3
“Dad?” Maude said. “What are you doing here?”
“You left so early, my beautiful bark beetle, you forgot your lunch!” He handed her a metal container and a large spoon.
“No beetle names in school, Dad,” Maude whispered. “And I didn’t forget it, I left it. On purpose. I’m sick of soup.”
“It smells delicious,” Miss Kinde said. “At least I think it does. I believe I’m getting a cold.”
“Take it,” Maude grumbled. “I’ve had soup for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and breakfast, lunch, and dinner!”
“I can’t eat your soup, Maude.” Miss Kinde suddenly sounded congested.
“Please! I beg you, Miss Kinde. We’re swimming in it.”
Miranda laughed, thinking about how much soup she’d helped Maude and her family make over the weekend. She might not like letter writing, but spending time at Maude’s house was one of her favorite things to do.
You never knew what fun you might have over at Maude’s, which was a houseboat in the trees. Maude’s brother, Michael-John, might teach you a very unusual word (this weekend’s word was hircine), or her dad might recite quotes and interesting facts about beetles. You might dance with Onion the Great Number Eleven (a cat), or bathe Rudolph Valentino (a dog), or give a shower to Rosalie (a chicken)! You might help build a classic car and then get driven all over town! Or you might make gallons upon gallons of soup.
“Let’s trade,” Maude suggested to Miss Kinde. “What do you have for lunch?”
Miss Kinde turned pink. “Well, um . . .” she said. “Actually, I have soup. But it’s not homemade. I bought it at the store.”
“Oh dear,” Walt said. “Well, then you must take Maude’s! Homemade soup is so much better! No matter how busy I am, I always try to find time to make soup.”
“But . . .” Miss Kinde sputtered.
“Maude can share mine,” Miranda told her. “Chef Blue always packs enormous lunches.”
“Great idea,” Maude said.
Miranda hoped a non-soup lunch would stop Maude from asking her to write a billion boring letters.
Miss Kinde took the container, unscrewed the lid, and inhaled. “Mmm . . .” she said. “But students can’t share food.”
“Who cares about rules twelve and thirteen?” Maude said. “They’re just words.”
“Speaking of words,” Walt said, “the French playwright Molière said, ‘I live on good soup, not on fine words.’ Isn’t that lovely?”
Miss Kinde beamed. “I love plays!”
Walt grinned. “There’s nothing like theater, is there?”
Listening to Miss Kinde and Walt talk about soup and theater gave Miranda a warm and happy feeling.
“Dad,” Maude said, “don’t you have to go discover a beetle or something?”
Walt looked at the clock and jumped. “Indeed, I do. I’m off to an important beetle conference, where I’m going to share my latest beetle discovery!”
“Wow!” Miss Kinde sounded impressed.
“I apologize for the interruption,” Walt said.
“Quite all right,” Miss Kinde said. “Thanks for the soup.”
After Walt left, Miss Kinde put Miranda’s unanswered practice exam back on her desk. “Since there’s not enough time for the test, I’ll just put this wonderful soup in the teachers’ lounge,” she said, stepping out into the hall.
Once their teacher was gone, Miranda turned to Maude. “I know what I care about,” she said.
“Hooray,” Maude said. “I couldn’t have a best friend who didn’t care about something. What’s your cause? Saving the pangolins? Cleaning Lemon Lake? Getting rid of the Styrofoam lunch trays?”
“Love,” Miranda said.
Maude stared at her friend. “Love? What does love have to do with changing the world?”
“A lot.”
“Boyfriends and girlfriends and dumb dates and stupid kissing has nothing to do with changing the world!”
“I mean love like being happy,” Miranda said. “Your dad and Miss Kinde looked happy talking to each other about soup and plays!” She smiled. “Maybe they could go to a play. And eat soup afterward. They both love soup and plays!”
“That’s ridiculous.” Maude grimaced.
“Why?” Miranda asked. “Miss Kinde needs homemade soup, especially with her cold, and your dad needs friends. Just this weekend he said he wished there were more people over to enjoy all the soup we made.”
Maude didn’t remember her father saying that. Had he? Between the soup making and her letter writing and hanging out with her beloved animals and Miranda, Maude hadn’t heard. But still. Love was not a cause! “My dad is too busy for friends,” she told Miranda. “He’s got me, Michael-John, his beetles, his yoga, and his quotes.”
“No one is too busy for friends,” Miranda said.
“Well, my dad is!”
Miranda didn’t say anything.
“Don’t get my dad into any love cause or anything. Okay?”
“Okay,” Miranda said quietly as the morning bell rang and Miss Kinde came back in.