Page 61 of The Treasure House

“Maybe she’s saying nice things about you?”

“Mom, you can’t even say that with a straight face.”

“Maybe sign up for extracurricular activities?” I suggested. “You might meet people that way?”

“I registered for cross country,” she told me a few days later, drumming her fingers on the car door as I drove us home.

“Great idea.”

“Okay,” she declared the following week, as she climbed in the car, muddy from running through fields. “No luck at cross country. Do you think I should join the dance squad, try out for field hockey, join debate club, or audition for the school play? Where would I be most likely to find my people?” She held up a hand. “And don’t say do all of them because there’s only so many hours in a day, and this school treats homework like it’s a way of life. I need some time off.”

I stole a glance at her. She looked like a mountaineer about to scale Everest, she was so grimly determined. “Ah… I’m not sure. Which would you prefer?”

“I think the problem with field hockey is that you spend so much time running and whacking the ball that you don’t get to talk to people, and dance squad has a stupid amount of sequins. So maybe debate club or the play?”

“What play are they doing?” I asked. Flo had never once shown any interest in drama, and I was dubious it would keep her occupied for long.

“Annie. It’s about some orphan kid.” She exuded irritation. “Look at what I’ve come to! It’s hard to make friends in Maine.”

Not for the first time, I was flooded with admiration for my kid. My reaction to new schools and unfriendly kids had been the exact opposite of Flo’s. I’d tried to make myself invisible, retreating to the corners of the library to read alone, leaving the school campus as soon as I could at the end of each day. Flo had none of those instincts. She treated finding friends like a hill to be climbed, rather than a personal failing.

“I got a part in the play,” Flo told me in the final week of September, as she threw her backpack in the backseat of the car.

“That’s fantastic,” I said, hoping it was. I’d been nervous about her auditioning for a musical, since she’d never had a singing lesson in her life.

“Don’t get excited, it’s not a speaking part.”

“It’s not? Who are you playing?”

“You mean what am I playing,” she said, sighing.

“Oh…?”

“I’m Sandy,” she said in a long-suffering tone. “The dog.”

I tried not to laugh. “Oh. Well, at least you don’t need to memorize lines.”

“And Lainey Mullins got the part of Annie,” Florence groaned, closing her eyes and thudding the back of her head against the headrest. “So every time I’m on stage, I’m on stage with her.”

I cleared my throat. “Well, maybe you two can make friends during rehearsals.”

“She called me Fido, Mom. ‘Congratulations, Fido,’ she said, in front of everyone. I swear to God, if I didn’t like the school lunches here so much, I’d give up. Do you know what we had today? Calzones. I gave Chef Tonya a high five and told her she deserved a raise. She said she’d settle for no more budget cuts.”

“Well, that’s something.”

“You know, the only thing that makes me feel better about being Lainey Mullins’s dog is the fact that she has to wear this red curly wig that makes her look like Ronald McDonald. At least I’ll be in a dog suit, so no one will recognize me.”

“That is also something.”

Despite her slow start making friends, Flo seemed her usual garrulous and spirited self. “What about you?” she demanded. “How’s your friend situation? Have you made any at work?”

“Not a friend exactly, but a few friendly acquaintances.”

“I believe in you. You can take them from friendly to friends.”

“Thanks, Flo.”

“Cupcakes might help.”