For the past few days, I’ve stopped eating lunch in the cafeteria. I keep hoping Mabley will say something to me about it—we still ride together in the morning. But sometimes we don’t even talk at the bus stop. She has a lot of friends; she doesn’t seem to care who she sits next to. Sometimes she says to me, “See you at lunch,” as we drift off in separate directions in the hallway. But then on the bus ride home she doesn’t mention it. She always has a lot of things to talk about at the end of the day, mostly with other kids.

Mom mentions it, though. Some of the teachers take their breaks outside, or they drive somewhere for lunch, and once she sees me eating my salami sandwich by myself on the picnic table under the big pecan tree. It’s getting cooler, so I keep my jacket on and eat quickly.

She leaves the other teachers and walks over to me. “Hey, Ben. Everything okay?”

“Hey, Mom. Sure. Why?”

“I mean, you’re sitting out here by yourself. It’s kind of cold.”

It’s weird how easy it is not to tell her stuff. “I guess I wanted some fresh air.”

“Well,” she says, “if you’re going to eat lunch outside, you need to wrap up a little warmer when you leave the house.”

Later that night, over dinner, Mom asks me: “Do you have any friends?”

Granma has cooked chicken-fried steak with gravy and mashed potatoes. I always seem to be hungry these days. Anyway, it makes Granma happy to watch me eat.

“Leave him alone,” she says. “He’s doing fine.”

“I know he is.” Mom is using her teacher voice. “He’s doing great. But I just want to know what’s going on. I don’t see you hanging out much with the other kids in your grade.”

We always eat supper in the kitchen, which has a bright yellow table that’s big enough for four people. If Granma has something in the oven, she can check on it without getting up from her seat. Tonight she’s baking an apple pie for dessert—I can smell it.

“What would you count as a friend?” I ask. For some reason, I feel pretty angry with Mom. I mean, she’s the one who made us come to Texas. She’s the one Dad walked out on. Maybe it’s just because we have to sleep in the same room, because she teaches at my school. I need a little space.

She looks at me, surprised. “What do you mean?”

“You asked me if I had any friends, and I want to know what counts.”

“A friend is somebody,” she starts to say, and then stops. “I’m not asking you to keep score.”

“A friend is somebody,” Granma interrupts, “when you don’t have to wonder whether they’re a friend or not.”

I have to think about this for a minute. “There are kids I talk to.”

“When I saw you at lunch today,” Mom says, “you were eating by yourself.”