Another Day as Emily by Eileen Spinelli

who told her he was lost.
    She contacted the police.
REUNION
    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!”

DEFINITELY
    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.
ANYPLACE I WANT
    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.
BAD CHOICE
    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.”

TAP, TAP
    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.
ALONE
    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.
MY FIRST POEM EVER
    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!

THIS TIME
    Last night, I dreamed again
    that I was Emily.
    This time—
    carefree and floating
    in a long dress
    through the backyard
    by moonlight.
AFTER THE DREAM
    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.
CALL ME EMILY
    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.”
ROSES
    After lunch, I go out to the