Only Emma (10 page)

I try to think of some quick way to distract
him, but my mom beats me to it. “Careful! Very sharp scissors,” she says, popping a brand-new pair of blunt-nosed scissors out of their snug plastic covering and handing them to Anthony.

She bought those for him, too!

But because of the look on Anthony’s face, I’m not even a little bit jealous or mad. I whisk his drawings into the living room and put them on a high shelf while he is still staring greedily at the scissors.

He is exactly like a magpie! They are interested in bright, shiny objects, too.

A magpie is a bird that is similar to a crow, but even noisier. In fact, magpies are the chatterboxes of the bird family, so that’s like Anthony, too. But the funniest thing about magpies is that they are famous for stealing glittering things-watches, keys, little pieces of metallic paper—
and hiding them in their nests. They don’t need the things they take, obviously, but they
want
them.

I can totally understand that. Not that I’m about to start stealing things. But sometimes you see something, and you find yourself thinking,
If I only had that, everything would be okay
.

I feel that way when I see other people’s families. They seem so—so solid.

I could never tell my mom that, though, because it’s been just her and me for the last six years, and she makes this big deal out of
us
being a family.

And I completely agree! I mean, if two people is all there are, then that’s your family.

But when I was coloring with Anthony tonight, it felt almost like a
real
family. The living room clock was ticking, and Anthony was humming Christmas carols under his breath,
and I heard Mom’s printer whirring, and the crayons smelled good, and I could still smell the tacos my mom cooked us for dinner, and for one floaty moment, I was completely happy.

I wasn’t wishing for something more.

The strange thing is, nothing about tonight was different from any ordinary night—except that Anthony Scarpetto was here.

Maybe that’s the difference. When I’m alone with Mom, it’s just us hanging out, and it’s always her taking care of me. But with Anthony here,
I
get to have someone to take care of, too.

He’s only four, and he’s lonely, and he needs me.

“Cat got your tongue?” Mom asks me, snipping construction paper into little pieces.

This is something she says when I am being unusually quiet.

I smile. “Nope. Tonight, a
magpie
has my tongue,” I tell her, and I select a piece of paper to cut up and then throw away.

“Magpie, magpie, magpie,”
Anthony whispers, concentrating so hard on his own piece of paper that he doesn’t even ask what the unfamiliar word means.

Which is highly unusual, and not very educational for him.

But that’s okay. At least his scissors skills are improving.

   9   

A Teensy Little Fight

“Where is he?” Cynthia asks on Friday night. She is standing at the front door. Her shiny hair is pulled back tight by a red plastic headband, the kind with little teeth in it. And she is holding onto a suitcase with a picture of a ballerina on the side. The suitcase is round, and it is shiny, too.

Everything Cynthia owns always looks brand new.

“He, who?” I ask, but I already know the answer. She is talking about Anthony.

“You know,” she says, excited, “that little kid. The one we’re babysitting.” She pats the side of
her suitcase. “I brought some stuff we can use,” she says. “We can play school with him. We’ll be the teachers.”

“He’s watching a video right now,” I tell Cynthia. “And I’m not so sure about playing school. He had a tough week. I think he needs a rest from school.”

“Well, that’s just too bad for him,” Cynthia informs me. We go into my room, and she puts her red suitcase down on my bed. She and I are going to sleep on the living room floor tonight, though, in sleeping bags. Anthony will be the only one staying in my room.

Cynthia walks over to my guest bed and looks at all of Anthony’s stuff: his inside-out sweatshirt, his giant Legos, his new blunt-nosed scissors, his stuffed bunny rabbit.

I don’t like her spying on his private things.

“Let’s play dolls,” I say to her. That’s what we usually play when she comes over, even though we don’t talk about it at school, since we
don’t want to sound babyish. “Which one do you want to be?” I hold up my newest doll. She is wearing short shorts and tiny Rollerblades, and her hair is almost as shiny as Cynthia’s.

Last time, we fought over this doll. But not today.

“Let’s go get Anthony,” Cynthia says.

“Well, maybe we should wait until after dinner,” I say. I was hoping she would forget her crazy plan about playing school with Anthony. “Come on, let’s play dolls,” I say again, tempting her with the short shorts, Rollerblade doll with shiny hair.

But Cynthia just walks right out of my bedroom as if I haven’t said a word.

This is a whole new Cynthia, I think, following her.

We walk past the kitchen, where Mom is fixing dinner. “Hello, Cynthia,” she calls out. Her voice is all smiley, as if she thinks this is going to be a really fun night.

“Hi, Mrs. McGraw,” Cynthia says, barely looking at my mother. She just keeps right on walking—like a Bengal tiger stalking its prey.

Anthony is sitting in the most comfortable chair in the living room. A little blanket is spread across his lap, as if he is about to have a picnic. I can tell that he would like to be sucking his thumb. I have noticed that he does that sometimes, when he is really, really tired.

I can also tell he is a little sad, only no one else but me would know that. But he’s not even singing along with the video this afternoon, and he knows it by heart, naturally.

“Hi, Anthony,” I say. “This is Cynthia, remember?”

Anthony’s eyes shift sideways for a second, then he nods his head. “I remember,” he says.

I cross my fingers, hoping he does not add the
part about how he does not think that she is very polite. Because she
is
polite. Oh sure, she gets mad fast, but already I have learned that her anger goes away fast, too. And after it goes, Cynthia is ready to have fun again.

I think that’s better than staying a little bit mad for a long time, which is more like what I do. My mom says I’m a kid who really knows how to hold onto a grudge.

“Hello, Anthony,” Cynthia says, sounding like a teacher already. “Do you want to play school with us?” she asks him. “It’ll be fun.”

“Nuh-uh. That’s okay,” Anthony says. He stretches his neck, trying to see around Cynthia—who is standing right in front of the TV. If he were in the third grade, like us, he would probably say,
“Move! You make a better door than a window,”
the way EllRay Jakes does at school.

I still don’t really get that. Why would anyone want to be a door
or
a window?

Cynthia tries again. “I brought some fun little prizes for you,” she says.

“Move it,” Anthony says, still trying to see the TV.

“That’s not very courteous,” Cynthia informs him. I can tell that she does not like it that things aren’t going her way. “We’re going to have to teach you some manners, young man,” she says, sounding sniffy.

“Okay,
please
move it,” Anthony says to her. I can also tell that Anthony is getting mad.