E, My Name Is Emily

by Norma Fox Mazer

  “Wilma,” my mother said. “Wilma, the phone bill! You can’t just go calling long distance. How long did you talk?”

  “I’ll pay for it,” Wilma said.

  “With what?” I said. “Your nickel collection?”

  My sister picked up the phone. “Boots residence. Dad?” She caught herself. “Max?” Then she held out the phone to me. “It’s for you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “One guess,” she said disgustedly.

  I put the receiver to my ear. “Hi, Bunny.”

  “What are you doing?” Bunny asked. “I’m trying to write that essay. It’s due tomorrow morning. It’s driving me crazy! You have to help me, Emily.”

  “I haven’t written my own yet.”

  “Oh, you’ll just dash it off. I know you. Come over here and we’ll work on them together. Eat supper with us. My father will drive you home later. Just think, Emily, Shad can make eyes at you at the table! He’ll be in little boys’ heaven.” She’s always saying Shad has a crush on me. Even though he’s only nine and still in elementary school, it makes me somewhat self-conscious around him.

  Mom drove me over to the Larrabees’. I didn’t look when we passed our old house on Oak Street.

  Bunny met me at the door and threw her arms around me. “Wait until you hear my new joke. A dog went into a pizza place, sat down at the counter, and ordered a large pizza with everything. He ate it all. ‘Excellent,’ he said, when he was done. The cook said, ‘You’re a pretty unusual dog.’ ‘Why?’ the dog said. ‘Well,’ the cook said, ‘the other dog that comes in here only orders a slice.’”

  I laughed.

  “Thank you! I told my father this joke, and he didn’t even curl his lip. How am I supposed to hone my comedy skills if he won’t laugh at my jokes? Let’s go upstairs.”

  “Did you finish Great Bones?”

  “I stayed up last night reading it.”

  “I told you it was good.”

  “Ma, Emily’s here, we’re going to work on our essays until supper,” Bunny yelled. “You’ve got to inspire me,” she said.

  I told her what Mom had suggested about the title and the first line. “But I still don’t have my opening,” I said. “If I had that, I know I could write the rest.” Just as I said it, I thought of it. The perfect first line. It would lead me right through the entire essay. The deepest wish of my life is also a dream.

  I sat down at Bunny’s desk and started writing. “The deepest wish of my life is also a dream. It’s for my parents to be together again, for us to be a family the way we were once. Only it isn’t just a dream, it’s an impossible dream.”

  Chapter 3

  I was in the lunch line, waiting to buy a carton of milk, when someone behind me said, “If you were the North Star and twinkled, I’d follow you, so I wouldn’t get lost.”

  I looked around.

  A boy in a green T-shirt smiled at me. “Hi!” He was big, with brown eyes, tall and sturdy. Big all over—big arms, big legs, a big head.

  I picked up a piece of cheesecake wrapped in foil and a container of milk.

  “Uh-oh,” he said, behind me, “do you know what that cheesecake has in it? Everything but cheese. All chemicals and junk and stuff. Nothing natural.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I read it in a magazine last night. I saw it on the news. It was in the headlines this morning. Can I eat with you?” he said. “Where’s your table? Are you going to sit by the window?”

  Who was he? I didn’t even think he was in our grade. He looked younger, even though he was so big. Probably a seventh-grader. Was that the way seventh-graders acted? It seemed like a million years since I’d been in seventh grade.

  I took my tray across the room to where Bunny was waiting. She was munching on an apple. “The best way to lose weight is to chew each bite of food twenty-five times,” she said. “They say it’s healthful, but I think it’s because by the time you get done chewing, your jaws are so tired they don’t even want any more food.”

  I unwrapped my sandwich and offered her half.

  “This apple is plenty for me.” She chewed and chewed. “That cheesecake looks really great!” She bent over and sniffed. I could tell she was suffering. She loves cheesecake, too.

  The boy with the green T-shirt came up to our table and sat down. “Hi again,” he said. “Okay if I sit here? I’m Robertson Reo. You can call me Robby. Or Reo.”

  Bunny glanced at me with her eyebrows raised. “Bunny Larrabee,” she said.

  “Bunny Larrabee? That name sounds familiar!” Robertson Reo snapped his fingers in an excited way. “Did I read about you in the paper? That’s right, isn’t it? Let me think, let me think! Basketball! Right? Am I right? I have a great memory. Something about basketball! Tell me!”

  Bunny shrugged. “Sometimes they write me up. I’m a guard on The Lady Chargers.”

  “Pleased to meet you!” Robertson Reo stood up and shook her hand across the table. “Bunny Larrabee! You’re a celebrity. I’m Robertson Reo,” he said again. He looked at me. “I forgot your name.”

  “This is Emily,” Bunny said.

  Robertson Reo laughed. “I know. I was just kidding. I wanted to see if she believed me. Emily Boots, right? Emily Beth Boots, am I right?”

  I drank my milk. I didn’t get it. How did he know my middle name?

  “Emily, what a super name,” he said.

  “She’s named for Emily Dickinson,” Bunny said.

  “Who?”

  “The poet. Her mom likes poetry,” Bunny explained.

  He looked at me. “Does that mean you like poetry, too, Emily? Who is this Emily poet? Is she a friend of your mom’s?”

  “Emily Dickinson. She’s dead,” Bunny said.

  “Was she pretty?”

  “What does that mean?” Bunny said. “Do you think every female has to be pretty?”

  “Hey, hey, why not?”

  “Because it’s stupid and sexist.”

  I frowned at Robertson Reo.

  “Oh, Emily, don’t give me that look,” he said. He was talking and stuffing in food at the same time. “You hurt me with that look. So do you like poetry?”

  “Sometimes. Not necessarily.”

  “Sometimes! Not necessarily! That’s mysterious. She’s being cagey, isn’t she, Bunny? She thinks I’m obnoxious.”

  Did he expect me to deny it?

  “I know some poetry I could recite for you, Emily. I know a lot of stuff. I’m retentive. How about the way I remembered about Bunny being in the newspaper? That’s the way my brain works. It’s like a vacuum cleaner, it scoops up all this stuff and stores it away. Do you know this poem? ‘Day is done, gone the sun, uh, da da da, uh something something something.’”

  Bunny took another bite of her apple. “Your vacuum cleaner is breaking down.”

  “It’s in there in my brain somewhere. It’ll pop out after a while.”

  “It’s not a poem,” I said. “It’s a song.” The summer Bunny and I went to Brownie camp together, we sang that at the end of every day around the campfire.

  “Right. A song. I knew that.”

  He was totally impossible.

  “Emily, if you like poetry, that settles it, I like poetry, too. ‘Emily had a little lamb, its fleece was white as snow, and everywhere that Emily went, the little lamb was sure to go.’ Baaaaaaaa!” he bleated.

  Some lamb. He had big ears, I noticed, to go with his big head and his big mouth.

  “Emily, I might as well tell you right up front, I’m younger than you, but that doesn’t have to matter. How old are you, anyway?”

  “Fourteen.” I’d had my birthday last month.

  “I’m thirteen—almost.”

  “When?”

  “May.”

  “That’s next year. You’re twelve,” I said.

  “It doesn’t bother me being the younger man, Emily.”

  “That’s very mature of you,” Bunny said. “Isn’t that mature, Emily?
Aren’t you overwhelmed with Robertson Reo’s maturity?” Every time she said mature, she crossed her eyes.

  Robertson kept right on eating, taking huge bites of his food. “Whose homeroom are you in?” he asked Bunny.

  “Mr. Clarence’s.”

  “I’m in Mrs. Saginaw’s room. What an old fart. She ought to retire and give the world a break.”

  “I like her,” I said. “She’s smart and she cares about kids.”

  “Uh-oh. I guess that means I’ll have to like her.”

  “Just because I like her, you have to like her?”

  “Right. Whatever you like, Emily, is sacred to me. I’ll just have to change my attitude toward Mrs. Saginaw.” He crammed in a last bite, gulped down his soda, and stood up. “Don’t go away, Emily, I’ll be right back.” He loped off toward the serving table.

  Bunny and I looked at each other. “Who is he?” I said. “What is he?”

  “I think what he is, is in love,” Bunny said.

  “Yeah, with himself.”

  “No, with you.”

  “Oh, no, don’t say it.”

  “Emily, he shows all the signs. He’s got Emily fever.”

  “Oh, no!” I said again.

  Chapter 4

  Dear Mrs. Watjoichkas,

  Bunny told me that Sunday is your birthday. I think that it is a great thing to live to be old (excuse me, I hope you don’t find that offensive!) and still have a strong interest in life, which I know you do from hearing about you from Bunny and your interest in the Toronto Blue Jays. She says you are their Number One fan and the greatest grandmother in the world! Someone who bats .900. Or maybe it’s 1000! Well, Happy Birthday! And I hope you don’t mind getting birthday greetings from someone who is practically a stranger to you. (I’m Bunny’s best friend, and I know how much Bunny loves you.)

  When you were visiting Bunny last spring (well, not exactly visiting, you were recuperating from a stroke), I came over one day to see you. We had a nice talk about Toronto, which I’ve never been to, and you said I should come and visit there. Well, some day I might! Anyway, Happy Birthday again, and I hope the Blue Jays do great next spring. (To be totally truthful, I don’t follow baseball much, although Bunny tells me it’s a great game.)

  Love to you,

  Emily Boots

  Dear Mr. (or is it Ms.?) G. R. Immerman,

  I just had to write and tell you how much I loved your book Great Bones. I love to read, I read all the time, and I give all the books I love the best to my girlfriend to read, too. Great Bones was one of the best books I’ve ever read, and since I must have read a thousand books, you can tell that is a true compliment.

  I’m quite interested in writing. Would you write back and give me any hints to make me a better writer? Do you think it’s weird that I can’t write my essays for school until I figure out the first line in my head? I’m so nervous until I get that first line that I just can’t believe I’ll even write anything good! Then, once I think of that line, I can think of everything else, and I just sit down and write it. My girlfriend thinks this is definitely weird. She has to make an outline. I really hate outlines. Do you think that’s terrible? My teacher says outlines are a tool of organization. I guess I understand that, but I get all the ideas in my head, and I don’t seem to need the outline to help me along.

  Well, enough about me! I hope I didn’t bore you. I’d like to know how long you’ve been writing, when you got your start, and if you knew when you were my age that you were going to be a famous writer someday? Do you have any children? Are you married? What’s your favorite hobby? Mine is reading and writing in my journal! I’ll be looking forward to hearing from you and all your interesting answers.

  Yours truly,

  Emily Beth Boots

  From Emily’s Journal

  A story I’ve been telling myself for a long time. STD. (Since The Divorce). In this story, Dad calls me and says, “Emily, I’ve got to get something off my chest!” And then he tells me that breaking up with Mom was a huge mistake. He misses us, his real family.

  Both of us, Dad and I, sort of break down and cry. Then he asks me if we will take him back. And we cry some more. Then we call Wilma and Chris and tell them. And everyone is crying.

  Dear Dad,

  Well, how are you? I’m quite well. I haven’t had a single cold all fall. It’s been a long time since I’ve heard from you, nearly two months since your last phone call. I hope you are okay. I hope you are very okay. Are you still running and keeping in shape?

  I’m going to be on the honor roll. I got an A in an essay I did for Language Arts called “Wishes and Dreams.” Isn’t that a neat title? I love writing things. Mom said she used to write poems when she was in school. But you probably know that. Is it true Mom picked my name, you picked Wilma’s, and both of you picked Chris’s? I think that’s pretty fair. (How about my baby sister’s name? Did you or Marcia pick Rachel?) I might want to be a writer someday, Dad. What do you honestly think of that? Mom thinks it’s not practical. My other choice is to be a lawyer, like you. I could help people in trouble, I could be a lawyer for poor people, a Public Defender. Or maybe, if things work out, you and I could have a father-daughter law firm.

  Well, write me if you get the chance. I sure would like to hear from you! You can count on that.

  Your loving daughter,

  Emily

  P.S. Give my sister Rachel a kiss for me.

  Chapter 5

  Wilma was making a mask out of a grocery bag. She’d cut out the eyes and nose holes, and now she was drawing a face on it. “Do you like it, Emily?” She put the bag over her head. “It’s for art class tomorrow.”

  I glanced up from the hamburger patties I was making. “It looks good.”

  “No, it doesn’t. I don’t even have eyebrows yet.” She took it off. “Don’t just say everything is okay when it isn’t.”

  I slapped a hamburger between my palms. “Ask Chris next time.”

  “He never has good opinions.”

  “I do, too.” Chris was reading on the floor, lying on his back, with his paperweight on his stomach.

  “I love doing this,” Wilma said, drawing in thick red eyebrows. “I hope nobody knows who I am. I could be a spy with this on, spy on everybody. I love spying on people. It’s so exciting. I spied on you once.”

  “Wilma!”

  “I did.”

  “She did,” Chris said from the floor.

  “I don’t like that.” I started frying the hamburgers.

  “I didn’t see anything. Just you crying.”

  “It’s none of your business if I cry or not.”

  “Okay, okay.” Wilma held up her hands. “We won’t talk about it anymore. If you don’t want me to be a spy, maybe I’ll be a detective. You don’t have to go to college for either one. College is a lot of money.”

  “I’ll help you out with money,” Chris said. “I’ll get a job and give you the money and you can go to college.”

  “What are you doing when I’m in college?” Wilma asked.

  “He’s working,” I said. “To put you through.”

  “What kind of job?” Wilma said.

  “I don’t know,” Chris said. “Something good. I want to be rich and buy Mommy a house again.”

  “Work in a bank,” Wilma said. “Mr. Linaberry said that’s where all the money is.”

  I flipped over the hamburgers. “Why did Mr. Linaberry say that?”

  Wilma tried on the paper bag again. Now she had red eyebrows and a bushy red mustache under her nose. “I don’t know. We were talking about things.”

  “What things? You talk to him much?”

  “Uh-huh. How is my mask now, Em? Tell the truth.”

  “It’s great.”

  Wilma looked at herself in the little mirror on the back door. “Yeah, it is great. I could definitely be a spy in this.” She tipped her head one way, then another. Suddenly she screamed.

  I dropped the spatula and rushed over to
her. “Wilma, what’s the matter? Did you hurt yourself?”

  She screamed again, louder.

  “Honey, what is it? Tell me where it hurts.” She still had the paper bag over her head. “Take that thing off! Tell Em where it hurts, sweetie!”

  She took the bag mask off her head. She was smiling. “I was just thinking, maybe I could be a famous screamer, and I was practicing. People scream on the radio and TV all the time. I bet they have special people to do that, like stunt men. I was reading about them in our school paper.”

  “Famous screamers?” Chris said with interest.

  “No. Stunt men. Famous screamers is my own idea. I was practicing to see if I was any good.”

  “You’re not good,” I said, “you’re great.”

  She threw her arms around my waist. “You mean it, Em? I could be a great famous screamer?”

  “Guaranteed. Good thing Mom wasn’t here.”

  “I would never scream in front of Mom,” Wilma said. “She’s too nervous.”

  “Wilma, set the table. Everything’s ready. Chris, get the hamburger rolls and the ketchup.”

  “Let me finish this page, then I will,” he said.

  “Remember what Mom said? Remember who’s in charge?”

  “Emily, please, just one more page.”

  “Chris, with you it’s always one more page. Up, boy!”

  “Don’t talk to him like he’s a dog,” Wilma said.

  Just then, there was a knock at the back door. Chris jumped right up to open the door. He loves company.

  “Hello, you kids.” It was Mr. Linaberry.

  My heart started racing. Why was he here? Had we done something wrong? Maybe he’d smelled the smoke from the hamburgers all the way downstairs. Then I remembered Wilma’s scream. I was sure he was going to tell us we were too noisy and had to move out.

  “Where is it?” he said. His bald head shone in the light from the ceiling. He looked over my shoulder.

  I wet my lips. “Where is what?” I’d just thought of something else. Had Mom had enough money to pay the rent? A couple of times she’d been short at the end of the month and had to borrow from the bank. I knew this month she’d had a huge bill for the car from Don’s Service Station.