Only Emma (11 page)

Uh-oh
, I think. I am the only calm person in the living room—and even
I
am not feeling so calm anymore. “Listen,” I say to Cynthia, trying to make things peaceful again, “why don’t we play school with Anthony after dinner?”

“Shhh,” Anthony says, staring at the video. “I can’t hear what they’re saying.”

“We should play
now
,” Cynthia tells me. “He’ll be too tired later. And you shouldn’t let little kids have their own way when they’re being bad.”
And she grabs the remote from the table, punches its one red button, and turns both the TV and VCR off.

“Hey,” Anthony yells, and he tries to jump up from the chair. His legs get tangled in the little blanket, though, and he crashes to his knees.

“Horses eat hay,” Cynthia informs him, the very second that he starts to cry.

Ms. Sanchez says,
“Horses eat hay”
whenever one of us kids in her class says,
“Hey.”
That’s where Cynthia got it from.

“Horses? So what?” Anthony is yelling, just as my mom rushes into the living room. Mom is holding a wooden spoon straight up in the air as if she is an insect with only one antenna.

“Anthony, what happened?” Mom asks him. “Did you fall? Are you hurt?”

“Cynthia and Anthony are just having a teensy little fight,” I tell her. “It’s no big deal.”

“That not-nice girl made me fall off the chair,” Anthony says between big sobby gulps—ignoring me. He points his blaming finger at Cynthia.

“It’s rude to point,” Cynthia says, as though she is reciting a rule that everybody knows. But her voice is a little bit quieter now, because my mom is in the room.

“Point, point,
point
,” Anthony says, jabbing his finger at her again.

“Anthony, darling, calm down,” Mom says to him.

Cynthia takes a deep breath. “Yes,” she says, pointing at Anthony now. “
Sit
. And
stay
.”

Just as if Anthony was a cocker spaniel or something!

I can’t help it—I start to giggle.

Mom starts chuckling, too.

But not Anthony, and not Cynthia. Now they are both angry—with
us
. “Stop it,” Anthony says, putting his little hands on his little hips.

“Yeah, quit laughing,” Cynthia says, but to me, not to my mom. “I thought we were friends,
Emma
,” she adds, scowling.

“We—we—we are,” I say, trying to catch my breath. “You just sounded funny, that’s all.”

“I did not,” Cynthia says.

“Sit. Stay,”
I say, pointing at Anthony. I am pretending that I am Cynthia, so she can see for herself how silly she sounded.

“No,” Anthony yells at me.

“Bad dog,” I yell back.

Now, Cynthia is the one to giggle—she can’t help it!—but then she turns her laugh off suddenly, as if it were a radio someone had turned
on by mistake. She glares at me, even angrier now. “Hmmph,” she snorts, and she flops down into a chair. She folds her arms, scrunches up her face, and starts looking at the wall, even though there is nothing there.

And Anthony is madder than ever, too.

If that is even possible.

“Yah-h-h,”
he howls, and he runs out of the living room and down the hall.

Mom and I stare at each other. I think each of us is wondering,
What just happened?

And then, just when you would think that nothing more could go wrong, the doorbell rings.

   10   

No Fair!

Even though the bell jingles and jangles, Mom and I stand very still, the way animals do when they don’t want anyone to notice them. “It’s probably the police,” I tell Mom. “I guess our
neighbors heard all the yelling and everything. You can’t make a lot of noise when you live in a condo, remember.”

“Oh, Emma,” Mom says. But it’s as if my words have released her from a magic spell, because she runs to open the front door.

And Anthony’s mother is standing there.

She came home early. No fair!

“Surprise,” she says, holding out her arms as though she knows we will be happy to see her. “I tried to call from the airport,” she says, “but—”

“Mommy!” Anthony shouts, hearing her voice, and he whizzes down the hall and throws himself into her arms.

“Little bunny rabbit,” Anthony’s mother says, and she bursts into tears while she is hugging him.

I guess that’s where Anthony gets his crying skills from.

They
Mommy
and
Little-bunny-rabbit
back
and forth a couple of times more. You would think that my mom and I had been making Anthony’s life miserable, the way he is clinging and carrying on.

You would think I hadn’t been playing with him—more and more each day actually. And enjoying it, too.

I sneak a peek at Mom. We are both looking a little bit lonelier already.

“Can you stay for dinner?” my mom asks Anthony’s mom. “It’s almost ready.”

“No. Jack’s out in the car with the motor running,” Anthony’s mom says, standing up.

Mom gives her a worried look. “Well, I hope that Anthony’s grandmother—”

“Complete recovery. Happy ending in Tucson,” Anthony’s mom says, smiling.

Mom sighs. “Well,” she says, “let me get this little guy’s things together. It will only take a minute.”

“Could I stop by tomorrow, instead, to pick
up his gear?” Anthony’s mom asks. “We’re just so anxious to get home. I know you understand.”

Home
. To our old neighborhood. Just the three of them.

I
understand, anyway.

In fact, I kind of wish I could go with them.

“But I want my bunny
now
. And my blanket,” Anthony says, and he trots off down the hall. He comes out of my bedroom with the stuffed rabbit—whose head is practically falling off, it has been kissed and slobbered on so much—and he goes into the living room for his blanket.

And I suddenly remember:
Uh-oh. Cynthia’s still in there
. I had forgotten all about her. So I go into the living room, too.

“Here,” Cynthia is saying, holding out the raggedy little blanket to Anthony.

“Okay, thanks,” Anthony says back, businesslike, as he scoops it into his arms.

“I’m sorry if I was kind of bossy,” Cynthia says to him.

See, that’s another good thing about Cynthia: She says sorry when she is wrong.

I hate doing that.

“You were a
lot
bossy,” Anthony informs her. “But that’s okay,” he adds, waving his rabbit in the air as if he is using it to say
I forgive you
.

Sure, he can be nice to her now, because he is leaving!

Right before he walks out the door, he turns around, runs back to me, and gives me a big old hug. “Bye, Emma,” he says. “See ya.”

I don’t say anything. I just squeeze him back.