Another Day as Emily (17 page)

peers behind my desk.

“Chipmunk—” he says.

“Here, Chippy … Chippy …”

Chippy doesn’t show.

Dad tells me to go get a bucket.

“Don’t drown the little thing,”

I plead.

“Drown what?” says Mom,

coming into my room.

Parker and Franky follow.

Dad yells: “Close the door!”

I say: “There’s a chipmunk

behind my desk.”

“I want to see!” says Parker.

“Somebody get me a bucket,”

Dad says.

“And a towel too.”

“Chipmunks bite,” says Franky.

“I’ll get the bucket,” I say.

“I’ll get the towel,” says Mom.

“Take the boys with you,” says Dad.

“Don’t get rabies, Mr. Quinn,”

says Franky.

“Out!” says Dad.

I come back to my room

with the bucket,

Mom with the towel.

Dad tells Mom and me

to move the desk

from the wall.

We do.

Dad corners the chipmunk,

which scoots right into

the bucket.

Dad flips the bucket up

and slaps the towel on top.

He goes to stand up

and hits his head on the desk.

He says a bad word.

“I heard that, Daddy,” says Parker,

who is in the hall with Franky.

“Be quiet,” Mom tells him.

Dad takes the bucket

out to the backyard

and sets the chipmunk free.

Dad’s head is bleeding.

Mom pulls him

into the bathroom.

She cleans the wound

with a washcloth.

I hear Dad say,

“I’m running out of

patience with

this Emily thing.”

Mom tells him

to hang on a little longer.

I figure I’d better

smooth things over.

I check my Emily list.

Next is
Make breakfast
.

I can’t wait till morning.

“How about I make supper

tonight,” I say to Mom.

I make ham steaks

with pineapple,

one of Dad’s favorites.

Also green beans.

And for dessert

chocolate-mint ice cream.

Dad has a lump on his head,

but he’s cheery during the meal.

After supper, he gets up. “I’ll

do the dishes.”

I give him a hug. “I’ll do it.

Wash dishes
is next on my list.”

Dad looks at Mom. “List?”

“Don’t ask,” she says, pulling him

into the living room.

On Monday morning,

I
dust
,

then
water plants
.

Mom tweaks my cheek.

“I’m beginning to like

this Emily.”

Parker tugs Mom’s skirt.

“Hey,” he says, “what about me?”

EMILY’S WAY

The phone rings.

Mom hands it to me.

“It’s for you.”

I back away.

“Who is it?”

“Alison.”

“Tell her to write.”

The phone rings again.

Dad tells me, “It’s Alison,

and it’s an emergency.”

This time I take the call.

“What’s the big emergency?”

Alison giggles. “I miss you.”

“Put it in writing,” I say.

“That’s goofy, Sooze. You are

not
Emily Dickinson.”

“I never said I was Emily
Dickinson
.“

“You’re not Emily
anybody
.“

“People change their names all the time.”

“Whatever,” says Alison. “So—want to

go to the dollar store?

They’re having a half-price sale.”

“I don’t go places,” I tell her.

“You went to church.”

“Mom made me.”

“You’re just being goofy.”

“Then don’t call anymore.”

“Maybe I won’t.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

Of course she’ll call.

Alison wouldn’t know

what to do

without me.

I’m her best friend

in all the world.

I bet she stops by

to try to trick me

into seeing her.

Any day

now.

No call.

No letter.

No tricky visit.

“Alison must be

sick in bed,”

I tell my goldfish, Carlo.

“With a really,

really bad

summer cold.”

I go into the kitchen.

Mom looks up from

her iced tea.

“Aren’t you hot in that

long dress?” she asks.

“Not at all,” I say,

peeking into the freezer.

“Looking for a Popsicle?”

“No,” I tell her.

“I’m looking for chicken

to make broth

to send to Alison.

She must have a terrible cold.”

“I don’t think so,” Mom says.

“I saw her this morning

at the dollar store.

She looked fine to me.”

I decide to go for a bike ride.

But nowhere does it say

Emily Dickinson ever rode a bike.

I don’t even know if they

were invented back then.

Dad’s in the driveway,

tinkering with a lawn mower.

“Hey, Dad,” I say. “When

were bikes invented?”

Dad loves answering questions

about history.

He sets down his wrench.

“Da Vinci sketched a bike

in 1490,” he tells me.

I brighten. “Ah, so there
were

bikes in Emily Dickinson’s time.”

“Well,” Dad says, “the da Vinci sketch

stayed in his notebook. But there were

bikes in Emily’s day.”

“Yippee!”

Dad goes on. “They were called

boneshakers.

They had huge front wheels.

A person mounted the bike like a horse.”

“Wow!”

“One thing, though.”

“What?”

“Only men rode boneshakers.”

“Oh.”

Mr. Kim comes

up our driveway.

He must be having

lawn-mower problems again.

Before I can scoot away,

he says,

“Hi, Suzy. Nice dress.”

I keep walking.

“Are you in

some kind of show?”

he calls.

I go into the house.

I shut the back door.

Hard.

When Mr. Kim leaves,

Dad comes up to my room.

“You were rude to Mr. Kim,

Suzy.”

“I’m not that name,” I say.

“Mr. Kim doesn’t know a thing about

this phase of yours,” Dad says.

“It’s not a phase. I’m being Emily.”

“Well, your Emily may have been eccentric,

but she wasn’t rude.”

I want to say: How would you know?

You weren’t there.

But I don’t.

Dad leaves.

He closes the door,

not so gently.

I throw my pillow

against the wall.

I mope in my room

for an hour.

No calls.

No notes.

No visitors.

Not even Parker.

I give a sigh.

I check Emily’s list:

Sew
.

Yikes!

I haven’t sewn

since I was six

when Grandma Quinn

from Oregon

helped me make

a pot holder

for Mom.

Then I remember—

my favorite

Phillies shirt

has a rip in the seam.

I was going to ask Mom

to fix it for me

before I turned myself

into Emily,

who only wears

white dresses.

Still—it’s something to sew.

I dig it out of the dresser:

my Phillies shirt.

I almost get weepy—

a relic from

my other life.

I rub it against my cheek.