Another Day as Emily (6 page)

Parker is riding with Mayor Paloma

in the Fourth of July parade.”

Another fin flick.

“And I’m jealous and—”

The fin stops.

I stop.

My hand shoots to my mouth,

clamps it shut.

Ottilie and I boggle at each other,

both fish-eyed.

I can’t believe I said that.

I go over to check on Mrs. Harden.

She is up and dressed

and having tea.

Her cheeks are rosy.

She doesn’t look tired anymore.

She gives me a hug.

“I’m so glad you stopped by, Suzy,”

she says.

“I have something for Parker.”

Mrs. Harden goes into the hall.

She returns with a teddy bear

dressed like a doctor,

complete with a tiny stethoscope.

“I got it at the hospital gift shop.

Think Parker will like it?”

“Sure,” I say.

Then she hands me a box

tied with red ribbon.

“And this is for you, Suzy.”

“Me?” I say.

“I’m not the one who called 911.”

Mrs. Harden drapes an arm around me.

“No, but I have a nice, fuzzy memory

of you holding my hand.

I can still hear you saying,

‘Don’t worry, Mrs. Harden.

Help is on the way.’ “

I untie the ribbon

and open the box.

And for the second time

in two days,

I burst into tears.

There, nestled in tissue paper,

is a foot-long memento baseball bat.

It says

PHILLIES WORLD CHAMPIONS

2008.

Mrs. Harden grins.

“I was going to give it to you

for your birthday.”

I hug the bat to my chest.

“This is birthday and Easter

and Christmas

for the rest of my life!”

Later,

Alison and I are sitting

on the front porch.

I’m reading to her

the first chapter of

Black Beauty
,

which Ms. Mott recommended to me

since it was written in the 1800s.

Reading aloud is one way

I try to get Alison into a book.

Alison inspects her nails,

flaps at a fly,

yawns.

“I’m bored,” she says.

I give a sigh.

“How can you be bored?

I just started. Besides,

don’t you want to be an actress?”

Alison shrugs. “Yeah—so?”

“So actresses have to read scripts.”

She snorts. “I know that.

When I was in the school play,

I not only read the whole play—

I memorized it.”

“I rest my case,” I say. “You do read.”

“Only plays I’m in.”

“Just let me finish this chapter.”

Alison gives me a wicked grin.

“Can’t. Here comes Gilbert,

your not-boyfriend.”

Gilbert isn’t here for me.

“Is your dad around?”

he asks.

“Mr. Kim’s lawn mower

won’t start.

I can’t figure out

what’s wrong.”

Dad loves tinkering

with lawn mowers.

There are four in our garage.

Only one works.

The others Dad got at yard sales.

They don’t run now, but they will.

And once they work,

he’ll give them away

and buy more.

Mom calls it

Dad’s “harmless addiction.”

Like hers with books.

Dad has worked on

Mr. Kim’s lawn mower before.

Mr. Kim, who recently retired

from NASA,

always jokes with Dad.

He says: “I can send a man

to the moon, but don’t ask me

to fix a lawn mower.”

Dad comes out to the front porch.

Parker too.

Gilbert gives Parker a friendly punch

on the arm.

“Nice cape, buddy,” he says.

Parker eyeballs Gilbert’s watch.

“Nice watch.”

“Thanks. I got it at Trader Bill’s.”

Parker lowers his voice to a whisper.

“Be careful with that watch.

There’s robbers in town.”

Alison shoots me a look.

I ignore her.

Gilbert tilts his head,

reads my book title.

“
Black Beauty
, huh?

Any good?”

“Just getting started,” I say.

“Well, you can tell me

how you like it

over ice cream,”

he says.

He winks at me.

“Someday.”

Alison jabs me

with her elbow,

hisses under her breath:

“Aha!”

I decide to clean the kitchen

for when Mom comes home.

Dad’s great with lawn mowers

and grilled cheese sandwiches

and history

and lots of other stuff.

But cleaning—forget it.

Parker wants to help.

He stands on a chair

to wash Dad’s coffee mug

and topples over.

Next he drops the sugar bowl.

Then he steps on my foot.

“Time to go play,” I tell him.

He stomps off.

“Play, play, play—that’s all I do.”

A familiar voice replies:

“What a tragic life you have, Parky.”

I scream—

“Mom!”

I race into the hall.

I throw my arms around Mom’s neck.

“I thought you weren’t coming home

until tomorrow night.”

Mom tucks a strand of hair

behind my ear.

“Oh, sweetie, I missed you all so much.”

Early Saturday morning

Dad calls:

“Who wants to

go to the Pancake Palace?”

My eyes pop open.

Chocolate chip pancakes—

one of the best foods

ever invented.

I’m dressed and ready to go

in two minutes.

The waitress hands us our menus.

They’re so big that Parker—

who can’t read but pretends he can—

totally disappears behind his.

But not before the waitress says:

“Hey—aren’t you the little boy

who called 911?

The little hero?”

Grandma Fludd has sent gifts

home with Mom:

A fountain pen for Dad.

(He uses ballpoint.)

A box of cactus candy for Parker.

(He takes one bite and spits it out.)

And for me—

oh no—

a pair of earrings.

Clip-ons

shaped like saguaros.

I roll my eyes.

Mom tells me: “Sit tight.

I’ll be right back.”

Mom comes back

with a cardboard box.

She pulls stuff out:

A Tommy Tool screwdriver.

A pair of brown mittens

as wide as waffles.

A fan with the logo

of Frawley’s Funeral Parlor

on the front.

A pin in the shape of a crab.

A pair of ballet slippers.

I gape. “I didn’t know you took ballet.”

Mom laughs. “I didn’t.”

“Then what—”

Suddenly it dawns on me.

“Grandma Fludd gave you

this junk,” I say.

Mom shakes her head.

“Not Grandma Fludd.

And absolutely

not junk.”

Mom tells me about Grandma O’Dell.