Only Emma (3 page)

Which must be the reason
he’s crying. “You mean he’s staying here
tonight
?” I ask, horrified. “But where will he sleep?”

My mom looks over at my guest bed, the one where my new friend Cynthia sleeps when she stays over. Which has only been once so far, because school just started.

“In my room?” I yell.

Down the hall, Anthony is still sobbing.

Hey, I know just how he feels! I’d sob, too, only I’m too old.

“It’s just for a little while,” Mom says. She snaps the lid closed on the puzzle box as though she is saying,
That’s final
.

“Well, it’s going to seem like a whole lot longer,” I tell her.

Because she might be the mom, but already, I know a thing or two about Anthony.

   2   

Poor Little Guy

It is morning!

Finally
.

I thought the sun would never come up.

Anthony huffled and snuffled like a baby warthog for about an hour before he fell asleep last night. I tried to make him feel better. I said, “Look, Anthony, your mom and dad will come back as soon as they can. I’m sure they won’t decide to take a vacation all by themselves while they have the chance. And they won’t forget where they left you.”

“Wah-h-h-h-h,”
Anthony yelled.

I guess I should have kept my big mouth shut and not tried to comfort him.

But if I was a mom and I had a noisy little kid like Anthony, I might
want
to forget where I left him.

Now, though, Anthony is still asleep. He was yelping with bad dreams all night, which is why I have dark circles under my eyes.

Anthony is lying on my guest bed as though someone threw him there. His red-and-white-striped pajama legs are all tangled up in the pink sheets.

He clashes with my room.

And—he’s drooling on my guest-bed pillow!

Well, that’s just gross. I hope Cynthia doesn’t find out.

I tiptoe over to my closet and get out the clothes I want to wear to school today. I will have to change in the bathroom.

This stinks. I can’t even get dressed in my own room anymore!

But my friend Cynthia and I talked on the phone yesterday afternoon, as usual, and we both decided to wear green today, so that’s good. Especially since I have a brand-new green top.

Perfect!

Today is going to be so much fun, with us wearing practically the same clothes. I am lucky I found a friend so fast after changing schools. Finding your first friend at a new school is like discovering a life preserver floating past your nose when you’re right in the middle of drowning. You’re safe, at least for a while.

I open the bureau drawer to get my underwear.
Oh no
. The drawer squeaks. I am scared to turn around, in case the noise has made you-know-who wake up.

But when I look, Anthony is lying there, watching me with sleepy brown eyes. “What are you doing?” he asks.

“Getting my clothes, obviously,” I say. “I’ll tell Mom you’re ready to get up. Just stay right where
you are. Don’t move a muscle.”

And hearing those words, of course, Anthony springs out of bed like a jackrabbit. I saw a nature program about them once—or was it about Siberian hares?—on PBS.

I love nature programs; they are my favorite. Except when they go too slow, like when someone says,
“And now the icy fingers of winter touch Yosemite Valley,”
or when something little and furry gets killed—in slow motion. Slow motion is always bad news in the animal kingdom.

“I’m up,” Anthony says, as if this is the greatest news he could tell me.

He smells like peanut butter, even from across the room, I notice—and even this early in the morning.

I guess it’s a boy thing.

“Well, follow me,” I say, and we march down the hall to the kitchen. My mom is on the phone,
but she says good-bye in a great big hurry when she sees the look on my face. “Here he is,” I say when she has hung up.

Why can’t Anthony Scarpetto sleep in
her
room, if she likes him so much?

“Come here, you,” my mother says tenderly to Anthony, opening her arms wide.

I don’t stay to see the rest of this revolting scene. I lock myself in the bathroom and start to get ready for school.

I used to go to Magdalena School, which is private, girls only. Now, I go to Oak Glen Primary School, which is public. Girls and boys. I am in the third grade, which lasts all day long, naturally. My teacher’s name is Ms. Sanchez. She is so pretty that she could be on a TV show.

Anthony goes to afternoon preschool.

Oak Glen is the name of our town, too. It is in California, an hour north of San Diego. Our town is not on the ocean, though—it’s in the hills.

“Breakfast is ready,” Mom tells me through the bathroom door. “It’s safe, Emma, you can come out now.” She sounds as though she is making a joke.

Ha ha
, very funny.

“It’s safe? Why? Did Anthony run away or something?” I ask her through the door.

“No, but he’s busy watching
Sesame Street
,” Mom says.

“Promise?” I say, peeking out.

My mom looks me up and down. “That green top is even cuter on,” she says, and I feel better all of a sudden, thinking about how much fun Cynthia and I will have today. Because wearing something you really like—and that looks good on you—can make an ordinary day fabulous.

Mom and I sneak into the kitchen, and she puts some scrambled eggs and toast on a plate for me. I can hear Big Bird in the
other room, and Anthony is singing along, not very well.

“How did it go with Anthony last night?” Mom asks, pouring some coffee into her mug.

“Mmm, okay, I guess,” I say slowly. I want her to at least
think
that I am trying to be a good sport. “But he breathes too loud,” I add. “He sort of snuffles and snorts.” Usually it’s just my mom and me, and things are pretty quiet around our house. See, my dad moved away when I was two years old—which is why I am an only child.

You do the math.

(Whatever
that
means.)

Mom looks worried. “He snuffles? Gee, I hope he’s not catching a cold,” she says, fretting.

“He isn’t,” I reassure her. “I think his nose was just stuffy from all that crying.” Anthony’s nose is not huge, but it seems to be very runny.

Which can be quite disgusting, actually.

“Poor little guy,” Mom says, then she sighs.

And I am thinking,
What about poor little me?

“I’m thirsty,” Anthony calls from the doorway.

“I’ll get you some juice, honey-bunny,” Mom says.

Honey-bunny
. Terrific.

Anthony looks at me in my brand-new green top. “You look like a great big grasshopper,” he says, tilting his head as if
he
were the nature scientist.