Another Day as Emily (20 page)

The first thing I think about

is Emily’s list

and what activity

I’m going to choose—

and then I remember!

I’m not Emily anymore.

I’m
me
.

Suzy Quinn.

I grab the list

and tear it

into tiny pieces.

I toss it in the air—

confetti!

And go down to breakfast.

Mom is scrambling eggs.

She eyeballs my Phillies shirt.

No comment.

“Want toast with your eggs?”

“I’ll make it,” I say.

“Okay.”

“Where’s Dad?”

“Left early for a class.”

“How about Parker?”

“Went to Franky’s for the day.”

Mom spoons scrambled eggs

onto my plate.

“Funny thing—

your father and I

had the same dream

last night.

You were standing

in our bedroom

shouting something about

going to a Phillies game.”

I sprinkle salt

on my scrambled eggs.

“It wasn’t a dream,” I say.

“Gilbert’s father won tickets.

They’re taking me and Dad.”

My mother dumps

the rest of the eggs

onto her plate.

“And Miss Emily—would she

go to a Phillies game?”

I start gobbling down my eggs.

“Emily?” I say. “Emily who?”

Mom freezes.

She gapes at me—

with big eyes,

kind of like Ottilie does.

A couple seconds like that

and then she gets it.

“You’re Suzy again?”

“The one and only,” I say.

“Yahoo!” she yips.

And yanks me out of the chair

and we go dancing around

the kitchen table.

When I call Alison,

I half expect her to tease me

about the Emily Dickinson business.

But she doesn’t.

She just gives a happy squeal

that I’m willing to be on book

or whatever

for Giselle.

“Rehearsal’s at six p.m.,”

Alison tells me.

“And don’t be late.

Giselle hates late.”

I’ll call Gilbert later,

tell him yes to the game.

I’ll reply to Ms. Mott

later.

Right now,

I just want to ride my bike.

I go out to the garage.

There it is—leaning against

Dad’s workbench, all red and shiny.

Dad must have been

keeping it dusted.

I lay my head on the handlebars.

“Hello, sweet thing,” I whisper.

I wheel it outside into the sunlight.

I hop on.

I ride into the golden light,

the warm breeze,

away from the houses.

I pat the bike.

“Oh, wouldn’t Emily Dickinson

have loved you,” I say.

I’d forgotten

what a busy life

I used to have.

Mrs. Harden invites me to lunch.

She teaches me how to make

strawberry salad and poppy seed dressing.

I go on Mom’s computer and catch up on

all the latest Phillies news.

Alison calls. She wants me to come over.

“I’ll do your hair,” she says. “You can

have supper here.

We can go to the theater

together.”

Giselle explains more about

being on book.

When an actor forgets a line,

the actor calls “Line,”

and then I read the line

as it is written.

I’m not supposed to give a line

unless it’s called for.

Giselle asks me to sharpen

some pencils for her.

I also help move scenery,

find props.

And fix Giselle’s coffee—

two sugars, no cream.

Rehearsal is over at nine.

Giselle asks me to flip off

some of the lights.

“Good work, Suzy,” she says.

Alison sidles up to us. “Don’t forget

who got her for you, Giselle.”

Alison’s father drops me off at home.

Mom and Dad are watching TV.

“How’d it go?” Mom asks.

“It was cool,” I say.

“I love working at the theater.”

“Gilbert called,” says Dad.

“Thanks,” I say.

Then: “Where’s Parker?”

“In bed, I hope,” says Mom.

I laugh. “You never know with

the little hero.”

I grab the feather duster.

I tiptoe up the stairs.

I think I’m going to Parker’s room—

but I don’t.

Suddenly there’s something

I have to do.

I detour into my parents’ bedroom.

I pick up the phone. I dial.

I don’t even sit on the bed.

As soon as Gilbert says “Hello?”

the words burst out.

“I’m coming to the game.

Of course I am.

What was I thinking?

I don’t even know what happened,”

I tell him. “One day everything was normal,

and the next day Parker was a superhero—

newspaper stories,

a medal,

a parade,

and what was I?

I was the little hero’s sister.

Boring old Suzy Quinn.

Nobody wanted to meet
me
.

Nobody took
my
picture.

And then I went to the audition—

and didn’t get the part.

But I learned about acting and

I read about Emily Dickinson

and I figured, hey, why should I be stuck with

boring old Suzy Quinn when I could be

a famous and fascinating recluse?

And for a while it seemed like it was working.”

On and on I go. When I finally stop,

I’m gasping as if I just finished a race.

Gilbert laughs.

He absolutely
howls
on the other end of

the line.

“Suzy”—he says—”
that
was a major blurt.”

I try to join in the laughing, but it’s hard

because it takes breath to laugh.

When I finally calm down, I say:

“I guess what I mean is—I missed myself.”

There’s silence on the other end.

I wonder if Gilbert has put down the phone.

Then he says: “I missed Suzy too.

I’m glad she’s going to the game.”

When we hang up, it feels like two

holding hands

coming apart.

I pick up the feather duster.

I tap on Parker’s door.

“Who’s there?” he asks.

“Guess,” I say.

“Emily?”

“No.”

“Suzy?”

“No.”

“I give up.”

I open the door.

I creep

step

by step

over to Parker’s bed.

I wave the feather duster at him.

“It’s the

Tickle Monster!”

EILEEN SPINELLI
is the beloved author of nearly fifty children’s books. Among them are the middle-grade novels
Summerhouse Time
and
The Dancing Pancake
and picture books such as
Cold Snap
and
Princess Pig
. Eileen and her husband live in western Pennsylvania. When Eileen was ten, she used to drape herself in her grandmother’s old white organdy curtains and recite Emily Dickinson’s poem “I’m Nobody! Who Are You?” in front of the mirror (making sure no one was watching!).

JOANNE LEW-VRIETHOFF
’s passion for art has given her the opportunity to illustrate picture books and middle-grade novels for the last fifteen years. She lives in Amsterdam with her husband and two wildly imaginative kids. Learn more about Joanne and her work at
joannelewvriethoff.com
.