by Sally Warner
“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.
11
Explaining Things to Anthony Scarpetto
“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.”
“Aw, thanks, Anthony,” I say, because this is a major, major compliment. “Only you can’t ever have a big sister, because that means she’d be older than you. And you’re always going to be the oldest kid in your family.”
“I’m the only kid in my family,” Anthony points out. “And I can have a big sister if I want one. The End,” he adds, scowling. He snaps his scissors at me a couple of times to emphasize his point.
For some goofy reason I can’t let this big sister thing pass. “You can maybe have a little sister one day,” I try to explain, “or a little brother. But you’ll always be the oldest kid in your family. It’s just the way things are, Anthony.”
“But I don’t want a little brother,” Anthony shouts, and ka-pow!—construction paper strips go flying everywhere.
I can see that I was an optimist to think we would get enough paper chains done tonight to decorate both our Christmas trees.
“Don’t cry, Anthony,” I say, trying to calm him down.
“I wanna be the only boy in our family,” Anthony wails. “And anyway, Mommy’s not even preg-mump.”
“Pregnant. Pregnant,” I say, nervously looking around as I correct him. Because what is Anthony’s mom going to think if she walks into the room right now and I’m talking about how babies are born?
Especially when I’m not even sure of all the details myself?
Explaining things to Anthony Scarpetto is tough, but someone has to try. “Look, Anthony,” I say. “First your mom and your dad had you, so you’re the oldest kid. And if they have another kid, it’ll be—”
Anthony springs to his feet in a rage. “You’re not the boss of me,” he cries. “And I can have a big sister if I want one, because I’ve been good. Anyway, it’s not up to you, it’s up to Santa! The End.”
“Well, you’re not being very good right now,” I grumble, picking up the construction paper strips.
“What?”
“I said, Okay! What-ever,” I tell him, and he settles right down.
“What-ever,” he echoes, satisfied. “What-ever.”
“But don’t go around saying that,” I tell him, nervous once more. “Because it’s kind of rude, according to my mom.”
“Okay,” Anthony says, searching for his scissors. “So do you like him now?” he asks me after he has found the scissors and is looking around for something to cut.
“Who?”
“The falling-napkin guy who took you out for flying meatballs,” Anthony says. “Do you like him?”
I flap my own construction paper strips back and forth like a skinny fan and frown while I think about Anthony’s question. “Dennis is okay,” I finally say. “He really is. Of course, I wish my mom would just stay home with me. But if she has to go out with someone, I guess he’s not the worst person in the world.”
“But—what if he wants to be your new daddy?” Anthony asks, worried.
“Well, he can’t be my daddy,” I snap. “Because I already have a real one. In London. So The End to you, too.”
“I never seen your real daddy,” Anthony says, his brown eyes narrowing with suspicion.
“‘I never saw him,’” I say, correcting him.
“So, ha ha,” Anthony says, like he’s just won an argument.
I just sigh, because I have walked right into that crazy, invisible Anthony wall once more. It’s hard to avoid it, really.
“But Merry Christmas early, Emma,” Anthony says. “Even though you’re so wrong about stuff. And I am going to get a fire truck, because I already seen it in the hall closet.”
“Congratulations,” I tell him. “And Merry Christmas early to you, too, by the way.
”
“What-ever,” Anthony says, busy with a few construction paper strips once more.
But then he flashes me a sideways grin, and all of a sudden I feel sure that everything is going to be okay.
I’m pretty sure, anyway!
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Turn the page to peek inside more Books featuringg the irrepressible Emma . . .
You are always the boss—of other kids, anyway—when you are at your own house. That’s the rule, even though no one ever wrote it down.
Until now.
“Oh, let’s not get carried away, Cynthia,” I say, which is actually something my mom says to me fairly often. Only she calls me Emma, not Cynthia, of course.
Mom says “in a pickle” when she means that a person is in trouble. Or else she says “in a jam.” She likes food talk, I guess.
Annie Pat and I are getting ready for Thanksgiving—ten days away, Mom says—by stretching our stomachs. You have to do this from the inside, with food, because outside stretching doesn’t work. We already tried that.
I take a deep breath. “I want this gold star to be yours, in honor of us being such excellent friends.” And I give her one of my stars—a little slowly, but I do it.
And it’s my best star, too.
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