Raymie Nightingale by Kate DiCamillo

wouldn’t work.
    “Um,” she said. “Her name was Mrs. Borkowski. She lived across the street from us, and when she laughed, you could see all the teeth in her mouth.”
    “That’s nice,” said Louisiana. She patted Raymie’s hand. “How many teeth did she have?”
    “A lot,” said Raymie. “All of them, I guess. I cut her toenails for her because she couldn’t reach her feet. She paid me in divinity.”
    “What’s divinity?” asked Louisiana.
    “It’s candy. It kind of looks like a cloud, and it doesn’t taste like anything. It’s just really, really sweet. Sometimes Mrs. Borkowski put walnuts on top of it.”
    “It sounds wonderful,” said Louisiana. She sighed. “I’m very fond of sugar. And I think it’s a good idea to put nuts on top of things, don’t you?”
    “Mrs. Borkowski knew the answer to everything,” said Raymie.
    “Well, that is just like Granny. She knows the answer to everything, too.” Louisiana pulled on the velvet curtain, and another galaxy of dust rose up and swirled around them.
    Raymie stared at the dancing particles.
    “Phhhhtttt,” she heard Mrs. Borkowski say, even though Mrs. Borkowski was dead.
    And then Raymie thought: What if every piece of dust was a planet, and what if every planet was full of people, and what if all the people on all the planets had souls and were just like Raymie — trying to flex their toes and make sense out of things and not really succeeding very much?
    It was a terrifying thought.
    “I’m so hungry,” said Louisiana. “I’m hungry all the time. Granny says that I’m a bottomless pit. She says that I’m going to eat us out of house and home. And that’s why I have to win the Little Miss Central Florida Tire 1975 contest, so that we won’t starve.”
    “My father left,” said Raymie.
    “What did you say?” said Louisiana.
    “My father is gone.”
    “But where did he go?” said Louisiana. She looked around the Finch Auditorium as if Raymie’s father were there somewhere — hiding under a table or behind a curtain.
    “He ran away with a dental hygienist,” said Raymie.
    “That’s the person who cleans your teeth,” said Louisiana.
    “Yes,” said Raymie.
    Louisiana patted Raymie on the back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”
    “I was going to try and get him back,” said Raymie. “I was going to try and win the contest and get my picture in the paper, and I thought that would bring him back.”
    “It would be nice to get your picture in the paper,” said Louisiana. “He would be proud of you.”
    “I don’t think that it will work,” said Raymie. “I don’t think any of it will work.”
    Just as she said these terrible words, a scuffle erupted around the food table.
    Raymie heard Louisiana’s grandmother shout, “Unhand me, sir!”
    “Hey, now,” said someone else. “Let’s just stay calm.”
    “Uh-oh,” said Louisiana.
    And then Louisiana’s grandmother said, “I am uncertain exactly what you are implying, but I can assure you that I do not care for the implication, whatever it is.” And then she said in an even louder voice, “Louisiana! The time has come for us to depart.”
    “I think I have to go,” said Louisiana.
    She stood up and patted Raymie on the back, and then she looked her in the eye and said, “I want to tell you something.”
    “Okay,” said Raymie.
    “I am very glad to know you,” said Louisiana.
    “I’m glad to know you, too,” said Raymie.
    “And I wanted to tell you that no matter what, I’m here and you’re here and we’re here together.” Louisiana waved her left arm through the air as if she were doing a magic trick and had just conjured up the whole of the Finch — the velvet curtains and the old piano and the green-and-white-tiled floor.
    “Okay,” said Raymie. She flexed her toes. Her feet felt slightly less numb.
    “I’ll see you tomorrow at baton-twirling lessons,” said Louisiana. “But in the meantime, I think