“Really? But living above the bookstore is the best thing ever.”

“Other kids thought it was weird.”

Dorothy tugged at her braid. “Kids at school think I’m weird, too, because I live in two places and Dad’s house is with his bandmates.”

“That’s not weird. That’s cool. Way cooler than a bookstore.”

“Did your friends say stuff about you?” asked Dorothy.

“Sure. Questions like ‘Where’s your dad?’ And ‘Why don’t you have a car?’ And even though I should have ignored them, I had a hard time doing that. Now I kind of wish I hadn’t let their opinions matter so much.” She wondered if it had bothered her mother to see her so concerned about what other people thought. “Do your friends say things?”

“Not really. It isn’t PC anymore. At our school, we embrace diversity. But I get those looks, you know?”

Natalie did know. Those condescending, too-bad-you’re-not-like-me looks. “When I was your age and kids said stuff, my mom would tell me something from her favorite book—‘It’s never an insult to be called what somebody thinks is a bad name. It just shows you how poor that person is, it doesn’t hurt you.’ That’s from To Kill a Mockingbird.” She showed Dorothy a copy of the book. And I’m turning into my mother, she thought.

“Let’s see if we can figure out a book your friend might actually like.” She went to the shelf of middle-grade readers and briefly studied the selection. Then she plucked a copy of Wish Upon a Sleepover from the shelf. “This is about a sleepover party that gets all mixed up. The girl in the book makes a list of all the people she doesn’t want at her party, but they accidentally get invited instead of the ones she wanted.”

Dorothy perked up. “Oh, and then what happens?”

“Your friend will have to read the story to find out, but I promise it’s a good one. Even for kids who don’t like to read.”

“Okay. I’ll give it a try.”

“Great! How about I gift wrap it for you?”

“Good idea. Thanks, Natalie.” Dorothy’s worried expression softened with relief. She cast a look around. “Where’s Mr. Harper?”

“He’s in bed, probably reading. He’s been really tired lately. Would you like to say hi?”

Dorothy nodded. “Sure.”

They went and knocked on his door.

“Come in.” Grandy’s voice was thin, like the creak of a rusty hinge. When he saw Dorothy, his wizened face lit with a smile. “Hello, my dear. What are you about today?”

In exhaustive detail, Dorothy related the saga of Whitney Gaines. Grandy listened with his usual patient attention. “Fetch me that box from the table,” he said.

Dorothy brought him the box. “Your typewriter keys?”

“Perhaps you could share a favorite letter or two with your friend.”