The One Hundredth Thing About Caroline by Lois Lowry

explained that that was the correct way to serve wine. Caroline planned to remember that the entire rest of her life so that she would never do it wrong.
    At her own place, as well as Stacy's, across the table, there was a tall glass of ice-cold milk.
    It was so different, Caroline thought, from her own house, where they ate dinner at the kitchen table because they had no dining room. J.P. always bolted his food with disgusting manners, because he was always in a hurry to get back to some project in his room. And Joanna Tate, Caroline's mother, was always tired and apologetic. Tired from work. Apologetic for the food.
    "What's this?" Caroline had asked one night, poking suspiciously at a casserole.
    "It's called Seafood Surprise," said her mother.
    That sounded okay. Caroline spooned a big helping onto her plate. "What's the surprise?" she asked. "Why is it called Seafood Surprise?"
    "Well, ah," her mother answered, beginning to sound apologetic, "it's because when you think 'seafood' you probably think of shrimp, lobster, scallops, right?"
    "Right," said Caroline, with a forkful halfway to her mouth.
    "Well, surprise!" said Joanna Tate. "It's all tuna fish!"'
    "Oh," said Caroline sadly. By then she could tell it was all tuna fish. It was in her mouth.
    "I'm sorry," said her mother.
    "It's okay," Caroline had said. "Tuna fish isn't that bad."
    At the Baurichters', nothing would ever be called
"Surprise." From the kitchen door, the maid appeared with a tray, and carefully she placed a shrimp cocktail at each place.
    I have died, thought Caroline, and gone to heaven. Shrimp cocktail. Even when her family went to dinner in a restaurant, which they did now and then for a special occasion, she could never order shrimp cocktail, because it always cost something like $6.00. She was allowed to order it only if she didn't have a main course.
    Happily she speared her first shrimp, after waiting to be certain that Mrs. Baurichter had picked up her fork. Heaven.
    "Tate," said Mr. Baurichter suddenly.
    "What?" said Caroline with her mouth full. It was startling, to be called "Tate" by Stacy's father, who was wearing a three-piece suit and looked very distinguished. Sometimes Stacy called her "Tate," or some of her other friends, yelling across the school grounds: "Hey, Tate! Wait up!"
    "Tate," he said again. Apparently he was only thinking about the name. "I don't think we know any Tates, do we, Helen?"
    "I can't recall any," murmured Mrs. Baurichter.
    "Of course there's the Tate Gallery," Mr. Baurichter said, wiping his mouth with the pale blue napkin. "Does your family have any connection with the Tate Gallery, in London, Caroline?"
    "I don't think so," said Caroline.
    "Did Stacy tell me you live on the West Side?"
    "Yes. I take the crosstown bus to school," said Caroline politely.
    Mrs. Baurichter wiped her mouth and placed her knife and fork on her plate. Caroline couldn't believe it. She had eaten only two shrimp. She was
leaving
shrimp uneaten. "You're fortunate to live on the West Side," said Mrs. Baurichter. "Many creative people live over there. Musicians, writers; I imagine you have many fascinating neighbors."
    "A violin player lives in my building," Caroline told her.
    "Really?" asked Mrs. Baurichter with interest. "Whom does he play with?"
    Panic. Caroline thought as hard as she could about Mr. DeVito. As far as she knew, he was the only violin player at the Little Hungary Cafe.
    "He's a soloist," she said finally.
    "No one will ever measure up to Oistrakh," said Mr. Baurichter firmly. "At least not in the Sibelius Concerto."
    "Well, it's all a matter of preference," said Mrs. Baurichter. "What does your father do, Caroline?"
    "Well, ah, he's in sporting goods," Caroline said, and ate another shrimp.
    "That's interesting," said Stacy's father. "I play a lot of squash, myself. Does your father—"
    "He lives in Des Moines," Caroline explained hastily. "My parents are divorced, and I live with my mother. My mother works in a