Another Day as Emily (3 page)

I head over to Alison’s.

I pass Mrs. Bagwell’s.

Mrs. Bagwell is chasing after something

with her big green flyswatter.

Mrs. Bagwell is always after something—

kids trying to retrieve balls from her yard,

beetles nibbling her roses,

the Kims’ gray cat, Shady.

This time it’s a crow.

I wave. “Good morning, Mrs. Bagwell.”

“Dang crow,” she growls.

When I get to Alison’s,

she is still getting dressed.

She dangles two bracelets under my nose.

“Which one, Sooze—garnet or charm?”

I groan. “Who cares? We’re just going

to the library.”

She rolls her eyes at me. “I repeat—garnet or charm?”

I point to the garnet bracelet.

She scowls. “You’re only saying that because it’s red.

Like the Phillies.”

She flips both bracelets into her jewelry box.

She pulls out a purple beaded one

that matches her nails.

I coaxed Alison into

signing up with me for

Tween Time at the Ridgley Library.

Every Tuesday morning at eleven.

She fought it.

She said she reads enough

during the school year.

I told her: “Tween Time isn’t

just about reading.

It’s crafts too. And games. And field trips.”

Anyway—what’s wrong with reading?

I happen to love it.

It’s in my DNA.

I get it from my mom,

who is totally addicted to books.

Nobody—

I mean
nobody—

loves books

more than Mom.

She breathes books—literally.

She holds them up to her nose,

takes deep whiffs.

“Each book has a scent

all its own,” she says.

“Ink, tree bark, a hint of thyme,

summer-dust.”

Dad pipes up: “Mold!”

He’s remembering when Mom

bought six cartons of books

from someone’s half-flooded basement.

Mom sleeps books.

She keeps one under her pillow.

I’m not kidding.

She got into the habit

when she was a kid.

She used to wake up at night

and read by moonlight.

I won’t be shocked

if one morning

I come down to breakfast

and find Mom

in one of her fogs,

eating a page of a book

with a dollop of strawberry jam.

We tweens, ages ten to twelve,

meet in the Bennett Room

of the Ridgley Library.

One of the librarians—Ms. Mott—

stands in the doorway.

She’s wearing a black bonnet

and a fringed blue shawl.

She’s twirling a parasol

(which is an umbrella for sun).

“Welcome, tweens,” she says,

chirpy as a bird.

Alison gives me a dark look.

“Give it a chance,” I whisper.

There are three other

kids in the room.

Two girls and a boy.

Alison and I don’t know them.

Ms. Mott sighs.

She looks at her watch.

Sighs again.

I think she was hoping for

a bigger crowd.

Finally she closes her parasol.

She smiles

and makes an announcement:

“The theme for Tween Time

this summer is

everyday life in the 1800s.”

Alison slumps in her seat,

hisses at me:

“I hate history!”

“Any questions?” asks Ms. Mott.

No one raises a hand.

I feel bad for her.

So I raise my hand.

“Yes, Suzy?”

“Was there baseball back then?”

Ms. Mott brightens. “Indeed there was.

But the field was smaller.

And players didn’t wear gloves.

And batters were called strikers.

And runs were called aces.”

The boy raises his hand.

“Were there cars?”

“Yes,” says Ms. Mott.

“As a matter of fact, in 1895

there was a total of four cars

in the entire country.”

“Holy cow!” says the boy.

The girl in green asks,

“What did kids do for fun?”

“Simple things,” says Ms. Mott.

“Roller-skating, kite flying,

sledding, checkers, kickball,

hoop rolling.”

“What’s hoop rolling?” asks

the girl with the pigtails.

“You’ll see,” says Ms. Mott.

“We’ll be trying some of these things

in the weeks to come.”

Alison mutters under her breath:

“Whoop-dee-doo.”

By the time we are dismissed,

we’ve learned quite a bit

about the 1800s.

We know that—according to

stagecoach etiquette—

it was considered bad manners

to point out where horrible murders

had been committed.

We know that

some people in the 1800s

made toothpaste out of

honey and pulverized charcoal.

And that tomatoes were

thought to be poisonous.

And that “some pumpkins”

meant “impressive”

or “very good at.”

As we left, Ms. Mott chirped:

“When it comes to paying attention,

you kids are some pumpkins.”

Alison grabs my arm.

“Let’s skedaddle,” she says—

which in 1800s talk means

“Let’s get the heck out of here!”

Dad makes grilled cheese for lunch.

I tell him about the Tween Time theme.

Of course he’s pleased.

He waves his sandwich at me.

He says what I’ve heard

a hundred times before:

“History is life. Its purpose is a better world.”

“I
know
, Dad,” I say.

Parker pipes up: “I know something too!”

“What?”

“Mrs. Bagwell got robbed!”

“You missed it, Suzy,” says Parker.

“Cops came and everything.”