Free Another Day as Emily by Eileen Spinelli Page B

me
    about the Emily Dickinson business.
    But she doesn’t.
    She just gives a happy squeal
    that I’m willing to be on book
    or whatever
    for Giselle.
    “Rehearsal’s at six p.m.,”
    Alison tells me.
    “And don’t be late.
    Giselle hates late.”
BIKE
    I’ll call Gilbert later,
    tell him yes to the game.
    I’ll reply to Ms. Mott
    later.
    Right now,
    I just want to ride my bike.
    I go out to the garage.
    There it is—leaning against
    Dad’s workbench, all red and shiny.
    Dad must have been
    keeping it dusted.
    I lay my head on the handlebars.
    “Hello, sweet thing,” I whisper.
    I wheel it outside into the sunlight.
    I hop on.
    I ride into the golden light,
    the warm breeze,
    away from the houses.
    I pat the bike.
    “Oh, wouldn’t Emily Dickinson
    have loved you,” I say.
THE DAY FLIES
    I’d forgotten
    what a busy life
    I used to have.
    Mrs. Harden invites me to lunch.
    She teaches me how to make
    strawberry salad and poppy seed dressing.
    I go on Mom’s computer and catch up on
    all the latest Phillies news.
    Alison calls. She wants me to come over.
    “I’ll do your hair,” she says. “You can
    have supper here.
    We can go to the theater
    together.”
AT THE THEATER
    Giselle explains more about
    being on book.
    When an actor forgets a line,
    the actor calls “Line,”
    and then I read the line
    as it is written.
    I’m not supposed to give a line
    unless it’s called for.
    Giselle asks me to sharpen
    some pencils for her.
    I also help move scenery,
    find props.
    And fix Giselle’s coffee—
    two sugars, no cream.
    Rehearsal is over at nine.
    Giselle asks me to flip off
    some of the lights.
    “Good work, Suzy,” she says.
    Alison sidles up to us. “Don’t forget
    who got her for you, Giselle.”
SUDDENLY
    Alison’s father drops me off at home.
    Mom and Dad are watching TV.
    “How’d it go?” Mom asks.
    “It was cool,” I say.
    “I love working at the theater.”
    “Gilbert called,” says Dad.
    “Thanks,” I say.
    Then: “Where’s Parker?”
    “In bed, I hope,” says Mom.
    I laugh. “You never know with
    the little hero.”
    I grab the feather duster.
    I tiptoe up the stairs.
    I think I’m going to Parker’s room—
    but I don’t.
    Suddenly there’s something
    I have to do.
THE BLURT
    I detour into my parents’ bedroom.
    I pick up the phone. I dial.
    I don’t even sit on the bed.
    As soon as Gilbert says “Hello?”
    the words burst out.
    “I’m coming to the game.
    Of course I am.
    What was I thinking?
    I don’t even know what happened,”
    I tell him. “One day everything was normal,
    and the next day Parker was a superhero—
    newspaper stories,
    a medal,
    a parade,
    and what was I?
    I was the little hero’s sister.
    Boring old Suzy Quinn.
    Nobody wanted to meet
me
.
    Nobody took
my
picture.
    And then I went to the audition—
    and didn’t get the part.
    But I learned about acting and
    I read about Emily Dickinson
    and I figured, hey, why should I be stuck with
    boring old Suzy Quinn when I could be
    a famous and fascinating recluse?
    And for a while it seemed like it was working.”
    On and on I go. When I finally stop,
    I’m gasping as if I just finished a race.
    Gilbert laughs.
    He absolutely
howls
on the other end of
    the line.
    “Suzy”—he says—”
that
was a major blurt.”
    I try to join in the laughing, but it’s hard
    because it takes breath to laugh.
    When I finally calm down, I say:
    “I guess what I mean is—I missed myself.”
    There’s silence on the other end.
    I wonder if Gilbert has put down the phone.
    Then he says: “I missed Suzy too.
    I’m glad she’s going to the game.”
    When we hang up, it feels like two
    holding hands
    coming apart.
MONSTER
    I pick up the feather duster.
    I tap on Parker’s door.
    “Who’s there?” he asks.
    “Guess,” I say.
    “Emily?”
    “No.”
    “Suzy?”
    “No.”
    “I give up.”
    I open the door.
    I creep
    step
    by step
    over to Parker’s bed.
    I wave the feather duster at him.
    “It’s