Amandine Read Free Page A

shrugged, as if my parents’ spontaneity made no difference to me. In truth, our move to Alford, which they had not consulted me on, had come as an unsettling surprise. But my parents always worked as a unit, whereas I was more like the overpacked luggage they carted along with them.
    Amandine grinned and rolled her eyes. “My parents did that, too. We used to live in New York City, actually. Brooklyn Heights, till I was in sixth grade. Then all of a sudden they wanted to hug trees and mow the lawn and stuff.”
    “Same as mine!”
    “But they should go back. ’Cause of missing the plays and museums. They’re both really, really into the arts.”
    “Same as mine!” Which was not quite true, but it wasn’t as if my parents were against the arts. And suddenly, Amandine was at my breakfast table again, eating sour-cherry pancakes, talking to Mom about Times Square and Central Park.
    As the ending lunch bell rang, I saw Samantha Blitz leave her table and walk over to us.
    “Either of you guys seen my lucky bandanna?” she asked. “I lost it.”
    “That makes it an un lucky bandanna.” Amandine smirked.
    “What color is it?” I asked.
    “It’s goldish-orange, flower-y,” she answered. “I was wearing it in homeroom.”
    “Oh, yes. I remember,” I said, nodding. “Definitely, I’ll keep an eye out. Gold and orange. Flowers. Got it. I’ll keep a look out.” I could hear myself sound overeager. Mom would have handled this better, with her Boston blend of friendly and indifferent.
    Amandine yawned and stretched her arms over her head and said nothing.
    “Okay. Well, yeah. If you happen to.” Samantha’s eyes skimmed over me and held Amandine’s a second too long. “Later, guys.”
    “Me and her used to hang out a lot together,” Amandine confided after Samantha had left. She smiled kittenishly. “But that was before I found you.”
    Yesterday, after I’d kept her waiting, Mrs. Gogglio had given me some heat.
    “Don’t fritter away my goodwill, Delilah,” she said. She had a hard time with my name, calling me Dahlia and Delayla before settling on this one. I’d corrected her for a little while, and then stopped bothering.
    “Sorry, Mrs. Gogglio.”
    “It’s not about the money, why I pick you up. It’s about coincidence. I get off my shift at Sunrise Assisted at three and you get off school at three ten and our living right ’round the corner from each other makes this meeting a coincidence. But you’d be looping back roads on that school bus for an hour and then some if it wasn’t for me. And I wouldn’t have a heart to care, except it’s on my way, and why not earn a little extra on the side? But my main point here is coincidence, you hear?”
    “I’m sorry, Mrs. Gogglio. Really.” It was hard to follow her every word, the way she said hot for heart and un for earn. She was Massachusetts bohn and raised, she’d told us proudly that first day she stopped over for a neighborly visit, bringing us a batch of blueberry muffins so good I couldn’t seem to stop reaching for the next.
    “Enjoy your starch, I see,” she’d said, nodding me up and down as I bit into a third. Stahch, the word in Mrs. Gogglio’s mouth, meant all delicious things. She liked her starch, too, unlike my starch-free parents. Block-shouldered, apple-faced Mrs. Gogglio could have been my real, long-lost mother. And so our friendship was born. It wasn’t completely about coincidence. After a day spent tending to old people, Mrs. Gogglio seemed to enjoy the change of more youthful company. And after my own day of trying not to do or say the wrong thing or have the wrong answer or sit in the wrong place, Mrs. Gogglio’s easy manner was a relaxing tonic.
    Yesterday, as punishment for my lateness, Mrs. Gogglio didn’t stop for a drive-through snack.
    Today, I was right on time, as Amandine had left early on account of a doctor’s appointment. It was Mrs. Gogglio who was about fifteen minutes late. She gave me her