Miss Lizzie was about to speak. Emmy Lou watched Miss Lizzie’s lips open. Emmy Lou often found herself watching Miss Lizzie’s lips open. It took an actual, deliberate space of time. They opened, moistened themselves, then shaped the word.
“Who in this room has lunch?” said Miss Lizzie, and her very tones hurt. It was as though one were doing wrong in having lunch.
Many hands were raised. There were luncheons in nearly every desk.
“File by the platform in order, bringing your lunch,” said Miss Lizzie.
“Lisa's head went down on
her arm on the desk.”
Feeling apprehensively criminal—of what, however, she had no idea—Emmy Lou went into line, lunch in hand. One’s luncheon might be all that it should, neatly pinned in a fringed napkin by Aunt Cordelia, but one felt embarrassed carrying it up. Some were in newspaper. Emmy Lou’s heart ached for those.
Meanwhile Miss Lizzie bent and deliberately smelled of each package in turn as the little girls filed by. Most of the faces of the little girls were red.
Then came Lisa—Lisa Schmit. Her lunch was in paper—heavy brown paper.