Rich (4 page)

“Man,” said Dyamonde.

“Yeah,” said Damaris.

“So what happened to all your stuff?” asked Dyamonde.

Damaris shrugged. “Most of it ended up in some secondhand store, somewhere.”

Dyamonde thought of Second Time Around. She thought of all the stories she used to make up in
her mind about the clothes, toys and furniture she found there. But this wasn’t a made-up story. This was real.

The bell rang, and both girls walked back to class in silence. At the door of their classroom, Dyamonde turned to Damaris.

“I still think you should write about it,” she said. “You told me the whole story. And guess what? I didn’t laugh. Not once.”

“Laugh about what?” asked Charlie, butting in like always.

Dyamonde put her hands on
her hips. “Our conversation has abso-tively, posi-lutely nothing to do with you, Charlie.”

“Huh?”

Damaris did that funny thing with her face again. She smiled.

When Free came
back to school the next day, he found himself part of a trio. He didn’t get to vote on it, but that was okay. He liked Damaris. She seemed to be smart like Dyamonde. Plus, she was almost as tall as he was.

Dyamonde didn’t mind being the short one. She made up for
it by having the biggest mouth. When it came to talking, nobody could beat her!

The three friends sat together at lunch, did homework together, picked each other for games and made trips to the library together. They visited each other at home too. Except they never went to the shelter with Damaris. There wasn’t any space for visitors there, plus Damaris never invited them.

Free didn’t know anything about Damaris living in the shelter, so he wondered why she never invited them home. Which
is why, one day at the library, he leaned across the table and asked, “Damaris, how come you never invite us to your house? You ashamed of us or something?”

Damaris jumped back, stinging from Free’s question. It was too close to the truth. She
was
ashamed of something: where she lived. Dyamonde was mad at Free for bringing it up.

She kicked him under the table. Hard.

“Ouch!” said Free. “Whaddya do that for? I was just joking.”

“Shhhh!” said Dyamonde in a
loud whisper. “We’re in the library, and we have to be quiet. Don’t you know anything?”

Free was confused. They’d talked in the library lots of times. He was about to say that, but Dyamonde gave him her don’t-you-even-think-about-it look, so he kept his mouth shut.

When Free was done with his book report, he headed home and left the girls to themselves. Which was perfect. Dyamonde had a private invitation just for Damaris.

“Hey, you want to spend the
night at my house on Friday? On Saturday mornings, my mom makes the yummiest pancakes on the planet.”

“Fantasmic!” said Damaris. “I’ll ask my mom.”

Dyamonde woke up
happy the next Saturday. She hadn’t had a friend spend the night since she left Brooklyn.

Damaris seemed to have a good time too, at first. She liked helping Dyamonde set the table. She laughed when Dyamonde made gagging sounds the minute
Mrs. Daniel spooned brussels sprouts on their plates. She liked playing Monopoly. She really liked joining Dyamonde against Mrs. Daniel in a game of gin rummy, especially when they won and got extra ice cream for dessert. But the next morning, Damaris seemed sad. Dyamonde noticed it over breakfast.

“Are your pancakes okay?” asked Dyamonde. Damaris nodded yes.

“What’s wrong, then?” asked Dyamonde.

Damaris shrugged. She poured
more syrup on her pancakes and diced them into tiny pieces before finally putting one in her mouth. Dyamonde always did that when she wanted to make food last longer.

Is that what she’s doing?
wondered Dyamonde.

“My mom can make lots more pancakes if you want,” said Dyamonde.

Damaris nodded and kept chewing slower than slow.

“Aren’t these pancakes the best?” asked Dyamonde.

“Honey,” said Mrs. Daniel,
“leave the child alone and let her eat in peace.”

Dyamonde sighed and went back to working on her own stack of blueberry pancake heaven. She was licking her fingers when Damaris said, “I wish—I wish I could stay here. I wish I didn’t have to go back to that shelter.”

That’s why she’s sad,
thought Dyamonde.

A tear slid down the girl’s cheek. Dyamonde ran over to her friend and hugged her so tight, Damaris felt like the middle of a love sandwich.

“Come here, honey,” said Mrs. Daniel, prying Damaris loose. “Let’s get that face of yours cleaned up.”

While Mrs. Daniel led Damaris to the bathroom, Dyamonde cleared the table and washed the breakfast dishes. In a few minutes, Damaris was at the door, face scrubbed, ready to say good-bye.

“Wait up,” said Dyamonde. “I’ll walk you.”

Dyamonde left Damaris
at the entrance to the shelter and said a quick good-bye. She was feeling as sad as her friend now. What made her especially sad was that she couldn’t give her friend a new place to live. She couldn’t give her back all her clothes and toys. Even
so, Dyamonde kept thinking,
There must be something I can do.

Dyamonde walked past Second Time Around and spotted something in the store’s window.

“That’s it!” said Dyamonde.

She doubled back to the entrance, ducked inside and headed straight for the book aisle.

Dyamonde started looking.

Biographies. Fairy Tales. Science Fiction.

“There!” said Dyamonde.

Poetry.

Dyamonde flipped through
several titles until she found one she liked.

“Perfect!” said Dyamonde.

“Hello there,” said the cash register lady. “Haven’t seen you in a while. What have you got there?”

“Poetry,” said Dyamonde.

“Well, that’s a first. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you buy a book here before.”

“It’s for my friend,” said Dyamonde.

“Oh! Well, I hope she likes it.”

“Me too,” said Dyamonde. “Me too.”

•    •    •

The following Monday, Dyamonde got to school early. She wrote a note, slipped it inside the poetry book and left both on the chair where Damaris sat. That way, she’d be sure to see the book, first thing.

As the class filled up, Dyamonde kept her eye on the book to make sure no one else took it by mistake. Once Damaris got to her seat and found the book, Dyamonde relaxed. But only a little. She was still nervous about the choice, seeing as how poetry was not her thing, and she didn’t
know if Damaris would think the book was any good.

What if she doesn’t like it?
thought Dyamonde.
What if I picked the wrong one?
She should like the title, though.

The book was called
Honey, I Love,
by Eloise Greenfield. Dyamonde remembered Mrs. Cordell saying this author was really special.

Dyamonde crossed her fingers and watched Damaris scan a few pages of the book. Dyamonde held her breath until Damaris looked her way. She was smiling.
Then she read Dyamonde’s note and smiled even more.

After class, Damaris rushed up to Dyamonde.

“How did you know?” she asked, her eyes gleaming.

“How did I know what?” asked Dyamonde.

“That Eloise Greenfield is my favorite poet!”

Dyamonde felt all tingly. “She is?”

Damaris nodded so hard, Dyamonde thought her head would fall off.

“Wow,” said Dyamonde, speechless for once.

“Before we lost our house, I had copies of every single book she ever wrote,” said Damaris. “But now…”

Dyamonde noticed a sudden sadness pulling down the corners of her friend’s mouth.

“I know what,” said Dyamonde,
thinking quickly. “One Saturday, you can join me and Free when we go treasure hunting. Maybe we can find another Eloise Greenfield book for not too much money in the same place where I found this one.”

Damaris managed to smile again.

“Yeah?”

“Why not?” said Dyamonde. “But right now, we better get some lunch, ’cause I’m about to chew off my own arm, I’m so hungry.”

Damaris slipped her new “old” copy of
Honey, I Love
into her backpack and followed the amazing Dyamonde Daniel out of the room.

Dyamonde opened
the news-paper to the Kids’ Page.

Oh, geez,
thought Dyamonde.
I’ll never hear the end of it.

Free’s poem made it to the Sunday paper. He chose to write about nature. Sort of. His poem was titled “Give a Pigeon a Break.” Dyamonde read the
title and laughed out loud. Then she noticed the poem at the top of the page, written by Damaris. It had won first prize! And why wouldn’t it? After all, Damaris had taken Dyamonde’s wonderful advice to write about home. Dyamonde could barely stop patting herself on the back long enough to cut out the poem and tape it to the fridge. She was thrilled for Damaris.

R
ICH
by D
AMARIS
D
ANCER