Dicey's Song by Cynthia Voigt

after which we will talk about the conferences.”
    â€œWere they bad?” Maybeth asked.
    There were good things and bad things,” Gram acknowledged. “But there was nothing that made me regret you living here with me.” The children exchanged pleased glances, and Sammy’s face (Dicey noticed) was flushed with pleasure. “I was proud to go in and say, I’m Sammy Tillerman’s grandmother or Maybeth’s or James’s.”
    Dicey bit on her lower lip. What Gram would say about Dicey’s home ec grade — she was almost sorry she hadn’t tried harder in the class, if it mattered to Gram.
    â€œIs that all right with you, Dicey?” Gram said.
    â€œSure, if you want to,” Dicey said.
    â€œWe’ll take the bus up to Salisbury, where there’s a mall,” Gram said.
    â€œI like bus rides,” Sammy volunteered.
    â€œWell, I don’t,” Gram said.
    APPARENTLY, Dicey thought from her seat by the window that Saturday morning, Gram meant exactly what she said. Gram sat straight and stiff beside Dicey. She was wearing her blue suit and a white blouse, tucked in. She carried a purse and had put on her loafers, with stockings. Gram wasn’t planning to enjoy herself. Dicey wore her shorts, as always. She thought about talking to her grandmother, but shrugged and looked out the window instead.
    Because Dicey did like buses. She liked any means of transportation. She liked going places. They rode up a highway, past marshlands and farmlands. A brisk wind blew at the grasses and trees. For the first time, Dicey felt like it really was fall. The sky hung low and gray over fields. She could see smoke curling up out of chimneys in some of the houses they passed. It was one of those first fall days, that look colder than they really are.
    But it really was cold. When they had stood waiting at the bus station, her legs got goose bumps from the wind. Mr. Lingerle drove them into town, and he said he’d come pick them up, too. Gram didn’t want to take the ride, but he pointed out how large the waves would be under this wind, and that if they bought anything it would be soaked before they got home again. He said he liked to help.
    Gram’s chin went up when he said that, because she did
not
like to be helped. But he had insisted and insisted, saying that Saturday was usually a pretty long, lonely day for him, saying that he was going to try riding on Sammy’s bike (Sammy bit his lip to keep from saying something about that), saying finally that he liked being welcome at their house, and he was only offering what family friends offered. So Gram gave in.
    The bus entered the limits of the scraggly city. Dicey studied the shopping centers and the low office buildings, each surrounded by its own parking lot. Cars and trucks crowded the road. For a few minutes, Dicey found this exciting, all the people, all their different lives and faces. Then the grayness, the papers blowing on sidewalks, the sandy-colored sameness of the buildings diminished that excitement. Beside her, Gram stirred.
    â€œDo you know where we’re going?” Dicey asked.
    â€œYes,” Gram answered.
    The mall had an arched gateway leading to acres of parking lots. The bus stopped before an entrance to the long building. Dicey and Gram climbed down the steps and went in.
    Gram went straight to a list of stores in the mall and began reading down it. Dicey planned to enjoy herself, if she could. She listened to the voices of the crowds of Saturday shoppers, she stared at families and couples, at gangs of girls and boys. Some of the people were hurrying on, as if they had a lot to do and not much time. Others were meandering about, stopping at store windows, as if they had a whole day to kill.
    Gram joined Dicey. “When I was a girl,” she said, looking about her, “Crisfield was the big town. The people from Salisbury came down to Crisfield.” She took a breath