Mom. Looking out the window I saw that Jocelyn’s bedroom light was already on, and I wondered how long she’d been up.

For all I knew, she might not have slept at all. If I’d been her, I wouldn’t have been able to the night before leaving for college.

Mrs. Falck let me in after I tapped on her kitchen door. She was wearing a pale pink bathrobe and slippers and had rollers in her hair.

“She’s upstairs,” she told me. “Just getting the last few things in order. You can go on up.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“I’m making coffee. Would you like a cup?”

“Oh yes, please.”

“I’ll bring it to you,” she said. “Now, go on.”

I climbed the steps, not needing to guide myself to the room that was Jocelyn’s. I knew the way as if I were going to my own bedroom. Her door was open a crack, and I pushed it to find her sitting in the middle of the room, half the books from her shelf on the floor, encircling her.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“How will I ever decide which ones to take?” She wiped under her eye. “I don’t want to leave any of them.”

“Do you even have room in your dormitory for them?” I stepped carefully over a row of books, joining her in the circle.

“I don’t know. Most likely not.”

“You’ll probably get more books for your classes, don’t you think?”

“Oh, you’re right.” She frowned. “But what am I going to do with all of these?”

“You can leave them here, can’t you?”

“But they’ll be lonely.”

Had Jocelyn said that to anyone else, they might have questioned her sanity. Or laughed at her. Or told her to stop being so sentimental. But I understood exactly what she’d meant. Any true reader would. Within the pages of each book in the ring around us was a friend, fictional or not. The March sisters and Miss Maude, Charlotte and Wilbur, Jem and Scout, Cosette and Anne Shirley.

To leave the books behind would be to depart from a good friend.

“I can take care of them for you,” I said.

“I know I’m just being silly.”

“You aren’t.” I picked up a copy of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn. “Can I help you put these back on the shelf?”

It was short work, putting the books where they belonged, and Jocelyn only cried once. I’d determined that I wouldn’t cry. Not when we carried her few crates to the trunk of her father’s Ford or when I hugged her good-bye. I wouldn’t break as they drove away, leaving me in their front yard to wave until they were out of sight.

Instead, I cried all the way on my walk to work, glad for the dark morning.

The lunch special was spaghetti and meatballs with a side of garlic toast and boiled broccoli. It was the first time David opted for something other than what was written on the chalkboard.

“You don’t like spaghetti?” I asked.

“Is that strange?” He grinned.

“A little bit.”

He leaned his chin on his fist, raising his eyebrows at me and smiling.

“What would you like instead?” I asked, looking down at my order pad and feeling strangely flushed.

“Do you think Bernie could make me a grilled cheese?” he asked.

“I think he could.” I jotted it down. “Anything else?”

“Some chips and some of that broccoli, please. And a glass of milk too.”

“Sure thing.”

When I got to the pass-through window, I noticed Bernie looking out at me, a big goofy grin on his face.

“What?” I said, handing him the order slip.

“Nothing.” He shook his head and laughed. “Nothing at all.”

“Bernie . . .”

“Grilled cheese coming right up.” He turned for the grill, still shaking his head and laughing.

An elderly couple from church came in for a pastry and cups of coffee. They asked me how Oma was and about whether or not Grandma Jacobson was all right.

“We’re praying for Michael,” the woman said, patting my arm. “We pray for him every day.”

“Thank you,” I said. “Don’t stop, please.”

When Bernie called out that the grilled cheese was up, I excused myself and went to get the plate. But instead of one, there were two.

“Take a break,” Bernie said. “You haven’t had your lunch yet.”

“But I . . .”

“Take a break or I’ll fire you.” He smirked. “Go have lunch with him.”

“With who?”

“Him.” He nodded in the direction of David.

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I tittered and picked up the plates.

“Don’t drop them,” Bernie called after me. “Oh, and you’re welcome.”

I took the sandwiches to David’s table, putting one of them in front of him. “I don’t know how to say this,” I started. “But my boss told me I have to eat lunch with you or else I’m fired.”

“We wouldn’t want you to lose your job, would we?” David asked, leaning forward, hands on his thighs.

“Not over something like that.”

“Well, do you want to have lunch with me?”

“Only if it’s okay with you.”

“I cannot think of anything I would be more okay with.” He motioned to the seat opposite him. “Please eat lunch with me, Annie.”

I put the plate down before sliding into the booth.

Dear Annie,

Of all the people I write to, you’re the only one who writes back every time. It makes me think maybe everybody else hates me. Everybody but you.

Thanks for sending me letters.

Do you remember when we were kids and I told everybody to stop being your friend because your dad left? Mike punched me in the face for it. Did you know that? He broke my nose. It’s been a little crooked ever since.

Well, anyway, I’m sorry I said mean things about you. I’m even more sorry I said them to you. Being out here and seeing what I do makes you think about things. I’ve been thinking a lot about the ways I’ve been a bad person. I guess I’m not good enough to have anybody write me letters after all.

For all the mean things I said or did, I feel worse about having done them to you. You never deserved it and I’m sorry.

Forgive me? Please.

Your friend (I hope),
Walt

Dear Walt,

I wish I could say that I don’t remember you ever being mean to me. But that wouldn’t be true. Although I do remember, I don’t hold it against you. Golly, it really did hurt at the time. I can and have forgiven you, though.

You aren’t a bad person. Not really. You’re just somebody who did the wrong thing a few times (or more than that). We’ve all fallen short. The mean things you did? They aren’t what makes you who you are. As my oma would say, who you are is God’s child. That’s all.

Sorry for the sermon. I hope you didn’t mind it too much.

Mike is, without a doubt, sorry about your crooked nose. That’s a drag. I never noticed, though.

Your friend (why not?),
Annie