“Come,” said Mrs. O’Brien. “You have to look at something. Before it’s gone.” She steered Amelia to the window above the sink where the sky was streaked with pink and orange, colors as bright as sherbet.

“Pretty,” said Amelia.

“Isn’t it?” said Mrs. O’Brien. “So lovely.” She took Amelia’s hand and squeezed it until it hurt.

“Perfection,” said Amelia’s father, who’d appeared out of nowhere, startling them both. With his usual stiffness, he put one hand on Amelia’s shoulder and the other on Mrs. O’Brien’s. The three of them stood there, gazing out the window. “They don’t make skies like this in Florida,” he said evenly.

Of course, they do, thought Amelia, but she didn’t say a word. Her father couldn’t get the best of her today. She was still happy from the day before, content with the world. At that moment, she loved everyone.

Mrs. O’Brien’s mouth was pursed as if to speak; she remained silent, but she looked right at Amelia, dismissing the Professor’s comment with a flick of her hand. Then she said, “I’ll make the two of you a beautiful breakfast.”

And she did.

Afterward Amelia helped Mrs. O’Brien prepare for the guests to arrive. She stacked plates, folded napkins, and set out mugs. She arranged slices of coffee cake on a platter. She filled one basket with scones and another with muffins.

The guests—Mrs. O’Brien’s friends—would always fuss over Amelia as soon as they showed up. They’d coo about her sculptures; they’d ask her what she was reading; they’d admire her “pretty red hair.” It was as if each of them was one of her many grandmothers and she was the favorite grandchild.

Funny, Amelia felt more at home with these perfumy, friendly old women than she did with girls her own age. Was that strange?

When the food was ready, Amelia looked through the books Mrs. O’Brien had spread out on the coffee table. Emily Dickinson was the poet to be discussed. Mrs. O’Brien had put together a mini-library—there were biographies, books of poems, even a few children’s books. Some of the books had Post-it notes marking certain pages. Amelia picked up a well-worn paperback that had several Post-it notes sticking out of it.

Earlier that school year, Amelia had studied Emily Dickinson in Ms. Noggle’s English class. Amelia had memorized the poem that began, “I’m Nobody! Who are you? / Are you–Nobody–Too?”

She’d so identified with that poem, and when she’d learned of Emily Dickinson’s introverted, reclusive life, and of her eccentric tendency to wear only white dresses, her fondness for her deepened. She felt she understood her. She even imagined that if by some trick of time they’d been classmates, they would have been friends.

At one point in class, Lindy Tussler had raised her hand and said, “I think Emily Dickinson was a freak. Simple as that.”

“No she’s not!” said Amelia, without thinking. “She’s brilliant!”

“You two would have been a perfect couple,” said Lindy, lowering her voice. “A freaky, weirdo couple.”