Happily Ever Emma (4 page)

And how can anyone say it
didn’t
happen? Do people actually think that Triceratops
knew
they were called Triceratops? Maybe they thought of themselves as
greenops,
instead.

“Emma?” a voice behind me says.

Wow! How did Ms. Sanchez sneak up behind me?

I try to hide my fake words from her eyes. “I’d like to talk to you for a minute, please, Miss
Lopisol
,” she murmurs. “In the back of the room. Eyes on your papers, people,” she calls out to the kids who are now staring at me: Annie Pat, who is looking worried, and EllRay, who is looking sympathetic, and Cynthia, whose eyes are shining with excitement.

Sometimes Cynthia Harbison

reminds me of a jackal. My favorite nature book says that jackals are “opportunistic carnivores.” I think that means they’ll pounce on any animal that’s down— like Cynthia does with me—and then
eat
it.

I slink to the back of the class, behind Ms. Sanchez. She takes me gently by the shoulder. “What’s up, Emma?” she says, which reminds me so much of that cartoon guy Elmer Fudd for a second that I start to giggle again. I think I’m nervous.

“Sorry,” I say, trying to make my mouth obey me and stop laughing.

Ms. Sanchez scowls—and she’s
still
pretty. “This is not funny, Emma,” she tells me. “You’re not acting at all like yourself today.”

She’s right! She’s right! Because I am
not
myself today. I am a girl whose father lives in England and whose mother is now dating a strange man.

Which leaves me
all alone,
in case you didn’t notice. I’m practically an orphan!

I try to find the words that will make Ms. Sanchez like me again, without me having to tell her my private business. “I’m sorry. But—my stomach hurts,” I say, clutching at my middle.

Ta-da!
I have instantly turned a small worry-ache in my stomach into what Ms. Sanchez must be thinking are sharp, stabbing pains, with the possible forecast of hurling in the immediate future, and I feel only a little bit guilty.

“I think I’d better go home,” I add, my voice weak. “Before I—
you
know.”

Before I
vomit
, I add silently
.
Before I
vomit,
Ms. Sanchez! All over your cute brown boots!

I don’t say this last part out loud, but I don’t have to. Teachers everywhere hate it when a student throws up in class, because then they have to take care of the sick kid
and
wait for the custodian with the sawdust at the same time. Also, one or two other kids in class are sure to start gagging, just thinking about what happened.

Vomiting can be contagious—like yawning, only a hundred times worse, because yawning never involves a custodian with sawdust.

Ms. Sanchez has already stepped back a couple of paces, probably to protect her boots. “I’ll call the school nurse and tell her you’re coming,” she says in a great big hurry.

“Can’t you just call my mom?” I ask in a wheedly, about-to-barf way. “She’s home. She
works
at home.”

“That’ll be up to the nurse,” Ms. Sanchez tells me. “Now, go gather your things, Emma. Remember to get your jacket from the closet, too. And I hope we see you back here soon, honey.
Feel better.”

And do you know what?

I already do!

“Of course you’re well enough to go back to school tomorrow,” my mom tells me right after dinner. “Look at what you just ate, for heaven’s sake.”

Meatballs, mashed potatoes, and peas. And applesauce for dessert.

Sure, I ate everything. But maybe I was only being polite.

“In my humble opinion,” Mom says, “you were well enough
today
to stay in school.” She gives me a look. “The nurse said so, Emma. In fact, I don’t know why I let you talk me into bringing you home. I figured you needed a day off, so I gave in. But don’t press your luck, sweetie.”

“I
did
need a day off,” I agree. “And about that so-called school nurse, I don’t think she really even is one! She doesn’t wear a uniform, Mom. Just regular clothes. And she keeps saying ‘tummy,’ instead of ‘stomach,’ which is just
wrong,
if you’re a real nurse. Sure, she has a stethoscope and a name tag, but that doesn’t make it official. Anyone can buy those things in a costume store.”

Mom laughs. “So you think the school nurse is pulling off some elaborate stunt because she really, really, really wants little kids to sneeze on her all day long? And upchuck in her office?”

“Hey, I just ate,” I remind my mom, cradling my stomach—which really could still be queasy, for all she knows.

But I do think it’s funny how my mom says “upchuck.” What a weird word. It reminds me of
woodchuck.
Did you know that a woodchuck is the same thing as a groundhog? And that woodchucks are mostly vegetarians, and by the end of October they are fast asleep under the ground—for the entire winter? Sounds okay to me, the way things are going.

“You will be at school tomorrow,” Mom says slowly. She gives one last wipe to the kitchen counter with a Santa Claus dish towel and then throws the towel into an almost-full laundry basket.

Then she tosses her library

book into the basket, too. “I’ll be downstairs doing the wash,” she says in her coolest voice. “Remember, Emma, don’t open the front door to anyone,
no matter what.”
We usually do the laundry together on Saturday morning, not Monday night, so it is clear that my mom is just trying to get away from me for a while.

“But what if there’s an emergency?” I ask, trying to sound pathetic. “I won’t be able to call you. You lost your cell phone, remember?”

“
You
lost it, Emma, and there won’t be an emergency. But if there is, start yelling, and I’ll hear you. Or dial nine-one-one.”

“What if I get hungry?”

“In the next
hour
?” Mom asks, smiling. “Eat some fruit, Emma. You have my permission. Live it up.”

“What if I get scared?”

“Turn on all the lights. Or call Annie Pat. Look, Emma,” my mother says, leaning forward to make sure I hear each word. “It’s not as if I’m taking off for Las Vegas. I will just be down one flight of stairs and around the corner, in our condominium’s laundry room. You’ve been half-a-step away from me all day long, ever since you talked your way home from school this morning. So I really need some time alone with a washing machine, a dryer, and a good book. Understand?”

“No,” I mumble. Because I will
never
understand why my mom doesn’t want to be with me every single minute of every single day. Until last Friday, I thought she did.

Me, and only me! We were going to live happily ever Emma.

I mean happily ever
after.

This is all the fault of that date.

“Good,” Mom says, which proves she wasn’t listening to me.

I’m not really afraid of being almost alone for an hour, even when it’s dark outside. Oak Glen is a safe place to live, and Candelaria is a quiet street, and our condo is packed with people—mostly old—who peek out of their windows when anyone even tiptoes by. But it makes me feel nervous when my very own mom acts like it’s a chore just being around me.

I try to go over my spelling list, but how can you practice spelling words all by yourself?

Luckily, I can stop even trying, because the kitchen phone is ringing.
Brrr-rrr!
“Hi, A.P.,” I say, picking up the receiver—because I am sure it is Annie Pat calling to tell me how wrong my mom was for going on that date.

“Hello,” an unfamiliar man’s voice says. “Is Maggie there?”

Maggie is my mom: Margaret “Maggie” McGraw.

It’s that man she went out with.
I’m sure of it!

My brain is suddenly flooded with choices.
One,
I could just hang up, or
two,
I could pretend I only speak some strange foreign language, or
three,
I could say he has the wrong number and
then
hang up, or
four,
I could say that my mother doesn’t want to talk to him ever again, or
five,
I could say,
“She can’t come to the phone right now,”
and then take a message, which is what I’m supposed to do if my mom happens to be busy when somebody calls.