by Ida Siegal
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DEDICATION
CHAPTER ONE: Famous
CHAPTER TWO: News-Reporter Famous
CHAPTER THREE: Wormburger
CHAPTER FOUR: My First News Report
CHAPTER FIVE: Reporter-in-Training
CHAPTER SIX: My First Clues
CHAPTER SEVEN: “Emma Is On the Air”
CHAPTER EIGHT: Professional Pretty
CHAPTER NINE: Back to School
CHAPTER TEN: The Hunt for a Wormer
CHAPTER ELEVEN: A Pretty Good Idea What Happened
CHAPTER TWELVE: Mystery Solved
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: The Final Interview
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: Case Closed
EMMA’S TIPS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
IF you have to do a chore, you might as well set the table. That’s my chore. It’s better than cleaning your room, or scrubbing the toilet, or worse … changing your baby sister’s diaper trash can! Yuck. Plus, when you set the table, you can practice being famous.
“Plaaaate! Everybody needs a plaaaate!” I sang as I skipped around our faded wooden table Sunday evening. That’s how famous people set the table. They sing and set at the same time. Singing is a very famous job.
“Fooork! Now everybody needs a fooork!”
My cat, Luna, joined in to help me. She likes to be famous, too. “Meeeoow! Meow, meow, meeeoow,” she sang along.
Luna has the softest brown fur you’ve ever seen. It makes me think of chocolate pudding. My hair is the same brown as Luna’s, except with curls and really long. Like chocolate pudding Slinkies. If I stretch my pudding Slinkies out, I can practically sit on them. I’m eight years old—and so are my curls. I’ve never cut my hair before. Next year, my curls will turn nine!
I whipped my eight-year-old pudding-Slinky curls from one side to the other, famous-style. Then I used a spoon for a microphone and sang as loud as I could, “Spoooon, glorious spoooon! Next to the knife youuu go!”
Down the hall, my baby sister started crying.
“Emma! What are you doing out there?” called my mom from the kitchen.
“I’m setting the table, Mom, like you told me to,” I called back.
“I don’t think I told you to wake up your sister,” she said, walking into the dining room. “Though I suppose she had to get up for dinner soon, anyway.”
Mom went to get Mia, and I continued setting the table.
“Knife and napkin. Knife and napkin. Cut and wipe and make it happen!” I sang in my extra-famous voice.
Then Papi yelled from the living room.
“¿Qué pasa aquí?” he asked.
That’s Spanish. It means, “What’s going on here?”
“¡Nada!” I yelled back. That means, “Nothing!”
My papi is from a whole other country called the Dominican Republic. They speak Spanish there. That’s why I call him Papi—it’s like saying “Daddy,” but in Spanish. You say it like this: “PAH-pee.”
“Dinner’s almost ready. Isn’t that right, Mia?” Mom said as she put baby Mia in her green high chair next to the table. My mom is not from the Dominican Republic. She’s from here—New York City. That’s where we live. Our neighborhood is called Washington Heights. It’s at the very tippy-top of Manhattan.
“GAGA BABA BOO,” Mia said in baby language.
Mom answered her in grown-up baby language. “Yes, I know you’re ready for dinner! Oh, you’re so cute … coo, coo, coo … look at that smile.”
Mia is pretty cute. But baby talk is for babies, and I’m eight, so I ignored them and kept singing and setting the table.
“Seriously, Emma,” said my dad. “I’m trying to watch the news; please pipe down a bit.”
The living room is right next to the dining room, so when Papi started watching the news on our TV, I could see it, too.
Ugh. The news. It’s just so boring. It’s horribly, ridiculously, terrifyingly boring!
“But, Papi, I haaaate the news!” I groaned. “It’s sooo boring.”
“Watching the news while you set the table won’t kill you,” Mom said.
On the TV, there was a man and a woman sitting at a big news desk. It was blue and yellow and looked like it glowed in the dark. They started talking about a boring man with a boring tie. And then they talked about a boring doctor, and he talked about a boring doctor thing.
Then I could feel it. I could feel the boredom kicking in. It tingled as it entered through my ears and eyes … and then the boredom started oozing through my whole body and I couldn’t make it stop! I really was going to be bored to death! I was about to tell my papi to call an ambulance when … I saw her.
Suddenly there was a woman on the TV. A fancy-looking newswoman. She was standing on the street, and there were lots of police cars behind her. She had shiny brown hair, a fabulous red coat, and glossy pink lips. Her cheeks were rosy with blush, and her eyelashes were long and black. She was wearing a big white pearl necklace, and she was holding a microphone with a colorful cube on top. She was amazing.
“Police say the robber smashed the glass window,” she was explaining. “He grabbed ten gold watches and ran away down the street.”
She was not boring at all. She looked so … she just looked so … so special.
I placed the last cup on the table and raced over to the sofa where Papi was sitting.
“Papi, who was that?” I asked hurriedly.
“Oh, her? She’s a reporter. I forget her name,” he replied.
“A news reporter? Do you think she’s famous?”
“Well, I suppose,” Papi said.
“Aha! I knew it! I knew she was famous. I’m going to be just like her!” I declared.
“But, Emma, wait … that’s not why she—”
But I had already run out of the room. A news reporter. I knew right away this was how I was going to be famous! Besides, how hard could it be?
THE next morning, I skipped downstairs to the kitchen table and landed in my chair with a thud and a smile.
“You’re in a good mood, Emma,” Mom said, smiling back at me. She spooned some cereal into baby Mia’s open mouth. Papi was reading the newspaper.
“I sure am, Mom,” I said. It was true. I was in a great mood! “Wanna know why?”
“Spill it,” Mom replied.
“Because famous people are always in a good mood. And now I’m going to be famous! A famous news reporter!”
“Aha,” Mom said. “That sounds exciting! Although I’m not sure famous people are always happy …”
“Oh, yes, they are,” I corrected.
“Even so, Emma, not all news reporters are famous,” Papi chimed in. “For example, I’m a newspaper reporter. I write very important stories for the New York Herald, and I’m not on TV,” he explained.
“Papi, I know. But newspaper reporters aren’t the cool kind. Sorry, but they’re not.”
“Oh, so TV news reporters are the cool kind?” Papi asked.
“Yup!” I told him.
Papi gave me a look and then made a humph sound. Then he went back to reading his newspaper.
“So, Mom,” I continued, “I’m going to be a famous TV news reporter. How do I do that?”
“Why don’t you ask your uncool father? He probably knows,” she said with a smile.
I turned back to Papi. He wasn’t smiling. “I’m sorry I called you uncool,” I said. “Maybe that wasn’t very nice.”
“That’s okay,” Papi replied.
“So can you show me how to be a TV news reporter? A famous one? ¿Por favor?” That means “please” in Spanish. Papi likes it when I speak Spanish.
“Okay, okay, mija. Only because you’re so smart and cute and I love you!” Then he l
eaned over to kiss my forehead.
My papi is the best!
“What do I need to do?” I asked.
“Well, you need to find a news story,” explained Papi.
“But how do I do that?”
“You have to pay attention to what’s going on around you. And when you see something happen that you think people need to know about, you write a story about it.”
“Like we did in school, when I wrote about the adventures of Luna? How Luna went shopping at the supermarket to buy cat food, but then she couldn’t find the cat food, so she started climbing the shelves. Remember when I wrote that?”
“Yes,” said Papi. “That was an excellent story. But let me ask you something: Was that a true story? Did it really happen?”
“No!” I giggled. “Papi, cats can’t go grocery shopping. I made it up.”
“Aha! That’s the difference,” Papi said in an excited voice. “A news story isn’t something you can just make up. It has to be something that actually happened. It has to be true. Your job is to tell everyone about things that happened. Things that are true.”
Oh, I thought. “Now I get it, Papi.” He smiled. “Like, I could tell a news story about how you were making macaroni and cheese the other night.” I started giggling as I remembered. “But you forgot to take the cheese packet out of the box before you poured the macaroni into the pot of boiling water. So the cheese packet fell into the boiling water!”
Papi and I both cracked up.
“Okay, yes,” he said, “technically, that would be a story about something that’s true, something that did really happen.” Papi sighed like he was embarrassed. “But is that something people really need to know about?”
“If they want a good laugh, it’s something they’d want to know about.” I giggled some more.
“Okay, que gracioso. Very funny. But, Emma, a news story should be something people need to know. When you go to school today, think about things like that.”
“Okay, Papi,” I agreed. But I still wasn’t sure what kinds of things people needed to know about.
“Come on, Emma … it’s time,” Mom called from the hall. “School bus will be downstairs in five minutes.”
I grabbed my backpack and my coat, and Mom and I headed out the door.
MORNING, Emma, take a seat,” said Bus Driver Dan. I waved good-bye to Mom on the sidewalk and started climbing onto the bus. I could see Bus Driver Dan’s sweaty armpits. Eww. Maybe I should do a news story about sweaty armpits! Ha-ha. That’d be … well … gross.
Just keep paying attention, Emma. What do people need to know about?
I walked down the aisle of the school bus and sat down next to my best friend, Sophia.
“Hi, Emma,” she said with a big smile.
“Hi, Sophia!” I said back.
Sophia and I are perfect-match friends. We are opposites in just the right ways. She likes to talk a little bit, and I like to talk A LOT. We always have great conversations. Sophia likes to dance, and I like to sing. We make our own music videos. But most importantly, Sophia’s favorite color is light lavender with sparkles, and my favorite color is bright purple with shimmers! We always go great together.
“Guess what, Sophia?” I shouted.
“What?” she asked.
“I’m going to be famous!”
“I know. You’ve told me that like a hundred times before,” said Sophia.
“No, this time I’m really going to be famous,” I explained. “I’m going to be a famous news reporter! Just like on TV.”
“A news reporter? You’re going to be on TV?”
“Yup, yup!”
“Wow. That’s awesome.”
A few minutes later, the bus pulled up in front of our school.
Sophia and I got off the bus and went to class together. We have the same third grade teacher, Miss Thompson. She is the best!
That morning in class, we did decimals in math. No news story there. We created a collage to make a rain forest. It was a fun project, but a boring news story. Then we had to write a poem about the animals in the rain forest. Ugh. Definitely not a good idea for a news story. I hate writing. It’s too hard. The day was half over, and I still hadn’t found a good story for my news report.
“Time for lunch, everybody!” called Miss Thompson. We lined up and walked to the cafeteria. Sophia and I sat next to each other at our usual table near the window.
“Hi, Emma,” said Shakira. She and Lizzie sat down with us.
“Hi, Shakira. Hi, Lizzie!” I said.
Shakira and Lizzie are also perfect-match friends. Shakira knows everything about purses, bracelets, and hair bands. Lizzie knows everything about tights, necklaces, and hats. They are always accessorized. Shakira loves to play soccer. Lizzie loves to watch tennis. They talk about sports a lot. But most importantly, Shakira’s favorite color is periwinkle with glitter, and Lizzie likes shiny magenta.
“Hey, guys, guess what?” Sophia chimed in.
“What?” they replied together.
“Emma’s going to be a famous TV news reporter!”
“Is that true?” Lizzie asked me.
“Sure is,” I said. “I just have to find a good news story. I’ve been searching all day.”
“Wow,” Shakira said. “When you become famous, are you going to ride to school in a limo and wear a boa and a tiara?”
“No, she can’t do that,” claimed Lizzie. “That’s what princesses do, not TV news reporters. TV reporters are rich. They have a million pairs of shoes and get to ride in a helicopter at work. Right, Emma?”
“Um … right,” I said. “I’m going to do all of that.” But I really had no idea what they were talking about. I knew TV reporters were special, and that’s what I wanted most. To be special.
Sophia, Lizzie, Shakira, and I got up to join the lunch line. It was Pizza Day, and we got our slices of pizza and sat right back down as fast as we could. On Pizza Day, everyone makes sure to stay in their seats and eat. No dillydallying. That’s the Pizza Day rule. If you get up and run around, then you can’t eat pizza the following week on Pizza Day … and then you’ll be the only kid without pizza for lunch that day. It happened to Shakira once, and she said it was not awesome.
Everyone from my class was eating pizza, except for Javier. I looked over at his table and noticed he was eating a hamburger with a special bun. That’s because he’s allergic to the whole wheat pizza crust.
Javier sits alone sometimes. Well, a lot of times. It might be because he likes to throw food in the air and try to catch it in his mouth. He makes weird robot noises when the food goes in his mouth. And even weirder noises when it misses and lands on the floor … or on someone’s head. Geraldine the lunch lady is always benching him on Pizza Day, but he doesn’t care. He can’t eat the pizza, anyway.
The rest of us were busy eating our pizza when—
“Eww!”
Everyone started screaming. I looked up to see what had happened. I saw Javier standing with his hands on his head.
“Oh, gross!” he yelled. “Someone put a worm in my hamburger! Look, look—it’s like a thousand centimeters long and swimming in the ketchup!”
All of us ran over to see. It was extra gross. The worm was brown and slimy and super wormy. The boys started laughing. The girls were screaming. They pretended like they were gonna throw up. Then the boys pretended they were gonna throw up on the girls, and the girls started screaming even louder. Geraldine the lunch lady hurried over.
“What’s going on here?” Geraldine said, hands on her hips. “Why is everyone breaking the Pizza Day rules? Do you all want meat loaf next week?”
“No, no … look,” said Sophia. “Someone put a worm in Javier’s hamburger!”
“It’s a wormburger!” I said with disgust. Everyone started laughing again.
“Okay, enough. It’s not funny, guys,” said Geraldine in a serious voice. “Give me the wormburger—I mean, the hamburger—and let’s get back to lunch.”
“I can’t believe Javier almost ate a worm,” said Shakira.
“Eww!” offered Lizzie.
“I hope they figure out how it got there,” said Sophia. “I don’t want to find a worm in my food.”
“Sophia!” I screamed with excitement. “That’s brilliant!”
“Um—what’s brilliant? The worm? That’s gross!”
“I know it’s gross,” I said. “That’s why it’s brilliant. I can do a news story about Javier’s wormburger! It’s perfect. It’s something true and that people want to know about. And it’s not at all boring. Sophia, you’re a genius!”
“Uh … you’re welcome?” she replied.
“This is gonna be great! I’m gonna be sooo famous. Just wait, I’m gonna be the most famous kid that ever went to P.S. 387. Soon I’ll be riding in a limo to school! I’ll have to wear famous-style sunglasses. And famous-style jewelry and boas. Maybe I’ll ride in a helicopter to school!”
Sophia rolled her eyes. But I hardly noticed. I felt famous already!
PAPI!” I screamed as soon as I heard him walk through the door of our apartment. “Papi, Papi, Papi … I found one! I found one!”
“You found one what?” he asked, putting his newspaper down.
“I found a news story! Well, I’m pretty sure I did.”
“Give your father a minute to come inside,” said Mom.
“Okay, come inside, Papi. But guess what? There was a worm in Javier’s hamburger at school today!”
“Huh,” said Papi as he unzipped his coat and hung it up. “That sounds exciting … and disturbing. What happened?”
I followed Papi as he walked into the living room to pick up baby Mia, and told him all about Javier’s wormburger.
Papi just smiled. And then he stared. He stared and smiled so much I started feeling weird.
“What?” I said.
“Did you hear that, Mia?” Papi asked my baby sister with that same smile.
“What?” I wanted to know.
“Your sister just told her first news story,” Papi said as he nuzzled noses with Mia. She giggled.
