Chapter Text
“Hi, Anne!”
The girl waved with a shy smile:
“Hi, Dickon. How are you doing today?”
Anne Neville was a gentle girl, and knew what it was to have ups and downs following a crisis in the family: her own father had endured a battle with lung cancer a few years ago, and while he was in remission and doing well now, she could remember some hard days during his illness. She could understand that her friend was having a rough time with his father's death and second-eldest brother's hospitalization.
“I'm... better than most days, to be honest.”
“That's good,” she smiled, reaching out to squeeze his hand, “things will get better, Dickon. I promise you, they will.”
They went their separate ways to class, but he couldn't think of anything besides her smile and was scolded by his teacher for daydreaming in class. He buckled down and finished his assignments, waiting and praying for the lunch bell to ring soon.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the familiar sound signaled time for a meal and recess. Two things were on Dickon's mind:
I hope lunch is mozzarella sticks today.
and
I hope Anne will sit at my table again.
The last week or so, he hadn't been able to find her in the cafeteria at lunchtime, and he was unsure why. They'd been sitting together since Pre-K snack-time gave way to elementary school lunch, and then she'd suddenly vanished from the table without warning or cause.
He was hungry, so he went straight to the line instead of looking for her again: as he'd hoped, it was the mozzarella breadsticks. He allowed himself a little grin: lunch today was clearly going to go well.
He searched the entire cafeteria to find Anne, but couldn't spot her. That is, until he saw an unpleasantly familiar well-dressed, tow-headed boy scooting over to make room for her to sit. He gritted his teeth, trying not to let his disappointment show:
Edward Lancaster, you big meanie. Anne is my best friend and my crush.
Suddenly, mozzarella sticks didn't sound good anymore. He just wanted to run and hide and cry. But he was a brave boy, and brave boys didn't run and hide and cry when things didn't go their way. So he sat down all alone a few tables away, and ate his lunch in silence: once, Anne looked over at him, almost apologetically. He looked down at his food, avoiding eye contact: she'd chosen a side of the long-running political family feud, a side that wasn't his, and he wouldn't bother her anymore if she didn't want to hang out with him. So he ignored her until the end of the school day, when she came up and spoke to him, quietly and gently, as he sat on a bench by the door, waiting for his mom to come pick him up:
“I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings at lunchtime. It's just that Edward Lancaster fancies me, or says he does anyway, and insists I should sit with him.”
“He should get over it, then,” he said dejectedly, still fighting back tears, “'cause he has a whole crowd of friends, and I only have you.”
She frowned and sat down beside him, putting an arm around his shoulders:
“Look at me, Dickon: if it makes you feel less lonely, I'll sit with you instead. Besides, I don't like him, anyway. I like you.”
When she glanced around to make sure no one saw, then gave him a peck on the cheek, his heart soared.