Another Day as Emily (14 page)

and not the other?”

As soon as I say it, I know.

Mom squeezes my hand.

She tells me: “Alison got the part.”

I can’t sleep.

I get up and walk over to Ottilie.

“I didn’t get the part,” I tell her.

She swims to the glass

like she wants to hear more.

I go on.

“Giselle liked my cackle,” I say.

“But not enough, I guess.”

Ottilie’s mouth forms an O

like “O, I’m sorry to hear that.”

I sniffle. “Alison got the part.”

Bigger O.

I blow my nose.

I go back to bed.

I can’t sleep.

O.

I don’t feel like

going down to breakfast,

but I do anyway.

Mom hovers over me:

“Want some French toast?”

“Want a banana smoothie?”

“Want to come with me to

Dr. Ellis’s today? Borrow some books?”

Dad reads aloud from the sports page—

an article about the Phillies.

Parker whines. “I want to go to the game

tomorrow.”

I snap. “It’s not your birthday.”

“Be nice, Suzy Q,” says Mom.

I grab half a bagel and stomp

to my room.

I give myself a pep talk:

Okay, so you didn’t get the part.

Tomorrow is still your birthday.

There will be presents.

And buttercream cupcakes—

no raisins.

Dad and you are still going

into the city. Overnight.

You’re still going to see

your favorite team play.

In person!

You may even be able to

get some autographs.

Things could be

a lot worse.

Did I say it could be

worse?

Well, it is.

Today started out okay:

It’s my birthday.

I’ve already opened my gifts

and eaten two cupcakes.

I’ve called Alison to congratulate her

on getting the part

and to thank her for the present

her dad dropped off:

The Collected Poems of

Emily Dickinson
.

I’m wearing my Phillies

charm necklace—a gift from Gilbert.

Dad and I are halfway to the city.

His phone rings.

He pulls over.

It’s Mom.

She’s hysterical.

Parker is missing.

We turn back.

Dad says we’ll probably

find Parker

at one of the neighbors'.

And then maybe we can

get on the road again.

I keep my mouth shut,

but I’m thinking:

the way my life has been

going lately—

fat chance.

And now I feel guilty.

What kind of sister am I?

Mad that Parker is missing

instead of worried.

What kind of sister?

The word “rotten”

comes to mind.

When we get home,

Mom runs from the porch.

She’s crying.

Her shoulders are shaking.

She practically falls into

Dad’s arms.

“He’s nowhere!”

Mom tells us:

“I was in the attic gathering up books

for the library sale.

Parker was watching cartoons.

I checked on him twice.

And then—like
that—

he was gone.”

She says she looked in the garage

to see if he had taken his trike.

The trike is still there.

She called Franky’s mother.

No Parker.

She checked the closets

and under every bed.

Mrs. Harden checked her closets too.

Mr. Kim drove up one street

and down another.

Gilbert rode his bike to the park.

Alison’s mom ran in and out

of all the local shops.

No sign of Parker.

I think of all those

awful news stories—

kids kidnapped from

their own front yards,

bedrooms even.

I don’t care anymore

that it’s my birthday.

I don’t care that I won’t

see the Phillies play.

Or sleep in a hotel.

Or order chocolate chip pancakes

from room service.

I just care that

we find my little brother.

Dad says: “I’m going to the police station.”

Mom says she’ll wait at the house

in case Parker comes home.

I go with Dad.

We don’t say a word

to each other.

I see some sparrows

at Mrs. Capra’s feeder.

I’m reminded of that poem

Emily Dickinson wrote:

“Hope is the thing with feathers.”

I am hoping so hard for Parker to be safe

that I wouldn’t be surprised to see

feathers on my hands

instead of fingers.

Dad and I go into the police station.

We walk down a noisy hallway

and who do we see walking toward us

but Parker!

He’s holding hands with a lady officer.

His shoes are muddy.

There are purple stains on his shirt.

(We find out later they are

grape Popsicle drips.)

And he’s wearing his cape.

When he notices us,

he comes running.

He leaps into Dad’s arms.

“I got losted!”

Officer Claire tells us what she knows.

Seems when Parker went to change channels

on the TV,

he saw a news story about a fire at

Deena’s Doggie-Groom Shop.

It was in Westville, the next town over.

People were rushing in to bring out the dogs.

Parker figured the shop needed Hero Boy’s help too.

He ran through backyards and down alleys

and up unfamiliar roads,

the cape flying at his back.

But he couldn’t find Westville—

or his way back home.

Then he saw some little kids playing

in a sandbox.

They invited him to play too.

When the mother came out to check on her kids,

she saw Parker, who told her he was lost.

She contacted the police.

Dad calls Mom right away.

She’s waiting on the porch

when we pull into the driveway.

She runs to the car

and scoops Parker into her arms.

She showers him with kisses.

She twirls him round and round.

She says: “Mommy was so worried!

I couldn’t live without my Parky!”

And then she tells him:

“You’re grounded.

For life!”

I agree.

Parker
should
be grounded for life.

Maybe two lifetimes.

I thought he’d been kidnapped.

I thought I might never see him again.

When all it was

was this dumb hero stuff.

Mom tugs Parker’s starry cape off.

“No more Hero Boy,” she tells him.

“My sentiments exactly,” I say.

It’s way too late to go to the city—

the Phillies game has already started.

Dad says: “We’ll reschedule, honey.

Somehow.

I promise.

I’ll just need some time

to save up again

for those seats we wanted.

Maybe early September.”

Big deal.

September is only

a century away.

Dad tweaks my cheek.

“For now, how about a fancy

birthday dinner—

anyplace you want to go,

anything you want on the menu.”

“No thanks,” I mumble.

And I go to my room.

I’m in the bed.

Thinking.

Feeling.

Remembering when birthdays

were happy.

Remembering the day I read

“Hope is the thing

with feathers.”

Bad choice.

I should have gone

with “I’m nobody.”