Free Raymie Nightingale by Kate DiCamillo Page B

with the shiny black purse was nodding at everything her mother said.
    Raymie wanted to hear Mrs. Borkowski laugh.
    She wanted to hear her say “Phhhhtttt.”
    Raymie didn’t think that she had ever felt so lonely in her life. And then she heard someone say, “Oh, my goodness.”
    Raymie turned and there was Louisiana Elefante. And next to Louisiana was Louisiana’s grandmother, who was wearing a fur coat even though it was summertime.
    Louisiana’s grandmother had a tissue in her hand, and she waved it back and forth in front of her face and said to no one in particular, “I am positively prostrate with grief.”
    “I’m prostrate with grief, too,” said Louisiana. She was staring at the table full of food.
    Both Louisiana and her grandmother had lots of bunny barrettes in their hair.
    Louisiana.
    Louisiana Elefante.
    Raymie had never been so glad to see anyone in her life. “Louisiana,” she whispered.
    “Raymie!” shouted Louisiana. She smiled a very big smile and opened her arms wide, and Raymie walked toward her, stepping on both white tiles and green tiles. She didn’t care anymore. She stepped on all the tiles because bad things happened all the time, no matter what color tile you stepped on.
    Louisiana put her arms around Raymie.
    Raymie let go of Florence Nightingale. The book hit the floor and made a sound like someone clapping their hands together.
    Raymie started to cry. “Mrs. Borkowski is dead,” she said. “Mrs. Borkowski is dead.”

“Shhhh,” said Louisiana. She patted Raymie on the back. “I’m so sorry for your loss. That’s what you’re supposed to say at funeral gatherings. And it’s true, too. I’m sorry for your loss.”
    Raymie heard the squeaky sound of air entering and exiting Louisiana’s swampy lungs.
    “I like the words ‘I’m sorry for your loss,’” said Louisiana, still holding on to Raymie. “I think that they are good words. You could say them to anyone at any time. Why, you could say them to me, and it would apply to Archie or to my parents.”
    Raymie hiccuped. “I’m sorry for your loss,” she repeated.
    “There, there,” said Louisiana. “You just keep crying.” Her lungs squeaked and her bunny barrettes made clicking sounds each time she patted Raymie’s back.
    Up on the stage, someone started to play “Chopsticks” on the piano.
    Raymie would have thought that there would be no comfort to be had from someone as insubstantial as Louisiana holding her, but it was actually very comforting, even with all the barrette clicking and lung wheezing.
    Raymie held tight to Louisiana. She hiccuped a second time. She closed her eyes and opened them again. She saw Louisiana’s grandmother standing at the food table with a gigantic bunch of green grapes in her hand. She watched as the grandmother slid the grapes into her purse. And then Louisiana’s grandmother put a handful of crackers in the pocket of her fur coat.
    Louisiana’s grandmother was stealing food from Mrs. Borkowski’s memorial food table!
    The piano playing got louder. Raymie held on to Louisiana and looked around the room. Her mother was standing in a corner with her arms folded. She was listening to someone talk. She was nodding her head.
    Louisiana’s grandmother put an entire block of orange cheese into her purse.
    Raymie felt dizzy.
    “I feel dizzy,” she said.
    Louisiana let go of Raymie. She bent down and picked Florence Nightingale up off the floor. “Come here,” she said. And she led Raymie by the hand to the stage and pushed aside one of the red curtains. A galaxy of dust rose up into the air and floated around their heads. The dust looked as if it were celebrating something.
    “Now, sit down,” said Louisiana. She pointed at the stage steps. Raymie sat. “You just tell me everything you know about Mrs. Boralucky.”
    “Borkowski,” said Raymie.
    “That too,” said Louisiana. “Tell me.”
    Raymie looked down at her hands.
    She tried to flex her toes, but they still