All Alone in the Universe by Lynne Rae Perkins

time?”
    “Nope,” I said. But just saying nope didn‧t seem like very polite conversation, so I added, “Maureen has this other friend now. She‧s probably doing something with her.”
    “I see,” said George. “A previous engagement”
    “I guess so,” I said.
    “Too bad,” said George. “She‧s missing the roses. Maybe next time.”
    “Maybe,” I said. “But probably not She does things with this other friend practically all the time now. So I-” I stopped.
    “I—” I tried again. “I‧m—” The tears were right there, ready to pour out if I said another word.
    “You‧re all alone in the universe?” George suggested helpfully.
    His voice was gentle and kind, and when I looked at him, his face was solemn. So the only way I can explain what happened next, which is that we both burst out laughing, is that sometimes laughing and crying are almost the same thing. They‧re not all that far apart sometimes. I was laughing and crying both, and then I started to hiccup, too.
    As I was trying to catch my breath, I said, “I came here to cry in the roses.”
    “Looks like you got what you came for,” said George. “One way or t‧other.”
    “What‧s everyone laughing about?” asked Mrs. Martha Brown, who was back with a tray full of napkins, sparkling silver, frosted glasses of iced tea, and delicate china.
    “Debbie is alone in the universe,” said George.
    Mrs. Brown smiled. “That always makes me laugh, too,” she said. She set the tray on a low wall nearby and gracefully moved its contents onto the shady glass tabletop. After sitting down, she sprinkled powdered sugar over her blueberries, then poured thick cream on top. She put a spoonful in her mouth. She closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head slowly.
    “Magnificent,” she pronounced. “The most magnificent blueberries I have ever tasted. Tell me what you think.”
    She sat waiting for us to try them. The mountains of blueberries waited, too, dusky, round, and bluish purple in the porcelain bowls. Why did they look so odd? Then I knew.
    “Are these raw?” I asked.
    Mrs. Brown lowered her spoon. “Fresh,” she corrected me. She looked at me curiously and said, “Don‧t tell me you‧ve never had fresh blueberries.”
    “I don‧t think I have,” I said. “Only in pie. And pancakes.”
    “You don‧t say,” she said in wonderment. “Well, here.” She reached over and sprinkled my blueberries with the sugar and poured the cream over them. “Try that,” she said.
    “I don‧t think I‧ve ever had real cream before either,” I said.
    She looked over at George and said, “This country really is falling to pieces, isn‧t it?”
    “In a handbasket,” he said.
    “I‧ve had iced tea,” I said.
    Mrs. Brown chuckled. “All is not lost then,” she said.
    I tried a spoonful of the raw fruit and milk. It seemed like a weird idea, but it would have been bad manners to refuse.
    The taste was incredible. I closed my eyes for a moment. I shook my head slowly and said, “Magnificent.” I wasn‧t trying to copy Mrs. Brown; it was just all there was to say. Suddenly I wondered if the huge bowl of berries would be enough. Then I wondered if everything rich people had was better than what regular people had.
    “Are blueberries expensive?” I asked.
    “A little,” answered Mrs. Brown. “But I think an occasional bowl of blueberries is within the reach of most people. A small compensation for being alone in the universe. Which, by the way, you aren‧t, you know.”
    “I know,” I said.
    “I‧m here,” said George. “At least I think I am. Though sometimes it‧s open to question.”
    Mrs. Brown‧s smile held traces of pink lipstick. There was a sort of light blond peach fuzz on her tanned face, and her blue eyes were calm and thoughtful when she turned them my way.
    “But tell me, Debbie,” she said, “what is it that‧s making you feel so lonely today? Can you tell us?”
    I hesitated. What was I even