“always go to the dime store and get her really ugly plastic earrings or a horrible necklace or something.”

     “Once,” said Jessi, “my sister gave our mother a bag of chocolate kisses and then ate them herself.”

     We began to laugh.

     “This year,” Claud began, “I am going to give my mother the perfect present.”

     “What?” I asked.

     Claud shrugged. “I don’t know yet.”

     “I never have to think of Mother’s Day presents,” said Mary Anne softly.

     The talking and laughing stopped. How is it that I forget about Mary Anne’s problem year after year? I never remember until somebody, usually the art teacher, is saying something like, “All right, let’s begin our Mother’s Day cards,” or “I know your mothers will just love these glass mosaics.” Then I watch Mary Anne sink lower and lower in her seat. Why don’t the teachers say, “If you want to make a Mother’s Day gift, come over here. The rest of you may read.” Or something like that. It would be a lot easier on the kids who don’t need to make Mother’s Day stuff.

     Dawn looked at Mary Anne and awkwardly patted her shoulder.

     Claud said, “Sorry, Mary Anne.”

     We feel bad for her but we don’t quite know what to say. Sorry your mother died? Sorry the greeting card people invented Mother’s Day and you have to feel bad once a year? Sorry we have moms and you don’t?

     I was relieved when the telephone rang. (We all were.) It gave us something to do. I answered the phone, and Mary Anne took over the record book.

     “Hi, Mrs. Newton,” I said. “Friday afternoon? . . . Yeah, it is short notice, I guess, but I’ll check. I’ll get right back to you.” I hung up. “Check Friday after school,” I told Mary Anne. “This Friday.”