by Sally Warner
“Oh, Emma,” Mom says, “can’t that wait for a week? Because what about poor little Anthony?”
“I never slept over at Cynthia’s house before in my whole life,” I say, trying not to whine. “And she’s my first friend since you made me change schools. And I don’t care about poor little Anthony.”
I mean those last few words when I say them, but only for a second.
“I’m sure you care about him, sweetheart,” my mom tells me, as if she can read my mind. She ignores what I said about changing schools, which was all her fault for losing her job.
Magdalena was a very expensive school.
“But since you’ve never stayed with Cynthia,” Mom says, “a week wouldn’t be too much longer to wait, would it?”
“She said it had to be this Friday,” I tell her. “And I thought you wanted me to make new friends.”
“Well, I do. And I won’t say no, Emma, but I really want you to think about it,” Mom says. “I think Anthony needs the two of us. Just listen to him.”
I am making a scrunchy face by now, but I listen. Anthony is singing “Jingle Bells” for about the millionth time, but by now he is yelling “Jim-bull Gells” instead, and his voice is all scratchy.
I have to say that sometimes Anthony is a pain in the patootie.
Somebody said that about me once, but it was a long time ago. I outgrew it.
“So what?” I say to Mom, referring to all that singing. “That’s a good reason for me to get out of here, isn’t it?”
My mom takes one of my hands in hers. “Come on, Em,” she says. Now, she’s the one who sounds a little whiny. “I need your help, honey. This is a really tough time for the little guy, and he seems to like having you around.”
I don’t get it. First she wants to take care of Anthony, and now she acts like she’s scared to be alone with him. “Well, what about me?” I shout, jumping up and yanking my hand away. “What about what I like? It’s bad enough that you don’t even have a regular job anymore and that we had to move to such a teensy place. Now we have to take care of a baby who’s not even ours, too?”
Mom looks the same way she did that time when she couldn’t get the tape out of the VCR. “Come on,” she says again, finally. “Things aren’t that terrible for us here, Emma. And Anthony’s not so bad, is he?”
I put my hands on my hips and stomp my foot. “Yes, he is,” I say. “He is so bad.”
Mom puts her finger to her lips, but it is too late—the singing has stopped.
In fact, Anthony is standing in the hall, looking at us. His face looks like a round white marshmallow under all that curly black hair.
And he is crying—without making a sound.
For once.
5
Uh-Oh
“I’m a bad boy,” Anthony tells me the next morning at breakfast. He scowls.
My mom is putting some clothes in the washing machine, so she doesn’t hear what he is saying.
“Why?” I ask him. “What did you do?” I take a bite of my cornflakes.
He looks lost for a second. “Nothing,” he finally says. “I guess I’m just bad, that’s all.”
“No, you’re not,” I say to him.
“I am too. You said,” he tells me. “Last night. I heard you. Don’t lie.”
“I’m not lying,” I say. I can feel my face get hot, though. I feel terrible that Anthony overheard what I said, but that wasn’t really my fault. “I didn’t say you were bad, Anthony. I said you were that bad. There’s a big difference, you know.”
Anthony chomps down hard on his toast and frowns some more, thinking. “What’s the big difference?” he finally asks. Crumbs fly everywhere.
“It’s too complicated to explain,” I tell him, as if this is a third-grade thing that preschoolers could never, ever understand.
When, really, I can’t figure out what the difference is fast enough to tell him.
Anthony bites his toast again and chews hard. He reminds me of this other nature program I saw once, about termites. It was a little bit nauseating, to be perfectly honest.
But I’m working on liking insects better, even the yucky ones. After all, if I want to be a scientist some day, I have to give bugs a chance, at least.
Anthony takes a drink of milk. “Well, if I’m so good, where are my mommy and daddy?”
“Huh?” I ask him. “They’re taking care of your grandmother in Tucson, that’s where they are.”
“And if I’m so good,” he continues, ignoring my words, “how come you never want to play with me?”
I stir a circle in my cornflakes, which are all soggy, by the way—I don’t care what any commercial says. “I play with you,” I remind him.
“Yeah, when your mom makes you,” he says gloomily. His pink cheeks stand out on his white face like clown paint—only he is not laughing the way a clown does.
I decide to explain things to him another way. “Listen, Anthony, don’t you have other friends you like to play with?” I ask him. “Friends in preschool?”
“Yeah, but I can’t invite them over. Not when I’m living here, at your house,” he says. He slurps down some more milk.
That actually makes sense, I think, kind of surprised. After all, those kids’ parents don’t know my mom and me. Why would they let their kids play at some stranger’s condo, even if it was with Anthony?
Mom comes into the kitchen with clean clothes neatly folded in a yellow plastic laundry basket. “You’d better get a move on, Emma,” she says, looking up at the kitchen clock.
“Okay,” I say, but when I carry my cereal bowl to the sink, it feels as though I am a hippopotamus walking through mud, I am so tired.
Like I said, I did not get very much sleep last night.
That’s what happens when you hurt somebody’s feelings.
I get to Oak Glen Primary School before Cynthia does, and that is at least one thing to be glad about. Mom was going to call Cynthia’s mother last night, to thank her for the invitation. But I told her I wanted to be the one to tell Cynthia what I would do on Friday.
The truth is, though, I don’t know what I am going to do, or what I am going to say to Cynthia.
I guess Mom could tell I had mixed feelings about Cynthia’s invitation. She said that I could invite Cynthia over to my house instead, on Friday night, and we could have a slumber party—with Anthony.
Oh, yeah, right. That sounds like fun.
I wait in the cloak room like a trapdoor spider about to pounce on its prey—only I’m a whole lot cuter, I hope. Finally, Cynthia dashes in to hang up her sweater. I grab her arm.
“Yow,” Cynthia squeals, and then she laughs. “You scared me,” she says.
“I have to talk to you about something,” I whisper in her ear.
“Young ladies?” a voice says. It is Ms. Sanchez.
I think she calls us “young ladies” sometimes, instead of “girls,” because then we might use better manners in class. She calls the boys “gentlemen,” too, even Jared and Stanley. And that’s stretching things a little.
Ms. Sanchez is a person who expects the best from people.
“Yes-s-s-s?” Cynthia and I say together, like talking snakes.
“It’s time to sit down,” she says, tapping at her watch.
Cynthia and I follow Ms. Sanchez into the classroom. Part of me feels like saying phew—because Cynthia gets huffy very fast, and I do not want her to be mad at me because of what I decide about Friday.
If it’s not the decision she wants me to make, I mean.
Ms. Sanchez takes a few minutes to read us the school announcements, so I have some extra time to think about what to do. I could invite Cynthia over to my house, the way Mom said, except I really, really do not think that Cynthia is the type of person who would like Anthony Scarpetto. Cynthia is an only child, just like me—but if she saw Anthony running around with no clothes on, she would probably faint right on the floor.
And then everyone at my new school would hear a
ll about it, and I would be totally embarrassed.
Or I could go spend the night at Cynthia’s house, and forget all about Anthony. He might be sad, true, but it’s not as though he would starve or anything.
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.
“So, what did you two girls decide about Friday?” Mom asks Cynthia.
“Huh?” Cynthia asks.
Because I told her everything was decided.
“Oh,” my mom says, smiling. “I guess things are still up in the air. But it would be nice if you could come over to our house and help out with Anthony, Cynthia.”
Cynthia doesn’t even look at me. Her mouth makes a straight line on her face, as if a pencil just drew it there. “I’m sorry, Mrs. McGraw, but I can’t come over,” she tells my mom. “I have to play with my cat that night. I’m going to be very busy.”
Just then, a horn beeps, Cynthia spots her father’s car double-parked in front of the school, and she runs off, her shiny hair swinging.
“That girl forgot to say good-bye,” Anthony says, straightening his paper hat. “She isn’t very polite.”
7
Triceratop
s
“Okay,” Mom says to me when we get home, after feeding a Cartoons & Songs for Little Buckaroos video into the VCR for Anthony. “What’s going on here?” She leads me into the kitchen and pours me a glass of milk.
“What’s going on where?” I ask her, looking around, but I know what she is talking about.
She’s talking about Cynthia, that’s what.
“What’s going on with your new friend Cynthia Harbison?” she asks, sure enough.
I take a slo-o-o-ow drink of milk, then I look up at her. “I told her a widdle fib,” I say, trying to say it cute, like Elmer Fudd.
“You lied?” Mom practically squawks.
See, that’s the trouble with my mom—you can’t fool her by saying things cute.
“What did you say to her, Emma?” Mom asks me.
I give a big sigh. “Okay. I told her that you said I couldn’t go over to her house this Friday. I said I had to stay home and help you babysit Anthony.”
“Emma, I told you that you could spend the night at Cynthia’s, if that’s what you really wanted to do,” Mom says, snapping out the words.
“Yeah, but you didn’t mean it,” I say. “You wanted me to stay home.”
Mom scrunches up her face. “Well, maybe I did,” she admits, “but I left the final decision up to you.”
Thanks a lot, Mom.
“So, why did you decide to stay home with us on Friday?” Mom finally asks me.
“I don’t know,” I mumble. We both listen to Anthony for a minute. We can hear him shouting out a song, along with the video. “Maybe I feel a little bit sorry for Anthony,” I say.
“He misses being at his own home,” Mom says, nodding.
“And he is kind of fun to be around,” I surprise myself by saying. “You never know what is going to happen next with him.”
“You’re right about that,” Mom says, laughing. “Do you know what he did this morning, when I was trying to work?”
