Another Day as Emily (19 page)

When I wake up, it’s 10:07 p.m.

Mom and Dad are whispering in the hallway.

Mom: “We need to do something.”

Dad: “Yep. It’s time.”

Mom: “Can’t ground her.”

Dad, chuckling: “She’s grounding herself.”

Mom: “It’s not funny.”

Dad: “The surprise should do it.”

Mom: “Suppose she says no?”

Dad: “We’ll cross that bridge

when we come to it.”

No way can I fall back to sleep.

What surprise are

they talking about?

Hmmm … maybe they are

going to ship me off

to Grandma Quinn’s in Oregon

for the rest of the summer.

Well, I won’t go.

I love Grandma Quinn.

But Emily Dickinson

doesn’t travel.

The next morning,

I’m back to being Emily

without those

sad little doubts.

Just let my parents

try to

surprise me with

a trip out west!

I’m eating breakfast

when there’s a knock at the door.

Mom peeks out the window.

“It’s Gilbert,” she tells me.

“I can’t see visitors,” I whisper,

choking on my toast.

Mom blows out a long

I-can’t-stand-this-much-longer

breath.

She opens the back door.

“Emily can’t see you, Gilbert.”

I whisper: “Tell him to leave a note.”

Mom glares at me. “
You
tell him—”

and walks away.

I stay behind the open door.

“What do you want, Gilbert?”

Gilbert pokes his head around.

“I have a surprise. Good news.”

“What?” I say.

“I’m going to a Phillies game.

Against the Mets.

August eleventh.”

My heart sinks.

I try not to show it.

“Wonderful,” I say. “I’m happy for you.”

“My dad won tickets from

a radio talk show.

He was the thirteenth caller

with the right answer.”

“Really,” I say.

I am ready for this conversation

to end.

“Don’t you want to ask me

how many tickets he won?”

I’m seeing something sneaky

in his eyes.

“And how many tickets

did he win, Gilbert?”

Gilbert doesn’t speak.

He just holds up fingers.

Four of them.

My heart is picking itself up

off the floor.

“Four?” I say.

Gilbert ticks them off

one finger at a time.

“Me.

My dad.

You.

Your dad.

They’re great seats too.”

I’m halfway out the door.

I want to scream.

I want to hug Gilbert.

I want to turn cartwheels.

But I don’t.

I’m Emily.

I say to Gilbert:

“I’ll have to

think about it.”

You can’t go.

Why not?

Emily Dickinson would never go.

How do you know?

Baseball wasn’t a big deal then.

Emily probably never even heard of baseball.

And she never went to a game.

But why?

Too many people. Crowds of people.

Maybe she had a good friend we don’t know about.

Maybe that friend dragged her to a game once—

just to get her out of the house.

You believe that?

No.

I go from hugs and cartwheels

to a rotten mood.

Dad brings me a note from Ms. Mott.

I toss it aside.

I don’t tell him about the baseball game.

There is also a note

in the porch basket—from Alison!

I toss that aside too.

I tell Carlo:

“I’m having a really,

really hard time

being a recluse.”

I flop onto my bed.

I close my eyes.

I punch the mattress.

I hear a voice.

Where is it coming from?

The hall?

My head?

The fish tank?

It says: Then don’t be one.

I think it will

never come again—

the dark.

But it does,

and I creep over to Mrs. Harden’s

to talk things over.

Mrs. Harden beams

when she sees me.

She whisks me inside

and gives me a hug.

“I’ve been thinking about you,”

she says.

She points to her craft table.

It’s cluttered with paint

and brushes and rags.

She holds up a poster.

Glued at the top

is a picture of me

in my Phillies cap.

I read the words

below the photo—

BE SUE WHILE I AM EMILY
.

I stare at Mrs. Harden.

“Huh?” I say.

Mrs. Harden opens a book

of Emily Dickinson’s poems.

She begins to page through them.

“It’s a little piece of advice

to her best friend whose name is—”

She looks at me.

“Susan,” I say.

“Exactly. Ah, there it is—”

She points to the first line

of a poem.

“Why don’t you read it

out loud,” she says.

I keep staring at the words.

Finally I speak:

“Be Sue while I am Emily …”

Mrs. Harden is smiling at me.

“Sue,” I say.

“Susan,” she says.

“Suzy,” I say.

“It’s like”—Mrs. Harden reaches out

and touches my face—

“she wrote those words for you

those many years ago.

She left a message for you.”

Mrs. Harden’s smile

is getting blurry.

“For me.”

Back home,

Mom and Dad

and Mr. and Mrs. Kim

are in the dining room

playing Scrabble.

I breeze into the room.

“Who’s winning?” I ask.

Mom and Dad exchange glances.

Mrs. Kim points to her husband.

“He had the
z
and the
x
.”

I give Mr. Kim a big smile.

And a thumbs-up.

Mom says, “Uh—want to join us?”

“No thanks,” I chirp.

“I’m going to hang up this poster

Mrs. Harden made for me.

Maybe another time.”

Mom’s mouth is hanging open—

she gawks.

Dad just shakes his head.

I hang the poster

above my desk.

I get into my nightie.

I slip my red Phillies shirt

over the nightie

and find my Phillies cap.

I brush off a dust bunny.

I get the letters

I tossed aside earlier.

One from Ms. Mott.

One from Alison.

I read them aloud

to Ottilie.

Dear Miss Emily,

We missed you at Tween Time today.

Please consider coming next week.

I will set a chair behind the bookcase

for you.

You may have all the privacy

you like.

Just come.

Yours respectfully,

Ms. Mott

Hey, Sooze,

Remember me—

your best friend?

Guess what?

Giselle is looking for a helper,

someone to be “on book”—

that’s when an actor forgets his lines

and the person on book reads the lines back.

Also to do other stuff around the theater.

I thought of you right away.

Doesn’t this sound like more fun

than being a twelve-year-old hermit?

Call me!

Alison

It’s too late to call Alison now.

But I do like the idea.

I never really wanted to be an actress.

But this—this does sound like fun.

“Good night, Ottilie,” I say,

climbing into bed.

I trace my mouth with my fingers.

I’m grinning.

I’ll tell Dad in the morning

about the game.

I can’t sleep.

I grope through my room

in the dark

down the hallway.

I open

my parents’ bedroom door.

I listen to them breathing.

I call out:

“We’re going to a game!

A Phillies game!

August eleventh!

Against the Mets!

We’re going to a Phillies game!”

I close the door.

I go back to my bed.

I’m asleep in a minute.