Another Day as Emily (10 page)

“Well,” she says, “Mrs. Bagwell was

so embarrassed about accusing Gilbert

that she drove right over

to his home and apologized.”

“Really?” I say.

“Really!

And she told Gilbert

to go to Ernie’s Bike Shop

and choose
any
bike he likes.”

I shake my head.

“Are we talking about

our
Mrs. Bagwell?”

“You bet,” says Alison. “And

my dad heard she is going to

put an ad in the
Ridgley Post

that her misplaced ring

has been found.”

“Sounds like Mrs. Bagwell

is a changed woman,” I say.

Alison snorts. “Not totally.

Earlier, I saw her chasing

the Kims’ cat with her fly swatter.”

When we get to the library,

Ms. Mott waves us through the door.

There’s no time to ask Alison

about what she’s planning for us

on Friday.

Just as well.

It’s probably something

I’m going to hate.

Like getting our nails done.

(Alison’s cousin Tara

likes to practice on us.)

Or making bracelets

with Alison’s bead kit.

Or Alison trying to teach me

her latest hip-hop routine.

Pictures are tacked up

all around the Bennett Room,

pictures of famous people

from the 1800s.

Ms. Mott points to each one:

Abraham Lincoln—president of the United States.

Florence Nightingale—nurse.

Sarah Bernhardt—actress.

Edgar Allan Poe—author.

Harriet Tubman—”conductor” of the Underground Railroad.

Emily Dickinson—poet.

Chief Joseph—chief of the Nez Perce Nation.

Annie Oakley—star of Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show.

Frederick Douglass—leader in the abolitionist movement.

Ms. Mott instructs us to choose

the person we’d like to learn more about.

Alison elbows me. “Learn,” she growls.

“What is this? School?”

“Shhh,” I say.

Ms. Mott goes on. “Once you’ve decided,

you may choose a few books from the back table

about that person.”

Alison mock-cheers. “Yippee.”

“And next week,” says Ms. Mott, “we’ll each come

dressed as our favorite, ready to share

what we’ve learned.

Alison leans over and whispers: “Next week

I’m going to be sick with one of those 1800s diseases.

What were they—typhoid fever? Gout?”

But when Ms. Mott asks Alison about her choice,

Alison replies all nice and polite:

“Sarah Bernhardt, Ms. Mott. The actress.”

Ms. Mott pats Alison on the head.

“Why am I not surprised?”

I don’t know what draws me

to Emily Dickinson.

I’m more the Annie Oakley type.

But it’s something about

Emily’s face—

her eyes, I think.

She looks so content.

And her hands—

so graceful and relaxed.

“I’ll be Emily Dickinson,”

I tell Ms. Mott.

Ms. Mott sends me a smile.

“Good choice, Suzy.”

I take three books

about Emily Dickinson

from the table.

When Alison goes

to the ladies’ room,

I skim a few pages.

I read that Emily

had a talent

for the piano.

She called it “moosic.”

As she got older,

she stopped going places.

She even hid from guests

who came to the house.

She carried on her friendships

by letter.

She wore only white dresses.

Not exactly my kind of chick.

On the way home,

all Alison does is

complain.

“No way am I going to read

an entire book

on summer vacation.”

“Just skim it,” I tell her.

She ignores that. Keeps whining.

“And a report!

Is Ms. Mott joking?

That’s homework. Homework! In
July
!”

“You don’t have to give a long report,”

I say. “Just a little something about

your person.”

“Let’s just quit Tween Time.”

“No way,” I tell her. “I like Tween Time.”

Then, to change the subject, I ask:

“So—what’s this about Friday?

What are you and I going to do?”

Her sour face brightens. She claps her hands.

“We’re auditioning for a play!”

The next day,

Alison and I go to

the Ridgley Community Theater.

The sign on the door says:

WANTED:

ACTORS AGES
10
TO 1
3

TO PERFORM IN UPCOMING PLAY

THE FOGGY BOG MURDERS
.

AUDITIONS FRIDAY, JULY
9

I tell Alison: “I can’t audition

for a play.”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t know what to do.”

Alison drapes her arm around me.

“I’ll tell you what to do.”

“Besides,” I say, “I don’t want to

be an actress. You do.”

“Maybe you do too,” says Alison.

“You just don’t know it yet.”

We go to Alison’s.

Up in her room

she digs through some papers

and comes up with

the script from

last year’s school play,

Snow White in the Big City
.

Alison played the lead—

Snow White.

I was stage crew.

She plops on the bed

beside me.

“We’ll practice with this,” she says.

“I’ll be Snow White.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll be the witch.”

“Of course.”

So it’s set.

For the audition we will do

a scene from
Snow White in the Big City
.

Alison tucks her blond curls

under the old Snow White wig.

The witchiest thing she can find for me

is an old black T-shirt of her father’s.

There’s a hole under one arm.

We sit back on the bed.

We turn pages to the part where

the witch—posing as a waitress—

tries to get Snow White to order

the poison-apple Danish.

I read my line: “This Danish is delicious.

You must try it, my dear.”

Alison—as herself—screeches: “No! No! No!

You’re supposed to be a
witch
. You sound like

that nice waitress at Daisy Donuts.”

“Well, aren’t I a waitress
and
a witch?”

Alison looks at the ceiling, then back at me.

“You’re mainly a witch. You have to sound like a witch.”

Alison demonstrates. Her voice turns sinister:

“Zees Danish eez dee-lizzious. You muuuzzt try eet.”

She goes on: “Then you cackle. Like this—

HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE!”

“Do I
have
to cackle?” I ask.

Alison smacks her forehead.

“Yes, you have to cackle.

Witches cackle.

You’re a witch.

You
cackle
.“

Dad likes that I am learning

about Emily Dickinson.

At dinner, he tells a story

about Emily’s father,

Mr. Dickinson—

who left the house

in his underwear one night

and woke the entire

neighborhood

with church bells

so that the people could see

the northern lights.