So Totally Emily Ebers
Page 1
CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
DEDICATION
JUNE 7
JUNE 8
JUNE 9
JUNE 12
JUNE 14
JUNE 15
JUNE 17
JUNE 18
JUNE 20
JUNE 21
JUNE 22
JUNE 24
JUNE 25
JUNE 26
JUNE 29
JUNE 30
JULY 2
JULY 3
JULY 4
JULY 5
JULY 6
JULY 7
JULY 8
JULY 9
JULY 10
JULY 11
JULY 13
JULY 14
JULY 16
JULY 18
JULY 19
JULY 20
JULY 21
JULY 24
JULY 25
JULY 26
JULY 28
JULY 29
JULY 30
AUGUST 1
AUGUST 3
AUGUST 4
AUGUST 6
AUGUST 7
AUGUST 8
AUGUST 9
AUGUST 10
AUGUST 11
AUGUST 12
AUGUST 13
AUGUST 14
AUGUST 15
AUGUST 16
AUGUST 17
AUGUST 18
AUGUST 19
AUGUST 21
AUGUST 22
AUGUST 23
AUGUST 24
AUGUST 25
AUGUST 26
AUGUST 27
AUGUST 28
AUGUST 29
AUGUST 30
AUGUST 31
SEPTEMBER 1
SEPTEMBER 2
SEPTEMBER 3
SEPTEMBER 4
SEPTEMBER 5
TEASER FOR WARP SPEED
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
ALSO AVAILABLE
COPYRIGHT
JUNE 7
Dear Dad,
Today was the last day of school and the second saddest day of my entire life. A.J. and Nicole were crying and crying, and I was crying, and then Mrs. Buono started crying. This freaked everyone out because teachers aren’t supposed to cry. My whole class had made me a humongous card, and everyone wrote nice things, even Evan. When I finished reading it, I began bawling and Nicole started wheezing so badly that Mrs. Buono was convinced she was having another asthma attack. A.J. and I offered to take Nicole to the nurse.
We managed to wait until we were halfway down the hall to begin laughing hysterically.
When we could breathe again, A.J. brought up the time we were in first grade and Mr. Kinnoin won the lottery. He climbed up on his desk and shouted, “Okay, you little weenies, you’re never going to see me in a classroom again!” Then he burst into tears and ran out of the room.
Nicole reminded us how in second grade we dressed as the three little pigs for Halloween, and whenever anyone asked us anything, we’d just make piggy noises. Then I remembered when A.J.’s hamster died and we had a funeral for her, and then we all started crying all over again.
It’s after midnight now. The house is empty. The movers came today. When I got home from school, Mom was trailing them around shouting, “That’s fragile!” and “Do you have any idea what it would cost to replace that?!?!” She’s conked out in a sleeping bag next to the fireplace, still clutching her clipboard. I guess yelling at moving men is exhausting.
I’d better get to bed too. Tomorrow’s going to be rough. I wish you were here to sing me to sleep like you used to do when I was little. I packed my Elmo tape recorder in a box labeled “Emily’s Most Important Things.” It has the cassette of you singing “The Emily Song” in it. That’s the first thing I’m going to unpack when we get to California.
Good night, Daddy.
Love,
Emily
JUNE 8
Dear Dad,
I can’t believe we had to say good-bye. This is the second saddest day of my life. (I’m moving yesterday to the third saddest day of my life. Even though yesterday was bad, today was really, really bad, like rip-your-heart-out-and-stomp-on-it bad.) When we hugged I never wanted to let you go.
Do you still have Mom’s cell phone number? I know you had to write it on your hand when I gave it to you. I hope you didn’t accidentally wash it off. I know you’re not a phone person, but you should know how to reach us in case of an emergency. What about the malted milk balls I gave you? Are they all gone now? I’ll bet they are! And did you notice that I wrote our California address inside the card I made for you? I also wrote it on all those address labels to make it easy for you to write to me. Only if you want to, of course.
Did you cry when we said good-bye? I think I saw you cry. I know I was crying. After you drove off, I pulled up the for sale sign in the front yard and hid it behind the garage. It was a lot heavier than I thought it would be. When Mom found out, I got in big trouble.
“EMILY LAURA EBERS … how could you …?”
She never did finish her sentence.
As Mom backed out of the driveway and we took off, I turned around to watch our house get smaller and smaller. I said good-bye to Mrs. Metz’s lawn gnomes, and to the S. Cockroft Memorial Library, and to Twoheys. I said good-bye to the Town Clock, and to Crestwood Lake, and to the Celery Farm.
I said good-bye to Allendale, New Jersey.
After a while, I didn’t recognize where we were, so I stopped saying good-bye to everything and just zoned out.
“Shall we play the license-plate game?” Mom asked.
Huh? I had forgotten she was there. The sight of her gripping the steering wheel was so irritating I wanted to scream. Why can’t she be a more laid-back driver like you? I didn’t answer her stupid question about the stupid license-plate game, and she seemed to just forget she had asked. We didn’t talk at all. Not when we had lunch at McDonald’s, or when she went the wrong way on the turnpike, or when we checked into some motel in Pennsylvania at night. I didn’t even beg her to let me swim in the pool.
I can’t believe she’s doing this to us. Every mile we drive is a mile farther away from you. That’s why this letter journal is so important. It’s like I’m writing you letters that you’ll get all at once. I got the idea from Mrs. Buono when she told the class to keep a journal over the summer. I thought, instead of writing “Dear Diary,” why not write “Dear Dad”? I know you’re traveling and super-busy, but you can read it when summer’s over and you have more time. Then you’ll know what I’ve been up to and you won’t have to worry about me.
At our last stop, I bought a pack of gum, some peanut brittle, and a map of the United States. When we get to California, I’m going to put the map on my wall and mark all the places you will be visiting during your Talky Boys comeback tour. That way I can keep track of you. I wish, I wish, I wish I could be on the road with you instead of Mom. But I know. You told me, “Life on the road is tough when you’re in a band.” I totally believe it. It’s torture being here with Mom and we’re not even trying to sing or harmonize or anything. I hate her.
Love,
Emily
JUNE 9
Dear Dad,
It seems like every ten miles Mom pulls off to the side of the road and consults her maps and her AAA auto club books. She’s put Post-its on every page. “I think this side trip will be worth it, don’t you?” she asks, without waiting for my answer, and then she turns off the road for another sleep-inducing museum.
This is not a trip, it’s a bore-Emily-to-death ride. Only Mom calls it “A&E’s Americana Adventure.”
Overnight she’s gone from mute to nonstop yakking. She keeps saying, “This is so fun. Isn’t this fun?”
Uh. No.
I’m glad TB is riding in the car with me. Mom says that I’m a little old to be dragging around a teddy bear, but I don’t care. TB is my friend and he needs me.
Yesterday at the Johnny Appleseed Museum, some grungy barefoot guy wearing a name tag reading “Johnny A.” came up to me, said, “Welcome to Ohio!” and offered me an apple. I didn’t take it. Later, Mom said I was rude. I was not rude. I’m just not an apple person, okay? If I ate one, choked, and spit it up, that would be rude.
To make up for my “lack of consideration,” Mom made a big deal about joining the Johnny Appleseed Society. Then when Johnny A. offered her a complimentary basket of apples, she said, “Oh! They look lovely,” and proceeded to talk to him about apples for AN HOUR. Luckily, there was a honey exhibit nearby, and I passed the time by staring at the bees trapped between two panes of glass. I knew how they felt.
This afternoon, Mom kept singing, “Get your kicks on Route 66!” It wasn’t funny the first time she sang it, so why would she think I’d want to hear it seven hundred more times? When we stopped at the Amish Interpretive Center in Illinois, Mom started running around the gift shop in her gray velour tracksuit with an Amish bonnet stuck on her head.
“Here, Emily, you try one on!”
I wrapped myself up in a quilt and ignored her.
How did the pioneers do it? Did they have to ride with their mothers? There’s no way I’m going to make it to California.
Love,
Emily
JUNE 12
Hey Dad,
So get this. We’re in Missouri at the Museum of Independent Telephone Pioneers, and Mom grabs one of the old-fashioned phones and “calls” me. When I wouldn’t pick up, she pokes me and says, “Emily, answer the phone!”
Why? Why should I answer the phone when she’s standing right next to me? The museum was Mom’s idea of a good time. A building full of clunky telephones the size of cash registers. Fascinating.
Do you think you’ll ever get a cell phone again? Are you having a better time now that you’re “out of the rat race”? Wait. Don’t answer. Dumb question. Of course you are. Everyone knows you hated selling houses. I’m glad your band decided to reunite. Maybe someday, Nicole and A.J. and I will reunite. Maybe you and Mom will too. Just a thought.
The Boot Hill Museum in Kansas was much better than the telephone museum. I liked looking at the old posters of outlaws. Some of them were actually kind of cute. I wonder what it would be like to have a cowboy boyfriend. Would he take me to the mall on a horse? Would he wear his hat in a movie theater? Would he pay for dinner with gold nuggets?
Mom and I drank sarsaparillas and she even bought me a purple cowboy hat. When I’m not wearing it, TB uses it as a bed. Later we stopped at Central City Ghost Town in Colorado. We walked around the cemetery and I read all of the grave markers. It was fun in a creepy sort of way. Some families all died at the same time. Others died on different dates but were buried near each other. Lots of people were buried alone.
“Did you ever wish we had a big family, Emily?” Mom asked.
“I never thought about it,” I lied. I’ve always wanted a sister.
“I’ve often wondered what it would have been like if you had a sibling. Maybe things would have been easier for you.”
I didn’t ask what she meant. I was too busy looking at the graves and wondering where I would be buried now. In New Jersey? In California? Near you? Near Mom?
Alone?
Love,
Emily
JUNE 14
Hi Dad,
Even with all of her maps and schedules and checklists, Mom keeps getting lost. It’s not like her. Usually she knows exactly where she’s going. Still, even when it’s clear we’re lost, Mom just plows ahead and pretends like nothing is wrong. She’s gotten really good at pretending.
Mom and I have finally found a system that seems to work well for both of us. During the day, I sleep while she drives, and at night she sleeps while I watch television or read my Betty & Veronica comics in the motel. The only time we’re both awake is when Mom drags me to see museums and monuments, or when we’re eating. Patty (that’s what I call Mom’s car) looks like a dumpster and smells like rotting apples. Mom doesn’t keep her car clean like you do. It is so great that you have the same kind of car that one of the Beatles had. Remember when you got that car? It was right after the divorce was final. You said, “Emily, you can pick the color.”
And I said, “Purple!”
“Purple? I thought you’d pick red.”
“I like red too,” I told you. And that’s how Spidey (that’s what I’ve named your car) got to be red.
So today, Mom and I were arguing over who ate the last Mint Milano when suddenly we both gasped. Right smack in front of us was the Grand Canyon. It was the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. Mom slowed Patty down. (Normally she speeds, so this was significant.)
“Over 1,200,000 acres,” she whispered.
I had a hard time imagining that. But then, math is my worst subject. After refueling at the snack bar, Mom and I hiked up a trail. It looked like it went on forever. As usual, she was acting weird and kept asking how I was feeling. Finally we stopped to rest at a shady place under a tree. The view was amazing.
“Honey, I know the divorce has been difficult for you,” she began as she sat down on a rock. “But in time you’ll see it’s for the best.” I didn’t answer. Instead, I just watched her making circles in the dirt with a twig. “I’ve been doing a lot of thinking,” she continued, “and I’ve come to a big decision.”
I looked up. Maybe we were going to turn around and head home. Maybe I was on a hidden-camera television show and this was all just some sort of joke.
“What is it?” I held my breath.
“Well, you’re getting older …” She hesitated before blurting out, “I think it’s time you called me ‘Alice’!”
“Alice???”
“Yes?”
“You want me to call you by your first name?”
“I want us to be closer. Perhaps you’ll feel more comfortable calling me Alice. Maybe we can be friends.” She looked pleased with herself.
“Alice …”
She leaned forward and brushed the bangs from her eyes. For the first time I noticed gray hiding in her brown hair. Her hair’s too long for a mom. “Yes, Emily, what is it you want to tell me?”
“Alice, you’re sitting on a pile of ants.”
As Mom — I mean Alice — hopped around, I walked to the edge of the cliff. The Grand Canyon seemed to go on forever. There was a rail to keep people from falling, or jumping, or throwing someone off. I considered all three.
Tomorrow I see our new house. I’ll bet it’s going to be really ugly. It makes me sad to think of you in your cramped little apartment. You call it a “studio.” I call it a shoebox. Even though you have your own place, I sort of thought that maybe you’d move back to our Allendale house. You could even turn my room into a music studio. I really don’t think we should sell the house. Will you at least think about it?
Love,
Emily
JUNE 15
Dear Daddy,
We finally, finally arrived in Rancho Rosetta, California, just as the sun was setting.
Our house looks like it could be in a magazine. It’s huge! My new room is big enough for me to do two cartwheels in it. Plus, there’s a walk-in closet. Our stuff hasn’t arrived yet, which is too bad. I think it would be fun to ride my bike through the house.
Alice’s master bedroom has a Jacuzzi in the bathroom, and my room connects to my own bathroom! There’s a ton of counter space and the bathtub is really deep. TB and I are sitting in it at this very moment, but there’s no water. That gets turned on tomorrow. Right now my room is white, but Alice says I can paint it. It will be purple, what e
lse?
Alice has claimed the spare room for her office. The den would be perfect for air hockey or the pool table you’ve always wanted, but when I brought it up, Alice just scratched the ant bites on her leg and stared off into space. This house is so much bigger than the one in Allendale. I’m not sure why we need so much space. The backyard is smaller than our old one, though. I really miss our backyard and how it just seemed to go on forever into the woods. I haven’t seen any deer here, but there are plenty of palm trees, just like you’d imagine they’d have in southern California. We even have one in the front yard!
Today we explored the town. It’s sort of like Allendale, where you can walk everywhere, except here there are lots of new stores and restaurants mixed in with funky old ones, and you wouldn’t believe how clean it all is. There’s this brand-new Super Target with everything in the world in it including — get this — sushi. And there’s Benny’s Doughnut Palace where you can decorate your own doughnuts. Plus, all the cars look new and everyone’s lawn is green like a television commercial.
For dinner tonight we went to this place called Stout’s Coffee Shop. It sort of reminds me of Twoheys, with red booths, checkered tablecloths with glass over them, and plastic covering the menus. I ordered blueberry pancakes, hash browns, and eggs over easy, in your honor. I wanted to order black coffee too, but Alice wouldn’t let me. I didn’t tell her that whenever you took me to Twoheys, you always let me sip your coffee. That’s one of our secrets!
The waitress was really nice. She reminded me of A.J.’s Grandma Jane, except she had rings on every finger and a small butterfly tattoo on her arm.
“Do you have any questions?” Libby asked, motioning to the menu.
“Actually I do have a couple,” Alice said, before launching into a billion questions about the town and the people and the city council…. Libby barely had time to answer before Alice asked her something else. I hate it that Alice is always prying. It’s embarrassing. “I’m a journalist,” she says. “It’s my job.”
Yeah, but 24/7?
“What do people like to do around here?” Alice reached for her second buttermilk biscuit. Stout’s has the best biscuits.
“Well, there’s a really nice mall.” Libby smiled at me as she adjusted the hairnet over her bun. It looked like she had a giant chocolate doughnut on top of her head. “They just redid it. I’d hang out there myself, if I ever got any time off. And if you’re into sports, basketball is big in this town. Does your daughter like volleyball? The girls’ volleyball league is taking sign-ups right now.”