Free The Lost Songs by Caroline B. Cooney Page B

porches.
    “Lutie, honey,” cried Miss Elminah. “You look beautiful, darlin’. Give me some sugar.” They exchanged kisses and hugs.
    Lutie wondered how to introduce Doria. She could say, This is my friend.
    Being friends with Doria would be like adopting a stray dog. A dog with outstanding ability and training, to be sure, but Lutie didn’t want a pet, let alone one that needed as much feeding, walking and grooming as Doria. So Lutie said brightly, “This is Doria Bell, who plays the piano for concert choir and is in my AP chemistry class.” Lutie always liked to throw in that Advanced Placement stuff. It was an excuse for studying, that waste of time that required a defense.
    “Doria,” repeated Miss Veola, in the lingering way she had with names, as if she’d been hoping somebody named Doria would come by. “Doria, I’m so glad to meet you. Have some tea, honey. Sit right down and visit with us. This is my dear friend, Miss Elminah. Miss Elminah is ninety-one years old this week.”
    “How do you do?” said Doria.
    “And I am four!” called one of the Waitlee boys, raising fat little fingers.
    Doria knelt in the wet grass beside him. “I love the number four,” she confided, and the little boy understood, and they squatted there, enjoying the number four.

    Doria felt like a chorus member in an opera production. The curtain had closed on the stage, which had been set with fine brick mansions and prim little trees. Scene two featured grimy little houses hardly bigger than walk-in closets. Each tiny chain-linked yard had its plastic chairs and children’s toys scattered under shade trees. One house had chickens.
    People flowed down the street, up front steps, betweenhouses and through open, banging doors. It was like school during passing periods: everybody on their way someplace else, and everybody talking, to each other or on their cell phones, or both.
    Sound splashed: conversation in every pitch, from bass men to piccolo-high babies. Music poured from car radios and boom boxes. TVs played inside houses, but who was watching? They were all outside. The choreography of their movements was the opera chorus about to gather and burst into song.
    Miss Veola’s house was a brown square, featuring an open front porch with two steps up and no railings. The edges were lined with potted plants, mostly orange and yellow marigolds, with a smattering of zinnias. Molded plastic chairs faced the red clay road. Each chair had a tiny table. Some of the tables were upended tins that had once held pretzels.
    The four-year-old went back to his toy truck and Doria stood up. She had not developed a taste for sweet tea, or any cold tea, for that matter, but she took the glass Miss Veola offered and sipped. “Thank you,” she said.
    “And have a lemon bar, honey,” said Miss Elminah. “I bake the best lemon bars in Court Hill.”
    “Probably in America,” said Lutie, popping the lid off a plastic container and offering it to Doria.
    Inside were little squares, very yellow, with powdered-sugar topping. Doria bit into one. It was way too sugary, but also way too tart, and the combination was delicious. It made her mouth shiver.
    The two old women and Lutie chatted. They seemed to know everything there was to know about each other. The warm voices, the hot sun and the sweet tea brought Doria down. She wanted to be in another state, another town and street, where she too knew everything about everyone.
    But now she couldn’t even enjoy homesickness. She did notknow Nell and Steph anymore. She had only been gone three months, and already she was more of a chore to them than a friend. What if they shrugged her off as easily as they had shrugged off violin and horn?
    Doria held the glass of tea to her mouth to hide her trembling chin.
    Miss Elminah patted her knee. “We are so proud of our Lutie. She is just the finest student. Why, her MeeMaw, Miss Eunice, would be dancing with joy. Doria, honey, do you love school as