Another Day as Emily Read Online Free PDF Page B

us to choose
    the person we’d like to learn more about.
    Alison elbows me. “Learn,” she growls.
    “What is this? School?”
    “Shhh,” I say.
     
    Ms. Mott goes on. “Once you’ve decided,
    you may choose a few books from the back table
    about that person.”
    Alison mock-cheers. “Yippee.”
    “And next week,” says Ms. Mott, “we’ll each come
    dressed as our favorite, ready to share
    what we’ve learned.
     
    Alison leans over and whispers: “Next week
    I’m going to be sick with one of those 1800s diseases.
    What were they—typhoid fever? Gout?”
    But when Ms. Mott asks Alison about her choice,
    Alison replies all nice and polite:
    “Sarah Bernhardt, Ms. Mott. The actress.”
    Ms. Mott pats Alison on the head.
    “Why am I not surprised?”
MY TURN
    I don’t know what draws me
    to Emily Dickinson.
    I’m more the Annie Oakley type.
    But it’s something about
    Emily’s face—
    her eyes, I think.
    She looks so content.
    And her hands—
    so graceful and relaxed.
    “I’ll be Emily Dickinson,”
    I tell Ms. Mott.
    Ms. Mott sends me a smile.
    “Good choice, Suzy.”

NOT MY TYPE
    I take three books
    about Emily Dickinson
    from the table.
    When Alison goes
    to the ladies’ room,
    I skim a few pages.
    I read that Emily
    had a talent
    for the piano.
    She called it “moosic.”
    As she got older,
    she stopped going places.
    She even hid from guests
    who came to the house.
    She carried on her friendships
    by letter.
    She wore only white dresses.
     
    Not exactly my kind of chick.
COMPLAIN, COMPLAIN, COMPLAIN
    On the way home,
    all Alison does is
    complain.
    “No way am I going to read
    an entire book
    on summer vacation.”
    “Just skim it,” I tell her.
    She ignores that. Keeps whining.
    “And a report!
    Is Ms. Mott joking?
    That’s homework. Homework! In
July
!”
    “You don’t have to give a long report,”
    I say. “Just a little something about
    your person.”
    “Let’s just quit Tween Time.”
    “No way,” I tell her. “I like Tween Time.”
    Then, to change the subject, I ask:
    “So—what’s this about Friday?
    What are you and I going to do?”
    Her sour face brightens. She claps her hands.
    “We’re auditioning for a play!”
WANTED
    The next day,
    Alison and I go to
    the Ridgley Community Theater.
    The sign on the door says:
    WANTED:
    ACTORS AGES 10 TO 1 3
    TO PERFORM IN UPCOMING PLAY
    THE FOGGY BOG MURDERS
.
    AUDITIONS FRIDAY, JULY 9

     
    I tell Alison: “I can’t audition
    for a play.”
    “Why not?”
    “I wouldn’t know what to do.”
    Alison drapes her arm around me.
    “I’ll tell you what to do.”
    “Besides,” I say, “I don’t want to
    be an actress. You do.”
    “Maybe you do too,” says Alison.
    “You just don’t know it yet.”
PRACTICE
    We go to Alison’s.
    Up in her room
    she digs through some papers
    and comes up with
    the script from
    last year’s school play,
    Snow White in the Big City
.
     
    Alison played the lead—
    Snow White.
    I was stage crew.
     
    She plops on the bed
    beside me.
    “We’ll practice with this,” she says.
    “I’ll be Snow White.”
    “Of course.”
    “You’ll be the witch.”
    “Of course.”
SET
    So it’s set.
    For the audition we will do
    a scene from
Snow White in the Big City
.
    Alison tucks her blond curls
    under the old Snow White wig.
    The witchiest thing she can find for me
    is an old black T-shirt of her father’s.
    There’s a hole under one arm.
WITCHES CACKLE
    We sit back on the bed.
    We turn pages to the part where
    the witch—posing as a waitress—
    tries to get Snow White to order
    the poison-apple Danish.
    I read my line: “This Danish is delicious.
    You must try it, my dear.”
    Alison—as herself—screeches: “No! No! No!
    You’re supposed to be a
witch
. You sound like
    that nice waitress at Daisy Donuts.”
    “Well, aren’t I a waitress
and
a witch?”
    Alison looks at the ceiling, then back at me.
    “You’re mainly a witch. You have to sound like a witch.”
    Alison