A Walk to Remember - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,28

had I, to tell you the truth. But it was obvious right off the bat that Mr. Jenkins made sense.

He thanked us anyway and chatted for a while about what he planned to do instead. “We’ll have a small tree and a few gifts—something that all of them can share. “You’re welcome to visit Christmas Eve. . . .”

After we said our good-byes, Jamie and I walked in silence without saying anything. I could tell she was sad. The more I hung around Jamie, the more I realized she had lots of different emotions—she wasn’t always cheerful and happy. Believe it or not, that was the first time I recognized that in some ways she was just like the rest of us.

“I’m sorry it didn’t work out,” I said softly.

“I am, too.”

She had that faraway look in her eyes again, and it was a moment before she went on.

“I just wanted to do something different for them this year. Something special that they would remember forever. I thought for sure this was it. . . .” She sighed. “The Lord seems to have a plan that I just don’t know about yet.”

She was quiet for a long time, and I looked at her. Seeing Jamie feeling bad was almost worse than feeling bad because of her. Unlike Jamie, I deserved to feel bad about myself—I knew what kind of person I was. But with her . . .

“While we’re here, do you want to stop in to see the kids?” I asked into the silence. It was the only thing I could think to do that might make her feel better. “I could wait out here while you talk to them, or go to the car if you want.”

“Would you visit them with me?” she asked suddenly.

To be honest, I wasn’t sure I could handle it, but I knew she really wanted me there. And she was feeling so down that the words came out automatically.

“Sure, I’ll go.”

“They’ll be in the rec room now. That’s where they usually are at this time,” she said.

We walked down the corridors to the end of the hall, where two doors opened into a good-size room. Perched in the far corner was a small television with about thirty metal folding chairs placed all around it. The kids were sitting in the chairs, crowded around it, and you could tell that only the ones in the front row had a good view of the thing.

I glanced around. In the corner was an old Ping-Pong table. The surface was cracked and dusty, the net nowhere to be seen. A couple of empty Styrofoam cups sat on top of it, and I knew it hadn’t been used in months, maybe years. Along the wall next to the Ping-Pong table were a set of shelves, with a few toys here and there—blocks and puzzles, a couple of games. There weren’t too many, and the few that were there looked as if they’d been in this room for a long time. Along the near walls were small individual desks piled with newspapers, scribbled on with crayons.

We stood in the doorway for just a second. We hadn’t been noticed yet, and I asked what the newspapers were for.

“They don’t have coloring books,” she whispered, “so they use newspapers.” She didn’t look at me as she spoke—instead her attention was directed at the kids. She’d begun to smile again.

“Are these all the toys they have?” I asked.

She nodded. “Yes, except for the stuffed animals. They’re allowed to keep those in their rooms. This is where the rest of the things are kept.”

I guess she was used to it. To me, though, the sparseness of the room made the whole thing depressing. I couldn’t imagine growing up in a place like this.

Jamie and I finally walked into the room, and one of the kids turned around at the sound of our steps. He was about eight or so, with red hair and freckles, his two front teeth missing.

“Jamie!” he shouted happily when he saw her, and all of a sudden all the other heads turned. The kids ranged in age from about five to twelve, more boys than girls. After twelve they had to be sent to live with foster parents, I later learned.

“Hey, Roger,” Jamie said in response, “how are you?”

With that, Roger and some of the others began to crowd around us. A few of the other kids ignored us and moved closer to the television now that there were