Only Emma by Sally Warner, Jamie Harper Read Free Book Online

with Mom, it’s just us hanging out, and it’s always her taking care of me. But with Anthony here,
I
get to have someone to take care of, too.
    He’s only four, and he’s lonely, and he needs me.
    “Cat got your tongue?” Mom asks me, snipping construction paper into little pieces.
    This is something she says when I am being unusually quiet.
    I smile. “Nope. Tonight, a
magpie
has my tongue,” I tell her, and I select a piece of paper to cut up and then throw away.

    “Magpie, magpie, magpie,”
Anthony whispers, concentrating so hard on his own piece of paper that he doesn’t even ask what the unfamiliar word means.
    Which is highly unusual, and not very educational for him.
    But that’s okay. At least his scissors skills are improving.

   9   
    A Teensy Little Fight
    “Where is he?” Cynthia asks on Friday night. She is standing at the front door. Her shiny hair is pulled back tight by a red plastic headband, the kind with little teeth in it. And she is holding onto a suitcase with a picture of a ballerina on the side. The suitcase is round, and it is shiny, too.
    Everything Cynthia owns always looks brand new.
    “He, who?” I ask, but I already know the answer. She is talking about Anthony.
    “You know,” she says, excited, “that little kid. The one we’re babysitting.” She pats the side ofher suitcase. “I brought some stuff we can use,” she says. “We can play school with him. We’ll be the teachers.”

    “He’s watching a video right now,” I tell Cynthia. “And I’m not so sure about playing school. He had a tough week. I think he needs a rest from school.”
    “Well, that’s just too bad for him,” Cynthia informs me. We go into my room, and she puts her red suitcase down on my bed. She and I are going to sleep on the living room floor tonight, though, in sleeping bags. Anthony will be the only one staying in my room.
    Cynthia walks over to my guest bed and looks at all of Anthony’s stuff: his inside-out sweatshirt, his giant Legos, his new blunt-nosed scissors, his stuffed bunny rabbit.
    I don’t like her spying on his private things.
    “Let’s play dolls,” I say to her. That’s what we usually play when she comes over, even though we don’t talk about it at school, since wedon’t want to sound babyish. “Which one do you want to be?” I hold up my newest doll. She is wearing short shorts and tiny Rollerblades, and her hair is almost as shiny as Cynthia’s.
    Last time, we fought over this doll. But not today.
    “Let’s go get Anthony,” Cynthia says.
    “Well, maybe we should wait until after dinner,” I say. I was hoping she would forget her crazy plan about playing school with Anthony. “Come on, let’s play dolls,” I say again, tempting her with the short shorts, Rollerblade doll with shiny hair.
    But Cynthia just walks right out of my bedroom as if I haven’t said a word.
    This is a whole new Cynthia, I think, following her.
    We walk past the kitchen, where Mom is fixing dinner. “Hello, Cynthia,” she calls out. Her voice is all smiley, as if she thinks this is going to be a really fun night.
    “Hi, Mrs. McGraw,” Cynthia says, barely looking at my mother. She just keeps right on walking—like a Bengal tiger stalking its prey.

    Anthony is sitting in the most comfortable chair in the living room. A little blanket is spread across his lap, as if he is about to have a picnic. I can tell that he would like to be sucking his thumb. I have noticed that he does that sometimes, when he is really, really tired.
    I can also tell he is a little sad, only no one else but me would know that. But he’s not even singing along with the video this afternoon, and he knows it by heart, naturally.
    “Hi, Anthony,” I say. “This is Cynthia, remember?”
    Anthony’s eyes shift sideways for a second, then he nods his head. “I remember,” he says.
    I cross my fingers, hoping he does not add thepart about how he does not think that she is very polite.