Only Emma (7 page)

Except then I remember the look on Mom’s face when she asked me to stay home.

And of course, I remember Anthony.

Oh, why didn’t Mom just tell me that I had to stay home on Friday night? How come she told me I could make up my own mind about it? No fair!

Which brings me to the third choice I could make, of course, which is staying home: just me, my mom, and Anthony. Even if Anthony
is
a pain in the patootie.

I can’t help it—I sigh so hard that the person sitting in front of me turns around and makes a face. “Quit it,” he mutters, smoothing down his hair as though a hot Santa Ana wind just messed it up.

“You quit it,” I say back, even though I know saying that doesn’t make any sense.

“… subtraction,” Ms. Sanchez says, finishing
a sentence. She is standing in front of the blackboard with a piece of chalk in her hand. “Now, who would like to come to the board to demonstrate?”

Uh-oh
, I think.
I’d better start paying attention
.

When Ms. Sanchez asks for a volunteer, all the kids in class shrink back into their chairs like sea anemones—which I also saw once, on the Animal Planet.
Not me, not me
, everyone is thinking.

We are having a little trouble with the subtraction of large numbers in my class.

“Corey,” Ms. Sanchez says, smiling as though she’s just found the little plastic prize in a box of Cracker Jacks.

Next to me, poor Corey Robinson shudders and moans so softly that only I can hear him. “Go on,” I whisper, nudging him with my elbow. “You can do it.”

But he can’t, not really. Not yet. You should see his worksheets! There are holes in them, from his erasing them so hard.

Corey stumbles to the blackboard like Frankenstein’s monster, takes the chalk from Ms. Sanchez, drops it, then picks it up again. His zillions of freckles look as if they are about to jump off his suddenly pale face and make a run for the door.

I wait for Corey to drop the chalk again. Maybe he thinks he can just keep right on doing that, over and over again, until the recess bell rings. That will probably be his strategy.

Hey, that’s funny
, I think. Corey wants recess to happen
right now
, and I’m scared for it to happen at all.

Because what am I going to tell Cynthia about Friday night?

   6   

Screech!

“So, what time are you coming over on Friday?” Cynthia asks me. It is recess, and we are lying on our stomachs on the last two swings. My curly hair is hanging down in my eyes. I have been pretending that it is seaweed, and that I am a marine biologist. Back and forth, back and forth, we swing at exactly the same time. And that’s not easy.

Back and forth
is about to end. I know this, but Cynthia doesn’t. “I—I can’t come this Friday,” I say, deciding that very second. “My mom won’t let me.” The lie jumps out of my mouth.

And I didn’t even know it was in there!

Screech!
Sure enough, Cynthia digs the toes of her shoes into the sand. “Well, how come?” she asks, scrambling to her feet. She looks like a highway patrol guy on TV who is about to take someone in for questioning

“Well, there’s this little boy staying with us for a while,” I say, “and I have to babysit him. So Mom told me I had to stay home.” I stand up and brush sand off my knees.

Cynthia puts her hands on her hips, and her eyes get skinny. “You’re too young to be a babysitter,” she says, frowning. “Who is it? That kid who was in your car yesterday?”

I nod, looking very sad.

“I thought you said that was nobody,” Cynthia says.

“He
is
nobody,” I tell her in a hurry. “He’s just Anthony Scarpetto. And I’m not babysitting him all by myself,” I add. “But Mom says I have to help her take care of him. Just us, and nobody else. Can’t I come over next week, instead?”

I want her to say,
“Yes, of course, because you are my best friend!”

“I don’t know,” Cynthia says, kicking at the sand. “Next week is a long time from now. I’m not sure what I’ll be doing then.”

Or who she’ll be friends with, maybe.

I would tell Cynthia that next week is not a
very
long time from now, but it is time to go back to class.

Again.

Work, recess, work, lunch, work: Every day so far is exactly the same at Oak Glen Primary School, except when there is a fire drill. At least
at Magdalena we got to do different things, like art and music. At Oak Glen, art and music are considered frills.

Hah.

After school is finally, finally over for the day, Cynthia and I walk across the patio together. I think she has forgiven me about this Friday. If my mom is making me stay home, it’s not
my
fault I can’t go over to her house, is it?

I have almost forgotten that this is not the truth.

I am walking Cynthia only as far as the street. Mr. Harbison is coming to pick Cynthia up from school, but I get to walk home today.

The wind is blowing a little, and in spite of everything, I am happy to be outside—because even when Ms. Sanchez opens the windows in our class, it smells like floor wax, disinfectant,
sweaty feet, and old tuna sandwiches in there.

But outside, I feel as though the wind could blow me all the way home. Maybe I’ll even skip part of the way—if no one is watching, that is. Because the kids at my new school might think that skipping is babyish.

“Hey, look,” Cynthia says, and she stops and points.

Oh, no.

There, underneath a pepper tree, are Mom and Anthony.

They are not supposed to be here
.

Mom and Anthony point back at us, and then they start smiling and waving as if spotting us is the high point of their afternoon. Cynthia and I walk up to them. I feel like a fish that Mom has just caught and is reeling in. I am doomed, even though I am fake-smiling like crazy.

“Hi, Mrs. McGraw,” Cynthia says.

“Hello, Cynthia,” my mom says, giving her a hug. “How cute you look today. This is our little
friend Anthony,” she adds, introducing him to Cynthia.

Anthony blushes and ducks his curly black head, which has a raggedy red construction-paper fireman’s hat on it. This is his way of saying hello to Cynthia, I guess.

“Yes, I heard all about him,” Cynthia says, sounding like a grown-up. She looks Anthony up and down as if she is inspecting him, and he steps back, alarmed.

“I was just picking Anthony up from preschool,” Mom is explaining, “and we thought it would be fun to wait for you, Emma. Want to join us for some ice cream? You’re welcome to come, too, Cynthia, if you’re free.” Mom gives Cynthia a great big smile.

“I can’t. My father’s picking me up today,” Cynthia says.

“Oh. Too bad,” Mom says.

I look around, trying to find Cynthia’s navy-blue car in a hurry. I have a very bad feeling
about Mom and Cynthia talking together when there is a lie floating around in the air.