Free The Friendship Doll by Kirby Larson

to do.
    Her step and heart lighter, Lois found herself in the innermost room of the warrenlike exhibition hall. The other rooms had been chockablock with dolls of every sort and type. But this final, small chamber held only one doll. And Lois was its only visitor. She stepped closer to read the placard next to the doll. “Miss Kanagawa.” All the way from Japan! Jeepers! This Miss Kanagawa doll was one of the prettiest in the exhibit. Its silky hair was the color of the strands of jet Aunt Eunice wore around her neck.
    Miss Kanagawa had fifty-seven sisters, according to the placard, all of them “Ambassador Dolls” sent in hopes of improving Japanese and U.S. relations. Lois wondered how they could do that when they couldn’t even talk, except maybe to say “Mama.”

    Oh, the impertinent little imp.
One
of the prettiest dolls, she thinks! And questioning my ability to be an ambassador, to boot.
    But I must remember that she is only a child, after all. Lacking my wisdom. My understanding of the world. She does not yet realize the importance of helping others, as I do.
    Even if the others are ill-mannered and poorly dressed.

    Around the doll’s feet on the display stand were marvelous miniatures—a small teapot, a dainty parasol, a folded screen painted with a mountain scene. Mabel would’ve loved these. Lois stepped closer to get a better look. From here, she could see that Miss Kanagawa’s eyes were dark, like hers, but shaped like the almonds Mom ground to make her special tea cookies. When she used to make them, that is.
    The eyes looked so real, Lois had the sense that the doll was looking back at her. Lois blinked. Twice. But that feeling was still there.
    “You’re giving me the willies,” she said. Even when she used to play with dolls, way back when, she never actually talked to them. There was a clock on the wall behind the doll’s case. “It’s been twenty minutes,” Lois said. “That should be enough time to spend with these dumb old dolls.”
    As soon as the words left her lips, she felt a pain. She rubbed at it. Maybe the lemonade had been too sour. But the discomfort wasn’t in her stomach. It was higher up, behind her sternum, and it felt like someone was poking her with something—like that doll’s parasol or something. Whatever it was, it didn’t feel good.

    I don’t understand why so many of these American children gnaw their fingernails like mice gnaw rice kernels. It is most perplexing. And most unbecoming. I could overlook that, Isuppose. And her shabby dress. But her manners! I simply can’t abide it when someone thinks herself better than others. “Dumb old dolls” indeed. Does she think we are less important because we are not human? Master Tatsuhiko himself created me. Humph. I have half a mind to let her carry out her selfish decision.
    But how much more satisfying it will be if this “dumb” doll teaches this child a lesson!
    All in the name of friendship and goodwill, of course.

    Lois leaned her head against the doll’s display case. Once, when she had nearly fainted at Cousin Catherine’s wedding, Mom had told her to take long, even, deep breaths. Maybe that would help now. She tried.
    It didn’t.
    She looked up and found herself eye to eye with the doll. It was as if those eyes were movie screens, shimmering with images that slowly flickered into focus. Lois couldn’t tear her gaze away.
    She was looking back at the first day of grade school. She’d forgotten her lunch. And there was Mabel saying, “I’ve got egg salad. Would you like half?” The scene shifted forward in time to show Mabel, cross-legged, doing some kind of hand sewing. She was making a sash, for Lois, who’d been voted Queen of the May for the third-grade pageant. Mabel stitched on felt letters that spelled out “Queen Lois.” The scene changed again and now Lois saw her as she was a few days ago, flopped on her stomachon the bed, poring over the fair pamphlet. She heard Mabel say, “Now,