Another Day as Emily (11 page)

“Whew!” I say.

“With a dad like that,

no wonder Emily

didn’t want to

leave the house.”

After dinner,

I practice my cackling

on Ottilie.

She hides behind

her sunken treasure chest.

Mom calls upstairs:

“Suzy Q, what’s going on?

Are you laughing or crying?”

“Neither,” I call down.

“I’m cackling.”

There was a time—

not so long ago—

when Mom was actually

interested in me

and would have walked upstairs,

poked her head in my door,

and asked me
why

I was cackling.

Now

she stays downstairs,

all busy baking more Smileys

for Hero Boy.

Before bed,

I choose an Emily Dickinson poem

to read to Ottilie.

It’s the one that begins:

“Ah, Moon—and Star!

You are very far—”

Those are the only two lines

of the poem I understand.

Ottilie swims to the other side

of her tank.

I think she agrees with me.

I tell her to do

what my English teacher,

Mr. Ranft, told us:

“When you don’t understand

the words of a poem,

just let the sounds wash over you.”

Easier for Ottilie since she lives

underwater.

That night I dream

I am Emily Dickinson.

The moon is far.

The stars are twinkling.

I peek at them

through my curtain.

I am wearing a white gown.

I sit at the piano that

is in my room.

I play beautiful

“moosic.”

People from all over Ridgley

gather in the front yard.

Dad goes out on the porch

in his underwear

and thanks them for coming—

“But my daughter

doesn’t receive visitors,”

he says.

Gilbert is in Mrs. Harden’s driveway

on his new bike—

a silver Schwinn Corvette

with black trim.

I go over to admire it.

“Cool,” I say.

Gilbert grins, then says:

“Want to ride bikes over to

Ridgley Park?”

“Darn,” I say. “I can’t.

Alison and I are going to

practice our parts.”

“Parts?”

“We’re auditioning for a play

together.

On Friday.”

Gilbert gives me a thumbs-up.

“Good luck.”

He starts to pedal away,

leaving me alone with the day,

one of those perfect July days:

breeze,

smell of fresh-cut grass,

sky blue as poster paint.

I pull out my own bike,

hop on,

pedal hard.

I catch up with Gilbert in the park.

He and his new bike are leaning against a tree.

“Hey,” I say.

Gilbert looks up. “Hey, Suzy. I thought you

were going to Alison’s.”

“I’ll go later,” I tell him.

I get off my bike and sit on the grass.

Gilbert sits next to me.

“My birthday’s coming up,” I say.

“July fifteenth.”

Gilbert grins. “Thanks for the heads-up.”

I laugh. “I’m not fishing for a card or present.

I’m just saying that my dad’s taking me

to a Phillies game.”

As soon as the words are out of my mouth,

I regret them.

I’m pretty sure Gilbert’s dad

would never take him to a game.

So I’m shocked when Gilbert tells me

his dad took him last fall—

to see the Phillies play the Atlanta Braves.

What pops in my head next is:

I thought your dad had a drinking problem.

Of course I know better than to say

everything
that pops into my head.

Instead I ask: “So—did you get any autographs?”

Gilbert and I sit for a while

pulling blades of grass.

Then I tell him

how annoying it is

when your little brother

is a hero.

And Gilbert tells me

how much he misses

his best friend, Luis,

who is spending the summer

with cousins in New York.

And I tell Gilbert

how nervous I am about

trying out for the play.

And he tells me

how worried he was

that Mrs. Bagwell’s ring

would never turn up.

And I tell him

how much I missed

his whistling.

And he tells me

how much he appreciated

that I never treated him

like a thief.

And we both laugh about

Mrs. Bagwell’s

dreaded green flyswatter.

And then we just sit there

on the grass

not saying much of anything.

When I finally get to Alison’s,

she is hopping mad.

“Where the heck were you?” she growls.

“Riding my bike,” I tell her. “Talking

to Gilbert.”

Alison shoots me a glare.

“I knew it!”

“Big deal,” I say. “I’m only ten minutes late.”

“Ha!” Alison snorts. “Tell that to

the director on Friday.”

“I won’t be late on Friday.”

“Well, if you are,” she says, “you can

kiss this friendship goodbye.”

I give one of Alison’s curls a tug.

“I said I won’t be late.”

“Fine,” she says.

“Fine,” I say.

Alison and I practice our lines.

I try two kinds of cackling.

“Go with the first cackle,”

Alison tells me.

Then she takes a fake bite

of the fake Danish

and fake faints

while I cackle—

over and over

and over again.

Finally

she pronounces us

ready for the audition.

She tells me to go home,

eat protein for dinner,

and get a good night’s sleep.

“Rest my cackle,” I say.

She almost grins.

Mom is in one of her fogs

this afternoon.

She started looking up a recipe

for spinach ravioli

and ended up reading

half the cookbook.

So it’s plain cheese omelets

for supper.

Protein.

Alison will be pleased.

I make my announcement

over dessert.

“I’m going to audition tomorrow.”

Mom’s spooned rice pudding

stops midair.

“Audition?”

“Me and Alison,” I tell her.

“At the Ridgley Community Theater.”

“You never said a word,” says Mom.

“Remember all the cackling?”

Dad’s eyes boggle. “You’re auditioning

to play a chicken?”

Later, Mom asks me what I’m going to wear

for the audition.

I show her Mr. Wilmire’s old black T-shirt.

She wrinkles her nose. “I can do better.”

She pulls a dress from the back of her closet.

It’s satiny black.

Mom sighs. “It’ll never fit again.

You may as well get some use out of it.”

I try it on.

I look more like a witch.

I start to feel more in character.

I start to believe the audition will go well.

I start to imagine what people will say about me

when they hear I’m in a real play.

I go to my room, stand in front of the mirror.

I practice a pose for when

the
Ridgley Post
photographer comes

to take
my
picture.

Alison and I walk into the theater.

She says her stomach is all butterflies.

She says that’s a good thing.

My stomach is more like

crows in a tornado.

Not good.

I quickly run to

the ladies’ room.

A guy in jeans and a tie-dyed shirt

writes down our names and ages.

He tells us where to sit—

row 10 with eight other kids,