Another Day as Emily (2 page)

What’s next?

Dad puts Mom on speakerphone

so Parker and I can hear too.

She says she hopes Mrs. Harden

will be okay.

She says she is proud of

her “big boy”

for dialing 911.

She says: “Thank you, Suzy Q,

for helping out with things.”

(“Things” is code

for Parker.)

She says she is trying to convince

Grandma Fludd to move

to Pennsylvania.

Up pipes Grandma Fludd:

“What? And freeze my patootie off

in the winter? Forget it!”

Parker howls,

wiggles his little behind.

“Patootie! Patootie!

Watch me shake my bootie!”

There’s a voice mail from Alison.

She sounds all breathless:

“Sooze, I heard about Mrs. Harden.

The whole town is talking.

I hope she’s not dead.

Is she?

Is she?

Call me!

Right away!”

I call Alison.

“Tell me—quick!” she says.

I tell her: “We got a message

from Mrs. Harden’s nephew.

She’s going to be okay.”

“Whew! What a relief,”

says Alison.

“Just imagine if she died.

You’d be neighbors

with a dead person!”

I was in second grade

when Herbie Sizemore

pushed me up against

the playground fence.

“Say it!” he ordered.

“It” was a bad word.

A very bad word.

The very, very worst.

“No,” I told him.

I tried to push past him.

He wouldn’t let me.

Suddenly a girl appeared,

bracelets jangling.

She stared Herbie

right in the nose.

“Let her go,” she snarled.

I was surprised.

She was in the other

second-grade class.

We never played together.

Herbie growled: “This is

nunna your beeswax.”

“I’m making it my beeswax,”

said the girl.

She pulled a sparkly pink phone

from her pocket.

“I have the state police

on speed dial.”

“Yeah, right,” said Herbie.

The girl punched a button.

Herbie backed off.

When he was gone,

I said: “That’s a toy phone,

isn’t it?”

The girl wagged her finger.

“Nunna your beeswax.”

I laughed. “You rescued me.”

“I’m Alison Wilmire,” she said.

“I’m Suzy Quinn,” I said.

We shook hands.

We’ve been best friends

ever since.

Which is pretty amazing

since we’re so different.

Alison is curly blond wonder-hair.

I’m mousy brown ponytail.

She’s pink sandals and short skirts.

I’m red Phillies cap and jeans.

She’s hip-hop dance lessons.

I’m “Go, Phillies!”

She collects bracelets.

I collect rocks.

She wants to be an actress when she grows up.

I don’t have a clue.

Dad says Alison and I

are a perfect example of

the old saying

“Opposites attract.”

Mom says

while Alison and I

may be different

on the outside,

we are a lot alike

on the inside

where it counts most.

“You both have heart,”

Mom says.

“That’s the best thing

I can say about

a person.”

When Mom first went to Arizona,

Parker got all stubborn

about bedtime.

Dad and I tried extra bedtime stories.

Extra snacks.

New stuffed animals.

Old stuffed animals.

Blue night-light.

Glow-in-the-dark stickers.

Nothing worked—

until I came up with

Tickle Monster.

I started creeping

into Parker’s bedroom

step by step,

waving Mom’s feather duster.

“Here comes Tickle Monster,”

I’d say.

I only had to tickle Parker’s big toe

before he would giggle and beg:

“Stop! Stop, Tickle Monster!

I’ll sleep now!”

But this night

when I creep into his room,

he’s all curled up

with his stuffed owl,

snoring like

a little eggbeater.

I guess it’s exhausting

being a hero.

I’m tired too.

I get into my nightie.

I open my window wide.

There’s a cool June breeze blowing.

It feels like it might rain.

I tell Ottilie—my goldfish—about

the day’s excitement:

“Mrs. Harden nearly died today.

But Parker called 911.

And now she’s going to be fine.

And the Phillies beat the Pirates—

even though I missed watching

the whole game on TV.

And we talked to Mom and Grandma Fludd.”

Ottilie swims closer

to the glass in front of her tank.

Her tiny fish mouth sends me kisses.

I think she enjoys our nighttime chats.

Alison says

Ottilie is just a goldfish

and goldfish don’t know anything.

But I read about goldfish

before I got Ottilie.

Goldfish can recognize their owners.

They react to light and different colors.

I trained Ottilie to eat fish flakes

from my fingers.

Ottilie knows plenty.

Dad—who teaches history

at Ridgley Community College—

told me that in 1939

a fad was started by

a Harvard University student

who swallowed a live goldfish.

The fad spread to other colleges.

Eventually, Dad said,

the president of Boston’s Animal League

decreed that goldfish swallowers

should be—would be—

arrested

if they didn’t stop this behavior.

My sentiments exactly.

Ottilie’s too!

This morning Gilbert Lenhardt stops by.

He heard about Mrs. Harden.

He was supposed to weed her herb garden

and pull out a dead holly bush.

He is wondering if he should go ahead.

Dad tells him yes.

Gilbert does a lot of odd jobs around the neighborhood.

He’s thirteen. Not old enough to get a

regular job.

According to Alison, Gilbert really needs the money.

His dad drinks a lot and probably spends

his money on beer instead of his family.

For a kid with a father like that, Gilbert is always

cheery. Always whistling.

You can hear him a block away.

Dad says they are songs from the 1940s.

Odd—but nice too.

One thing I’ve learned from Dad is

to appreciate ancient history.

Ten minutes later,

there’s a knock at the door.

“Hi,” says a lady in a gray suit.

“I’m Marsha Levine, reporter for

the
Ridgley Post
.“

She introduces the man next to her—

“And this is Joe Perchek, photographer.

We’re here to see the little boy

who called 911 yesterday.

The little hero.”

Dad says it’s okay

for them to talk to Parker

for a few minutes.

And to take a couple

pictures for the paper.

Parker says: “Wait!”

He runs upstairs,

comes back wearing

his Superman T-shirt

and his Count Dracula cape

from last Halloween.

He poses—arms out

like he’s flying.

Ms. Levine tweaks his cheek.

“You’re the cutest little boy ever.”

Parker squawks: “Don’t call me little!”