Free Happily Ever Emma by Sally Warner Page B

nickname. Her real name’s Nat.”
    “Gnat?” I say, wasting a joke on him. But gnats are very interesting insects. More interesting than you’d think! They do not eat after they are larvae. They only live long enough to lay their eggs and die.

    That would be kind of like kids never eating anything after middle school, not even pizza or French fries. Poor gnats.
    “Nat,” Anthony repeats, nodding.
    I try to figure out how to explain nicknames to him. “A nickname is usually shorter than a person’s name,” I finally say. “Unless you’re someone like Conan the Barbarian, and then it’s longer. But ‘Pete’ is a nickname for ‘Peter,’ for example. And ‘Liz’ is short for ‘Elizabeth.’”
    “Maybe I could be ‘Ant’ for short, and ‘Anthony the Barbarian’ for long,” Anthony suggests, sounding a little shy.
    “That nickname’s already been taken by Conan,” I tell him.
    Anthony sighs. “So what’s your nickname?” he asks.
    “I don’t have one.”
    “I’ll give you one,” Anthony says. “For free!” He’s a generous little guy, in a weird way.
    “No thanks,” I say. “What’s for dinner, do you know?” I ask, trying to change the subject. “Is it slippery shrimp, by any chance?”
    Dinner smells more like macaroni and cheese, cheese being one of Anthony’s favorite food groups, but a person can always hope.
    “Slippery shrimp?” Anthony asks, and he starts to laugh. “Yeah, Emma—like that’s a real thing people eat!”
    “They do eat slippery shrimp,” I tell him. “It’s Chinese food, Anthony. Which means Chinese people eat it all the time.”
    “Slippery Chinese shrimp. Oh, sure,” Anthony says, still laughing. He shakes his curly black head like the world’s youngest geezer. “There’s no such thing, Emma. The End.”
    Anthony has started saying “The End” lately, when he wants something to be over. I think he got it from books.
    “Forget I said anything,” I tell him just as the gummy LEGOs pop apart. “There,” I say, handing him the blue one. “Now are you happy?”
    “I was happy before, even,” Anthony says. “I’ve been happy ever since my mom said you were coming over to play tonight.”
    “Oh, Anthony,” I say, melting a little.
    “Ant,” he reminds me patiently. “Call me Ant, okay? Just for tonight? And I’ll call you Em.”
    “Please don’t,” I tell him, but it’s too late. The mind of Anthony Scarpetto has already hopped ahead to something else. Now, he is busily peeling some unknown goo off the bottom of his red sneaker.
    Yick.
    “Okay,” I murmur, shuddering. “Call me Em, if you have to. But just for tonight,” I say, echoing his earlier words.
    And, looking at the goo, I start wondering how my mom’s date is going right about now—but then I make myself stop.
    “The End,” I whisper to myself.

3
    Nuclear Acid
    “Watch out, Emma! We’re a train, and you’re standing right on the track,” a boy’s hoarse voice behind me yells when I am almost in front of Oak Glen Primary School. It is Monday morning. I walk to school, because our condo on Candelaria Road is only six blocks away.
    Corey Robinson is the boy who is yelling. He’s afraid of arithmetic, but he is a champion swimmer already, even though we’re only in the third grade. Sometimes his blond hair turns green when they put too much chlorine in the pool where he trains.
    “Yeah,” another boy’s voice calls out. “And there’s dangerous stuff on board.” It’s Stanley Washington, who is usually a cautious kind of guy. Like EllRay Jakes, he says “Present” instead of “Here” sometimes, when Ms. Sanchez takes attendance. It always gets a laugh, but we’re pretty easy to entertain in Ms. Sanchez’s class. Epecially first thing in the morning.

    “It’s nuclear acid,” EllRay roars, bringing up the rear of the imaginary train. I guess he’s supposed to be the caboose.
    As I have said before, EllRay is little in size but large in