Read Online Another Day as Emily by Eileen Spinelli - Free Book Online Page A

invented?”
OH
    Dad loves answering questions
    about history.
    He sets down his wrench.
    “Da Vinci sketched a bike
    in 1490,” he tells me.
    I brighten. “Ah, so there
were
    bikes in Emily Dickinson’s time.”
    “Well,” Dad says, “the da Vinci sketch
    stayed in his notebook. But there were
    bikes in Emily’s day.”
    “Yippee!”
    Dad goes on. “They were called
    boneshakers.
    They had huge front wheels.
    A person mounted the bike like a horse.”
    “Wow!”
    “One thing, though.”
    “What?”
    “Only men rode boneshakers.”
    “Oh.”

NICE DRESS
    Mr. Kim comes
    up our driveway.
    He must be having
    lawn-mower problems again.
    Before I can scoot away,
    he says,
    “Hi, Suzy. Nice dress.”
    I keep walking.
    “Are you in
    some kind of show?”
    he calls.
    I go into the house.
    I shut the back door.
    Hard.

DAD’S MAD AT ME
    When Mr. Kim leaves,
    Dad comes up to my room.
    “You were rude to Mr. Kim,
    Suzy.”
    “I’m not that name,” I say.
    “Mr. Kim doesn’t know a thing about
    this phase of yours,” Dad says.
    “It’s not a phase. I’m being Emily.”
    “Well, your Emily may have been eccentric,
    but she wasn’t rude.”
    I want to say: How would you know?
    You weren’t there.
    But I don’t.
    Dad leaves.
    He closes the door,
    not so gently.
    I throw my pillow
    against the wall.
SEWING
    I mope in my room
    for an hour.
    No calls.
    No notes.
    No visitors.
    Not even Parker.
     
    I give a sigh.
    I check Emily’s list:
    Sew
.
    Yikes!
    I haven’t sewn
    since I was six
    when Grandma Quinn
    from Oregon
    helped me make
    a pot holder
    for Mom.
     
    Then I remember—
    my favorite
    Phillies shirt
    has a rip in the seam.
    I was going to ask Mom
    to fix it for me
    before I turned myself
    into Emily,
    who only wears
    white dresses.
     
    Still—it’s something to sew.
    I dig it out of the dresser:
    my Phillies shirt.
    I almost get weepy—
    a relic from
    my other life.
    I rub it against my cheek.

NO MORE TICKLE MONSTER
    It’s almost dark.
    Mom comes upstairs.
    She tells me that she and Dad
    are going over to Mrs. Harden’s
    to fix a leak in her kitchen.
    I’m in charge of Parker.
    I make sure he gets into his pj’s
    and brushes his teeth.
    I ask if he’d like me to
    read him a story.
    “No,” he says. “I want Tickle Monster.”
    “Then good night,” I say.
    Parker wails. “I want Tickle Monster!”
    “Good night,” I say again.
    “It’s not
good
,“ he sniffles.
    “It’s a
poopy
night and it’s all
    your
fault!”
ANOTHER DAY AS EMILY
    I wake up thinking about
    Tween Time
    and wonder if Alison
    will go without me.
    She only joined
    in the first place
    because I coaxed her.
    Whatever.
     
    Who cares.
    Dad is acting
    mostly normal.
    Not mad like yesterday.
    I ask him if he’ll deliver
    a letter to Ms. Mott
    on his way to work.
    He says yes.
    But he doesn’t tweak my cheek
    or try to tell me some
    post-office trivia
    from back in the day.
     
    Who cares.
     
    I check the porch basket.
    No letters for me.
     
    I hear Gilbert whistling
    as he passes my house.
     
    Parker is going
    with Franky and
    his family
    to the pretzel factory.
    Who cares.
THANKS FOR ASKING
    I feed Carlo.
    I make my bed.
    I sit by the window
    and look out.
    Then back to Emily’s list:
    Care for sick mother
.
    Mom is sitting
    at the kitchen table
    with her coffee
    and her nose in a book.
    “How are you feeling today?”
    I ask.
    She looks up. “I’m fine. But
    thanks for asking.”
    “You look a little pale,” I tell her.
    She smiles. “No makeup yet.”
    “How about a nice cup of tea
    to perk you up?” I say.
    Mom lifts her coffee mug. “I’ve got this.”
    “Are your shoulders stiff?” I ask.
    “Would you like a shoulder massage?”
    “Can I take a rain check on that?” Mom asks.
    “As soon as I finish this page
    I have to call Dr. Ellis.”
    “Sure,” I say.
    “Great,” says Mom.
    I pat her on the back.
    “Feel better soon.”
    And I head to my room.
NOT SURPRISING
    Emily Dickinson seemed