Another Day as Emily (15 page)

Dad taps on my door.

“Phillies are winning,” he says.

“Want to watch the game with me,

birthday girl?”

I don’t answer.

I pretend to be asleep.

Later,

Mom taps on my door.

She comes in, wakes me

from my fake sleep.

She has a tray of

heart-shaped sandwiches.

And a root-beer float.

And a sign that says

HAPPY B-DAY, SUZY Q

in big red letters.

“Did Dad tell you?

Maybe September now.”

“Yeah,” I grump. “If the little hero

doesn’t run off to save the world again.”

Mom sets the tray on my desk.

She drapes her arm around me.

“I’m so sorry, Suzy Q.

What a bummer of a birthday.

But don’t worry—when Dad

gets new tickets,

I’ll bar the doors.

I’ll handcuff the little hero

to my own wrist.

He won’t get away,

I promise!”

“Whatever,” I say.

Mom kisses the top of my head.

She leaves the tray.

I don’t eat a bite.

Alison calls.

I refuse to go to the phone.

Parker sings “Happy Birthday”

outside my door.

I hold my ears.

Ottilie burbles.

I don’t even want to

talk to Ottilie.

I just want to be

left alone

in my room.

Forever.

Like Emily Dickinson.

Emily didn’t title her poems—

though sometimes she referred to them

by their first lines.

Her poems have numbers.

I print the number
1

at the top of the page

and then:

I’m nobody. Who are you?

Whoever you are—

well, toodle-oo
.

Don’t bother me
.

Don’t write or phone
.

Adios! Goodbye!

Leave me alone!

Last night, I dreamed again

that I was Emily.

This time—

carefree and floating

in a long dress

through the backyard

by moonlight.

I ride my bike

to Goodwill.

I buy three white dresses

(probably from someone’s

prom or wedding).

At home,

I change into one

with pearl buttons.

I look perfectly Emily—

except for the Phillies cap.

I toss it like a Frisbee

into my closet.

I don’t even feel bad.

At lunch, I make my announcement.

“Call me Emily from now on.”

Parker gives me a look. “Huh?”

Dad butters a roll, says:

“Suzy’s pretending to be

Emily Dickinson.”

I let the word “pretending” slide.

“Who’s Emily Dickensomething?”

asks Parker.

“A famous poet,” says Dad. “From long ago.”

“Oh,” says Parker, no longer interested.

Mom curtsies. “And what would Emily

like to drink with lunch?”

“Hot tea,” I say in my new Emily voice.

“Cup and saucer, please.

No mug.”

After lunch, I go out to the yard.

I snip two roses.

Mrs. Harden sees me.

“Don’t you look pretty,” she says.

“Thank you,” I say.

I give Mrs. Harden one of the roses.

And then I hurry inside.

(Emily was shy. Even with the neighbors.)

I fill a vase with water.

I put the rose in it and set it on my desk.

What would Emily do now?

One of my birthday gifts—

from Mrs. Harden—

was a thick biography

of Emily Dickinson.

I open it.

I skim for things

Emily did with her time

after she became a recluse.

I make a list:

Write letters
.

Write poems
.

Play the piano
.

Bake
.

Read
.

Make breakfast
.

Wash dishes
.

Dust
.

Tend the garden
.

Care for sick mother
.

Play with dog, Carlo
.

Listen to crickets
.

I go with

Write letters
.

One to Alison.

One to Gilbert.

I’ll explain things

in case they

start wondering

why they don’t

see me around

anymore.

I know you are going to be

very busy with the play.

I’ll be busy too:

writing poems,

reading,

baking,

sewing …

stuff like that.

Also, I’m going by

the name of Emily now.

And I’m no longer

taking phone calls.

Only letters.

Real ones.

Your busy friend,

Emily

(formerly Sooze to you)

This is to let you know

that the ice cream offer

is off.

I’m really sorry.

I’ll be spending a lot

of time alone now.

You won’t be seeing me,

unless maybe by accident.

Also, I’ve taken on

the name of Emily.

I do hope you’ll write.

Real letters.

On paper.

You can leave them

in the basket on the porch

if you don’t have stamps.

Your friend,

Emily

(formerly Suzy)

So far,

I’ve written one poem

and two letters.

I decide to follow Emily’s list