Another Day as Emily (12 page)

three of them boys.

There are some grown-ups

in row 11.

Parents, I think.

The woman in row 3

stands up, faces us.

“Hi, everyone,” she says.

“I’m Giselle. I’m the director.”

She starts bringing kids onstage

one at a time.

Most read from a script.

One boy has his lines memorized.

A girl in purple recites a poem.

Alison and I go last.

Alison tells the director

we are going to do a scene together.

“Sure,” says Giselle. “But do the scene twice

so I can focus on one of you at a time.”

It’s hard to tell, but I think

things went better the second time around.

Especially my cackle.

I wonder which of us

Giselle was watching then.

Afterward,

Giselle gathers us all in a side room.

She applauds.

“Bravissimo!”
she goes. “Good job, actors.”

Then she leaves.

The guy in jeans and tie-dye

tells us they will be casting four kids—

two girls and two boys.

“When can we expect a call?” asks a parent.

“Sometime Tuesday,” says the guy.

He thanks us. He gives us a thumbs-up.

“Good job, people.”

Alison pokes me in the ribs, whispers:

“He’s looking right at us!”

With the audition over,

I can focus on my

Emily Dickinson project.

I start reading the first book

about her.

But my mind keeps wandering

back to how it felt being onstage.

To Giselle using her first name

with us kids like we were

real theater people.

To the guy in jeans and tie-dye

looking straight at me and Alison.

The phone rings.

Even though it’s not Tuesday,

my heart does a flip.

Mom calls to me:

“It’s Mrs. Harden. She wants you to

go over for a minute.”

Mrs. Harden wants to move her desk

closer to the window.

“Think we can do it?” she asks.

“Sure,” I say. “It’s not that heavy.”

I flex my arm muscle.

After the desk is in place,

we sit down to iced tea and cookies.

(No raisins.)

I tell Mrs. Harden about the audition—

how well I think it went,

how wearing Mom’s black dress

got me more into character.

“Now I need to focus on being

Emily Dickinson

for Tuesday’s Tween Time,” I say.

Mrs. Harden has an idea.

“Think of Emily as a role you’re playing.

Dress the part as you’re reading about her.

Try to get into the poet’s head and heart.”

I like that.

“But I don’t have a white dress,” I say.

Mrs. Harden grins. “I do.”

I’m a little nervous about taking

the white dress that

Mrs. Harden brings me.

It’s the one from her treasure chest—

her mother’s high school graduation dress.

Mrs. Harden says her mother would

have loved the idea—

a young friend wearing it as part of

a project on Emily Dickinson.

“Mother loved poetry,” she says.

Funny how a dress can change

how you feel.

When I wear Mom’s black dress,

I feel more like the witch in
Snow White
.

Now, slipping into Mrs. Harden’s white dress,

I feel kind of like Emily Dickinson,

more able to focus on her life.

I stand in front of the mirror.

I turn, swishing.

I swish over to Ottilie’s tank.

“Want to learn about Emily Dickinson?”

I say.

Ottilie swishes her tail.

That has to mean yes.

I start reading about Emily.

Aloud.

All weekend I work on

my Emily Dickinson report.

I’m down to two poems.

Which shall I read?

“I’m nobody!

Who are you?”

or

“Hope is the thing

with feathers.”

“I’m nobody” is probably

more famous, but it’s

kind of a downer.

I don’t want to depress

the audience.

I’ll go with “Hope.”

On Monday morning,

I hear Parker yelling outside.

Cape flying—he’s chasing after

Shady the cat.

I see the cat scoot under

Mrs. Harden’s porch.

“Why are you chasing the Kims’ cat?”

I ask.

Parker scowls. “I think that cat

caught a mouse.”

“That’s what cats do,” I tell him.

“But I saved Mousey!”

“You did?”

“Yeah. I scared that cat and

I helped Mousey get away!”

I pat Parker on the head. “Good for you.”

“Just doin’ my job,” he says, flapping off.

Alison comes over after lunch.

She opens her suitcase

and shows me her Sarah Bernhardt costume:

Blue dress with ruffles and puffy sleeves.

Three long strands of plastic pearls.

Her Snow White wig.

(Miss Bernhardt had dark hair.)

And a wide-brimmed navy blue hat

with a peacock feather.

“Wow!” My eyes go wide. “I know where

you got the wig—but what about the rest of the stuff?”

Alison grins. “Borrowed it from the Ridgley

Community Theater.

They have a great costume closet.”

“They actually let you take something from it?”

“I told them it was for a project—community service.”

“Bull,” I say.

“Hey, I’m part of the community.”

Dad’s in the garage

tinkering with a lawn mower.

I’m in the living room with Mom,

reading about Emily Dickinson.

Suddenly Mom screams.

Parker comes running.

Mom points a trembling finger.

“Sp-spider—”

It’s sitting on the stack of newspapers—

smack on Parker’s picture,

on his nose.

Parker puffs his little chest.

“Don’t worry, Mommy. Hero Boy

will save you.”

He lifts the top section of the paper

and carries the spider out the front door.

I hope he remembers Dad said, Don’t kill spiders.

They eat other bugs.

Parker does remember.

He dumps the spider over the porch railing

onto the grass.

Then he stands posing by the front door.

He looks up and down the block.

He says: “Today I saved Mousey.

And Mommy. And a spider.

Where’s that newspaper lady?”

I feel kind of sorry for Parker.

The newspaper lady has

more important things

to write about now.

Nobody wants to read about

spiders and mice.

Parker can flap around

in his cape

and save every mouse

and spider

in Ridgley,

but his fifteen minutes

of fame

are over.

And now it’s

my turn.

Probably a part in the play.

I bet that reporter will be there at

The Foggy Bog Murders

on opening night.

And of course—

my birthday.

Whatever Mom bakes that day

will definitely not

have raisins.

And there’s

the Phillies game.