Happily Ever Emma (9 page)

“Any place for lunch? And
any
movie?” I ask, not really believing it, because
one
, movies are expensive, even in the afternoon, and
two
, it is just about impossible to get a grown-up to take you to something you really want to see.

Which, in this case, is a new movie about a beautiful girl my age who lives near a crystal castle, and she discovers that she is really the princess of all the elves and fairies in the realm. Cynthia Harbison told me all about it last week at school. It’s called
Silla’s Crystal Kingdom
, and it’s in 3-D, and it costs extra for the glasses—which I think Dennis Engleman will have to wear on top of his other glasses, if we actually go. I guess that will move him down a notch from medium handsome to just sort of handsome, but I don’t think my mom will mind.

“So, what do you say?” Dennis Engelman asks patiently.

“I say
sure
,” I tell him shyly. “If it’s okay with my mom, I mean. And okay with Annie Pat’s mom, too, but she’ll probably say yes, because they have a new baby over there. So she says yes to everything.”

“Good. Where would you like to go for lunch?” he asks. “Maybe I can make a reservation.”

“Well, there’s this one place,” I say, daring to dream. “I haven’t actually been there, not personally, but I don’t think it’s really a reservation kind of place, because it wasn’t planned for grown-ups. It’s for desserts, mainly, and birthday parties, and it’s got silver balloons, and sparkles, and everything. But this girl I know told me they have regular food, too. Oh, and they even have a giant golden birdcage with a table inside,” I add, excited, trying to remember all the stuff Cynthia was bragging about. “It’s called
Galore!
,” I add. “It’s pink, and it’s across from the Oak Glen post office. But you wouldn’t know where that is,” I add, remembering suddenly that he lives in some other town.

“I’ll look it up,” he tells me. “You call your friend, and your mom and I will work out all the details. Bye, Emma. See you later.”

“Bye,” I say, hoping I can figure out a way to turn off Mom’s new phone before Dennis Engelman changes his mind. I press End, and hope that’s it, which it is.

Wow, I think, this is kind of like bribery.

But it’s
working
.

It is almost six thirty at night by the time Mom and I unlock the front door and stumble inside. My stomach is full of my chili dog and the hot fudge sundae with a cherry on top—eaten inside that golden cage!—and my brain is full of beautiful crystal castles and billowing white movie clouds and really cute fairies and elves.

Annie Pat liked the movie too, and she
loved
the 3-D glasses.

“My ears,” Mom says, plopping her purse onto a living room chair and flinging herself on the sofa. “They’re still ringing with all those
songs.
But in a good way,” she adds quickly, smiling at me.

“I know,” I tell her happily. “Weren’t they cute? And wasn’t Silla
adorable
, with her silky golden hair falling down to the back of her knees?”

“Adorable,” Mom agrees.

“I’m gonna grow out
my
hair,” I say, snuggling in next to my mom for a cuddle.

“Down to the back of your knees?” she asks, giving me a squeeze. “We can barely get the brush through it now, honey. Not that I don’t love your hair just the way it is.”

“Tangled up,” I say, sighing.

“Some things just seem to have a way of getting tangled up,” my mother replies, and I suddenly get the feeling that she’s not talking about hair anymore. She’s probably talking in Mom-code about her and my dad, or maybe about Dennis Engelman and me. Or even about divorce.

“Yeah,” I agree quietly. “And sometimes you can’t use conditioner on the tangles.”

“But you can straighten them out just the same,” Mom says. “Given time.”

“I guess,” I say, giving up on the code. “Annie Pat thinks Dennis Engelman is handsome,” I tell her after a quiet moment or two. My head is curled against her chest, so I’m not looking at her. It’s easier to talk that way.

“Really?” Mom says, sounding happy. “And what about you, Emma? Do you like him?”

“He’s okay,” I mumble. “He knows how to have fun, in an expensive kind of way. Not that I’m complaining.”

“I’m glad you had a good time, darling,” my mother says.

“Mom?” I ask after another quiet moment, when the only sound has been the furnace thumping on, and the clock on the mantel chiming seven, because it’s always twelve minutes early.

“Mmm?” my mother says, sounding drowsy.

“Does Daddy know about Dennis Engelman?”

She’s awake again. I can feel it.

“I may have mentioned him in an e-mail, Emma,” she says carefully.

That’s a
yes
, by the way.

“Why?” Mom asks. “Does that bother you, Emma?”

“A little,” I confess. “Even though I know it doesn’t really make any sense, because Daddy got married again, and everything.”

“And everything,” Mom echoes faintly.

“And Mr. Engelman doesn’t even
know
Daddy,” I add. “So it’s not like he’s being a bad friend to him. And Dennis Engelman is nice to kids,” I add, trying to think of all his good points. “And he’s quiet during movies, which is important, and he’s funny, too. Even Annie Pat says so. She liked the way he pretended to cry at the end of the movie, when the chief elf sacrificed his magic powers to save Silla’s life.”

“Do you ever think you’ll be able to just call him ‘Dennis,’ Emma?” Mom asks in a fake-teasing way, tickling me under my chin a little, which I usually like.

“Who? Mr. Engelman?” I ask, stalling for time while I try to figure out an easy answer to a not-easy question.

“Yes,
Mr. Engelman
,” Mom says.

“I guess,” I finally say. “It depends on how long he’s gonna be around.”

“It might be for a while,” Mom says, laughing and cuddling me at the same time. “For a long, long time, even.”

“Then I’ll think about it,” I tell her. “It’s a definite maybe, Mom.”

“I can live with that,” Mom says, smoothing my hair away from my face, which is something I also like.

“And I could live with some soup,” I murmur, even though half an hour ago, I thought I’d never be hungry again.

“Me too,” my mom says. “I’ll go heat some up, okay?”

“For just us two,” I say, giving her hand one last squeeze.

“Just us two,” Mom agrees. “For now, anyway,” she calls over her shoulder from down the hall.

“I guess I can live with that,” I tell the empty room.

“Was the spaghetti good when you went to that fancy restaurant?” Anthony asks five nights later at his house, because my mom is out with Dennis again—alone, this time.

Spaghetti is Anthony’s favorite food, so he is waiting for an answer, even though he has already heard all the now-funny details about the bad things that happened that night. “Yeah,” I tell him. “You would have loved it, Ant.”

“I’m back to Anthony,” Anthony says, sighing. “Because Natalie said she’d squish me if I was an ant. And she could do it, too,” he adds, shuddering. Then he snaps his blunt-nosed scissors a couple of times, getting ready to attack the long, narrow strips of construction paper fanned out across his little desk. We are making paper chains for Christmas, which is almost here.

I wonder if Dennis will get me a present?

“What do you want for Christmas, Emma?” Anthony asks me.

“Lots of stuff,” I tell him. “But mainly CDs, clothes, and a microscope, so I can look at feathers and things up close.”

Not a
nuclear
microscope, of course. But a real, grown-up one would be nice.

“What do you want, Anthony?” I say, because I can tell he really wants me to ask. That’s why he brought it up, probably. It’s how people are when they talk, even kids.

Anthony puts his
shhh
finger to his lips, shifts his eyes around like he is looking for spies, then runs over to his bed as fast as his chunky little legs can carry him. He is wearing faded Spider-Man underpants and his pajama top, but I have stopped trying to improve his wardrobe.

He pulls a piece of paper out from under his pillow. On it are spelled the words
“E M A”
in green crayon letters and
“F A R T R K”
in red crayon letters.

Uh-oh. This reminds me of my fake word search, only worse.

“Is that supposed to be a bad word?” I ask, pointing to a few of the red letters. “Because you shouldn’t—”

“It spells
fire truck,”
Anthony says patiently, tracing his finger under the word. “My mom told me to write down what I want for Christmas, and so I did.”

“And what does this other word spell?” I ask, pointing to it.

Anthony laughs. “It spells
Emma,
Emma!” he says. “Because I want to get a big sister for Christmas. Only she has to be just like you.”