by Sally Warner
“But I’m hoping we can change our date to Friday,” the man—Dennis Engelman—continues. “Maybe we can meet at that Italian restaurant she likes in Escondido. At, say, seven thirty. And you’re welcome to join us, Emma. If this is Miss Emma McGraw to whom I am speaking,” he adds in a jokey way, speaking like someone in an old movie.
“I’m writing it all down,” I fib, not giving anything away. The man sighs. “So ask Maggie to call me at home tonight if there’s a problem with the change, okay? Or if she just wants to talk,” he adds, sounding a little lonely all of a sudden. “Sure. Okey-dokey. I’ll tell her,” I say through a mouthful of banana—because this strange-man-who-knows-my-name does not deserve my very best manners.
And he is not going to have a second date with my mom. “Thanks,” the man says. “Well, good-bye, young lady. Whoever you are!”
“Bye,” I say, and I hang up the phone as hard as I possibly can.
My mother is a lot calmer than before when she comes back upstairs from doing the laundry. “How’s the homework coming, Emma?” she asks, balancing the laundry basket on one hip. “Were there any phone calls?” She sounds shy.
Aha! So she thought he might call. And she didn’t even tell me about going out next Wednesday night. She was going to spring it on me!
“Nope,” I say, feeling only a little bit guilty. “My homework’s finished, and it’s been pretty quiet, except for when I ate a banana. Can I watch TV before bedtime?”
“For half an hour,” Mom says, nodding. “If we can agree on the show. And then you can read in bed a little, and then it’s nighty-night, sleep tight.”
“Nighty-night,” I agree, looking away. “Sleep tight.”
Maybe Dennis Engelman won’t sleep tight tonight, though—because Mom’s not going to call him, no matter how lonely he is.
6
Guilt Sandwich
“Did he sound tall, Emma?” Annie Pat asks me the next day, Tuesday, during lunch.
“How does a person sound tall? That doesn’t even make any sense,” I say. A cool breeze ruffles my curly brown hair, and Annie Pat’s pigtails quiver. I take a bite of my bagel sandwich.
“Well, what about handsome? Did he sound handsome?” she persists, nipping off the corner of her tuna sandwich and looking at me with her navy-blue eyes.
My friend Annie Pat is very romantic. She is trying to remain loyal to me by not liking the man my mom went out with on a date, but at the same time, she wants that man to be wonderful.
“Did who sound handsome?” Kry Rodriguez says, plopping down next to me on the bench and opening her lunchbox, which she decorated herself with stickers and sequins. And it looks great, that’s how cool Kry is.
I wanted this talk with Annie Pat to be private, but we both like Kry a lot. Kry is fun to be with and to look at, because her shiny black hair falls over her shoulders like a waterfall. Also, Kry’s bangs are so long that Annie Pat sometimes wonders how
she can see. But I know that Kry can see perfectly well—the way Yorkshire Terriers can see, even though their long, silky fur may be flopping way over their eyes.
Spread your fingers apart, hold your hand in front of your face, and then stare through your open fingers at something in the distance. That’s what it must be like for hairy dogs, and for Kry.
Annie Pat nudges my ribs with her elbow and looks sideways at me, silently asking whether she should answer Kry—because this whole thing about my mom going on a date is supposed to be a deep dark secret.
But what Annie Pat doesn’t know is that I am keeping some things secret even from her. For instance, I did not tell her about Dennis needing to cancel his date with my mother on Wednesday night. And I didn’t tell Annie Pat that he is expecting my mom to meet him for dinner at an Italian restaurant in Escondido on Friday.
Of course, I didn’t tell my mother those things, either, which will make Wednesday night at our house bad, bad, bad for my mom, and Friday night at the restaurant extremely strange and sad for Dennis.
I hope. Because maybe then he’ll give up.
But all this drama is giving me an unfamiliar, funny feeling inside, somewhere between my stomach and my throat. Is this what guilt feels like?
Hey, Annie Pat is sitting on one side of me, and Kry is on the other, and I am stuck in the middle. It’s a guilt sandwich! Because Annie Pat and Kry are really nice, the way I used to be.
I still think I did the right thing about that phone call, though. But even if I didn’t, it’s too late to make it right. And it’s not as if I told my mom a big fat lie. I just didn’t tell her one small skinny truth, that’s all.
“Is who handsome?” Kry asks patiently.
I decide that I might feel better if I tell Kry some of what has been happening. After all, her mom is divorced, too, so maybe she’ll understand. “My mother went out on a date with some random guy a week ago,” I say, trying to say it in a way that is fair, but that will make Kry see everything my way. “And she just shouldn’t have, that’s all. But her date called last night when Mom was downstairs doing the laundry, and I forgot to give her the message. Only it’s for her own good,” I add, believing the words the second I say them.
It is for my mother’s own good—because look at how miserable she was when she got divorced! I was only four years old, but even I could tell that she was pretty sad. She cried a lot, and she forgot how to have fun for a long time, and she told her friends she couldn’t talk about it, and then she talked to them about it on the phone for hours.
It was boring.
She even packed the wrong day-care snack for me—more than once, too.
How could she even think of dating again?
“Whoa,” Kry says, her sandwich frozen halfway to her mouth. “You’d better tell her he called, Emma,” she advises. “You have to tell grown-ups when they get a phone message, or—or—”
“Or an emergency could happen,” Annie Pat says, her eyes wide as she finishes Kry’s sentence.
“Yeah,” Kry agrees, nodding solemnly. “And you might not be allowed to answer the phone any more.”
“Who cares?” I say, shrugging. “It rings too much anyway.”
Kry sighs. “I wish my mom would start dating again,” she announces to Annie Pat and me.
“No you don’t,” I tell her.
“Yes I do,” Kry says, rummaging in her lunch box for something good to eat. “Maybe it would cheer her up a little.”
If Kry says something, it’s because she means it, so I give up.
Annie Pat nods slightly, as if agreeing with Kry about how Mrs. Rodriguez should start dating again.
They agree! It’s two against one.
Now, I really can’t tell Annie Pat and Kry the details about my mom’s date tomorrow night, and the next-Friday date, and how neither one is going to happen, thanks to me.
I feel lonely, even though I am the only right person in the entire world.
And I still have that bad feeling stuck somewhere between my stomach and my throat.
But maybe it’s just a piece of my bagel sandwich.
7
A Bad Night on Candelaria Road
It is a wet Wednesday afternoon, and I am walking home from school as slowly as I can without going backward. I stare at people’s droopy, drippy holiday decorations.
I pretend I am a sloth, one of the pokiest animals on earth.
Maybe everything will be okay tonight, I think, trying hard to cheer myself up. Maybe Dennis Engelman called my mom again to remind her he had to cancel, but magically, they’re not mad at me. Or, if he didn’t call again, maybe Mom is relieved. Maybe—
“Come on, Emma,” Annie Pat says from somewhere under the hood of her shiny pink raincoat. “Can’t you walk any faster?”
The rain patters down on my own hood. (I wear a slicker because I always lose umbrellas.) “Nope,” I tell her gloomily. “You go on ahead.”
“Okay,” Annie Pat says. “But only because I have to. My mom is waiting for me so we
can take Murphy to the doctor. He has an appointment,” she says, making it sound like a big deal—as if her little brother is the president of some bank, and not just an ordinary baby. “The toothless wonder,” Annie Pat and I have started calling him.
He is pretty cute, though, with his little tufts of red hair and his crazy gummy smile.
“Bye,” I call out, because Annie Pat is already skipping down the sidewalk toward her own street, Sycamore Lane, which is two blocks past my street, Candelaria Road.
Except Annie Pat has a house, not a condo, and she has a baby brother, and two parents who stayed married. Also, as far as I know, she doesn’t have a guilty conscience about anything.
Some kids have all the luck.
“I’m home,” I whisper as I close our front door behind me.
“Emma,” Mom exclaims from down the hall, and I am horrified to see her rush into the living room wearing a bathrobe and a towel wrapped like a turban around her head.
This means she just washed her hair, which is something she usually does in the morning—unless it’s a special occasion.
Oh, no. She is getting all fixed up for her canceled date tonight!
“Where have you been?” Mom asks, looking at an imaginary watch on her still-damp wrist. “I expected you half an hour ago. I was getting worried!”
“I’m sorry,” I say, dropping my backpack onto the floor and peeling off my crayon-yellow slicker. “Annie Pat had to stay late at school,” I explain, making up the lie on the spot.
Telling it doesn’t seem too bad, though, compared to what I did on Monday night. Or what I didn’t do—which was to tell my mom that Dennis Engelman called.
And that he’s not coming tonight.
Being bad seems to get easier once you’ve already started, especially if you get away with it the first time.
I guess I’m big bad Emma these days.
“Well, you’re here now, at least,” Mom says, rubbing her sticking-out hair with the towel. “Grab a snack, sweetie, and get started on your homework. Because—surprise! There’s a really fun sitter coming, and if you’ve finished all your work, you guys can watch TV together.”
“A sitter?” I yelp, because ever since we moved to Oak Glen, I have always gone over to Annie Pat’s house, or Anthony Scarpetto’s, whenever my mom has had to do something alone.
“That’s right,” my mother says, nodding. “And you’re finally going to get to meet my friend Dennis Engelman tonight, Emma. I decided it’s time. Then he and I have dinner plans. And since it’s a school night, I figured you’d be better off staying home with a sitter, so you could get your work done and get to bed on time.”
“But—who’s coming?” I ask in a croaky voice, because we have lived in Oak Glen for more than four months, and like I said, I have never had an at-home sitter. Not once. I am too old and too mature for an official sitter, in my opinion. Anyway, what did Mom do? Go out on the street and ask the first stranger she met to come over tonight and watch TV with me?
“Who’s the sitter?” I ask again, barely squeezing out the words.
“Her name’s Shayna,” my mom says happily. “And she and her family live downstairs. She’s in high school, Emma, and she’s just adorable. I met her in the laundry room last Monday night.”
I can’t even move. I just stare at my mom.
Mom still thinks Dennis Engelman is coming over tonight to take her out.
And she wants to “finally” introduce us—after just one date!
But he isn’t coming, because he’s feeding seafood to a visitor in San Diego.
And Mom won’t know what to think when he doesn’t show up.
And there’s going to be an adorable witness to this entire disaster.
I don’t know what was going on in my brain at the time, but when I didn’t give my mother that phone message on Monday night, I never dreamed I’d get caught. I guessed that Mom would say, “Oh well, good riddance!” when Dennis Engelman didn’t appear tonight, and I figured Dennis Engelman would want to forget all about my mom when she stood him up next Friday. I thought things would get back to normal around here. I never planned on this.
It’s going to be a bad night on Candelaria Road.
And on top of everything else, there is no way I can keep from getting in trouble when they figure out what I did. Or, rather, what I didn’t.
“Get a move on, Emma,” my mom says, laughing.
“Okay,” I say, and I plod into the kitchen for my after-school snack, which I barely manage to choke down.
“Wow, this is pretty harsh,” Shayna whispers to me two and a half hours later. “Your mom’s date is more than an hour late. And she bought a new pink dress, too.”
Shayna is really cute, and she’s also very nice. She brought a stack of celebrity magazines that we are looking at together, which is a privilege, since she knows so much about famous people. And we are watching TV at the same time.
It is the exact opposite of my normal everyday life.
This would be so extremely cool—if it weren’t so terrible! Because Shayna’s right. Mom is sitting all alone in the kitchen, waiting for Dennis Engelman to show up and take her out for dinner, and he is probably still eating shrimp cocktail in San Diego. Or maybe he and his business guy are eating dessert by now. Extra-fancy hot fudge sundaes.
“Why doesn’t she just call him again?” Shayna asks, keeping her voice low. Her forehead is wrinkled with concern for my mom. “Maybe he finally turned his cell on. That jerk!”
“She won’t call him again,” I murmur, turning a magazine page with cold fingers. “My mom’s not exactly the type to keep calling someone up over and over.” Especially not a man, I add silently, because Mom is pretty old-fashioned in a lot of ways.
“Well, I’d call him, if that was me sitting in the kitchen, and I’d tell him where to get off, too,” Shayna whispers, furious on my mom’s behalf. She whips her caramel-colored ponytail around like she is getting ready to go into battle.
Shayna sure cares a lot about my mom, and she barely even knows her!
This makes me feel guiltier than ever. Here I am, Mom’s daughter, who a minute ago was having fun while looking at photographs of famous people. Meanwhile, poor Mom is fidgeting with her brand-new pink dress in the kitchen. And she hardly ever buys new clothes.
Mom probably thinks that Dennis Engelman doesn’t care enough about her even to call.
I blush with shame, but I still cannot figure out a way to tell my mom the truth.
Epecially not with Shayna here. “Are you sure it’s a new dress?” I whisper, flipping another page. “Because I think maybe I’ve seen her wear it before.”
“No, it’s new, all right,” Shayna tells me. “Your mom bought it just for tonight. She told me it was their six-month anniversary, and she wanted to wear something special. Oh, this is messed-up.”
“She’s been seeing Dennis Engelman for six months?” I squawk. “But—but I thought they only went out one time!”
Shayna shakes her head, and her turquoise eyes—contacts?—shine with sympathy for my poor mother. “They’ve been dating for six months,” she says firmly. “And then he just blows her off like this. I don’t think she should stand for it,” she announces, jumping up from the sofa.
Oh, no! What’s she going to do, start offering my mom dating advice? “Wait,” I say, tugging at her sleeve. “You’d better stay here, Shayna. Because—my mom likes to be alone when she’s upset.”
“Really?” Shayna says, glancing longingly toward the kitchen.
And, as if she’s been summoned by magic, my mother is suddenly standing in the living room, holding the phone. The blusher on her cheeks looks like two
pink patches on her white, white face. “I’m calling the police,” she announces. “Because there must have been a car accident or something, and that’s why Dennis hasn’t called.”
8
Short And Sweet
“I’ll make this short and sweet,” Mom says to m
e fifteen minutes later, after Shayna has been hustled out the front door with a fistful of money—money that she almost didn’t accept.
I will never forget the way Shayna looked at me when I blurted out why Mom should not call the police. Or the look my mother gave me, which was even worse.
“I already said I’m sorry,” I mumble, not daring to look Mom in the eye.
“I beg your pardon?” my mom says, which in Mom-talk means that she cannot believe what she just heard. She is as angry as I have ever seen her.
“Nothing,” I say hastily.
“Good answer,” Mom snaps. “So, here it is, short and sweet, Emma. I want you to write Dennis a letter of apology—and write one to me, too, while you’re at it.”
“But I never even met him,” I object weakly. “And he doesn’t know I didn’t give you the message. So why do I have to apologize to him?”
“You wouldn’t have said a word if I hadn’t said I was going to call the police,” Mom replies, not really answering my question. “And would it have been okay with you if I’d just cried myself to sleep?”
Hearing her say this, I can barely keep from crying myself. “No. I would have felt terrible,” I tell her.
“Oh, boo-hoo,” my mother says angrily. “But you wouldn’t have bothered to tell me that Dennis was expecting me to meet him for dinner this Friday, either, would you?”
“I don’t know-w-w,” I say, my tears finally spilling over. “After Shayna said you were wearing a new dress, I was trying to figure out a way to tell you, only I didn’t want to get in trouble!”
“Well, why shouldn’t you get in trouble when you’ve done something wrong?” Mom asks, fed up.
I don’t have a very good answer to that question. “You don’t have to be so mean,” I finally say, hoping this will trick her into feeling at least a little bit sorry for me.
“Oh, yes I do,” my mom says in her most serious voice.