Authors: Sally Warner
Happily Ever Emma (7 page)
Mom probably thinks that Dennis Engelman doesn’t care enough about her even to
call.
call.
I blush with shame, but I still cannot figure out a way to tell my mom the truth.
Epecially not with Shayna here. “Are you
sure
it’s a new dress?” I whisper, flipping another page. “Because I think maybe I’ve seen her wear it before.”
sure
it’s a new dress?” I whisper, flipping another page. “Because I think maybe I’ve seen her wear it before.”
“No, it’s new, all right,” Shayna tells me. “Your mom bought it just for tonight
.
She told me it was their six-month anniversary, and she wanted to wear something special. Oh, this is messed-
up.”
.
She told me it was their six-month anniversary, and she wanted to wear something special. Oh, this is messed-
up.”
“She’s been seeing Dennis Engelman for six months?” I squawk. “But—but I thought they only went out one time!”
Shayna shakes her head, and her turquoise eyes—contacts?—shine with sympathy for my poor mother. “They’ve been dating for six months,” she says firmly. “And then he just blows her off like this. I don’t think she should stand for it,” she announces, jumping up from the sofa.
Oh, no! What’s she going to do, start offering my mom dating advice? “Wait,” I say, tugging at her sleeve. “You’d better stay here, Shayna. Because—my mom likes to be alone when she’s upset.”
“Really?” Shayna says, glancing longingly toward the kitchen.
And, as if she’s been summoned by magic, my mother is suddenly standing in the living room, holding the phone. The blusher on her cheeks looks like two
pink patches on her white, white face. “I’m calling the police,” she announces. “Because there must have been a car accident or something, and that’s why Dennis hasn’t called.”
8
Short And Sweet
“I’ll make this short and sweet,” Mom says to me fifteen minutes later, after Shayna has been hustled out the front door with a fistful of money—money that she almost didn’t accept.
I will never forget the way Shayna looked at me when I blurted out why Mom should
not
call the police. Or the look my mother gave me, which was even worse.
not
call the police. Or the look my mother gave me, which was even worse.
“I already said I’m sorry,” I mumble, not daring to look Mom in the eye.
“I
beg
your pardon?” my mom says, which in Mom-talk means that she cannot believe what she just heard. She is as angry as I have ever seen her.
beg
your pardon?” my mom says, which in Mom-talk means that she cannot believe what she just heard. She is as angry as I have ever seen her.
“Nothing,” I say hastily.
“Good answer,” Mom snaps. “So, here it is, short and sweet, Emma. I want you to write Dennis a letter of apology—and write one to me, too, while you’re at it.”
“But I never even met him,” I object weakly. “And
he
doesn’t know I didn’t give you the message. So why do I have to apologize to him?”
he
doesn’t know I didn’t give you the message. So why do I have to apologize to him?”
“You wouldn’t have said a word if I hadn’t said I was going to call the police,” Mom replies, not really answering my question. “And would it have been okay with you if I’d just cried myself to sleep?”
Hearing her say this, I can barely keep from crying myself. “No. I would have felt
terrible
,” I tell her.
terrible
,” I tell her.
“Oh, boo-hoo,” my mother says angrily. “But you wouldn’t have bothered to tell me that Dennis was expecting me to meet him for dinner this Friday, either, would you?”
“I don’t
know-w-w
,” I say, my tears finally spilling over. “After Shayna said you were wearing a new dress, I was trying to figure out a way to tell you, only I didn’t want to get in trouble!”
know-w-w
,” I say, my tears finally spilling over. “After Shayna said you were wearing a new dress, I was trying to figure out a way to tell you, only I didn’t want to get in trouble!”
“Well, why
shouldn’t
you get in trouble when you’ve done something wrong?” Mom asks, fed up.
shouldn’t
you get in trouble when you’ve done something wrong?” Mom asks, fed up.
I don’t have a very good answer to that question. “You don’t have to be so
mean
,” I finally say, hoping this will trick her into feeling at least a little bit sorry for me.
mean
,” I finally say, hoping this will trick her into feeling at least a little bit sorry for me.
“Oh, yes I do,” my mom says in her most serious voice.
I wish she still liked me.
“Look, Emma,” Mom says, sighing. “I don’t expect you to be perfect. But when you mess up, you have to say you’re sorry—and then do what you can to make things right. You can’t just hide your head in the sand.”
“Like an ostrich,” I say sadly, and incorrectly, because nature scientists say that ostriches don’t really do this at all. But I wish I had a pile of sand handy right this very minute. I could start a new tradition for in-trouble eight-year-olds who happen to live in Oak Glen, California.
Scientists could come study
me.
me.
“Like an ostrich,” Mom agrees. “Because that’s just silly, Emma. Also it’s not very brave.”
Not very brave.
That’s just a nice way of saying I was a coward.
That’s just a nice way of saying I was a coward.
“Well, you were going out with Dennis Engelman for six whole months,” I blurt out, angry and ashamed at the same time. “You told adorable Shayna, and she’s a total stranger, but you never told me. And I’m a
relative
. So that wasn’t very brave, either.
”
relative
. So that wasn’t very brave, either.
”
Mom blushes. “I suppose you’re right, in a way. But I wasn’t sure Dennis and I were going to keep seeing each other after you and I moved to Oak Glen last summer,” she tells me. “We did, though.”
“Well,
obviously
,” I say with a sniff.
obviously
,” I say with a sniff.
“That’s quite enough back talk, young lady,” my mom tells me, in charge of things once more. “Now, march into your room and start writing those two letters. And then come show them to me, and I’ll tuck you in.”
“And give me a kiss good night?” I ask, my voice so soft that I’m surprised she can even hear it.
But she does. “Of course, Emma,” Mom says, pulling me to her for a hug. Her new dress is very silky. And she’s wearing
perfume.
perfume.
“We can start over fresh tomorrow morning,” my mom promises me. “Tonight, even.” “I’m sorry, Mommy,” I say, nestling my face against her brand-new dress, being careful not to get any tear marks or drool marks on it.
“I know, Emma. Now, scoot.”
And so I scoot.
9
Our Date With Dennis
“Would you like a breadstick, Emma?” Dennis Engelman asks.
It is Friday night, and I am all dressed up and sitting next to my mother—across from Dennis Engelman—in that fancy Italian restaurant in Escondido, California. Yes, he and my mom got together on the phone and decided that this was the best way to “handle things.” That’s how grownups put it, like there’s a handle on top of every problem.
Hah!
This is my worst nightmare come true. On top of that, it could ruin Italian food for me forever. I’ll be scarred for life. No more spaghetti and meatballs. No ravioli. No
pizza.
pizza.
“I
guess
,” I mumble.
guess
,” I mumble.
“Emma . . .” my mother warns.
“I mean
yes,
thank you,” I tell him, grabbing the nearest breadstick, because there’s no point in starving, is there? “Please pass the butter,” I say gloomily.
yes,
thank you,” I tell him, grabbing the nearest breadstick, because there’s no point in starving, is there? “Please pass the butter,” I say gloomily.
My mom fiddles with the fake holly wreath around our table’s glowing red candle and exchanges a look with Dennis Engelman that I cannot interpret, then she scoots over a dish filled with foil-wrapped pats of butter. I take three, just in case.
This is what I wish
all
butter looked like, all the time! Because who wants even the possibility of other people’s crumbs on their own private food? Besides, butter is prettier this way, all shiny and dressed up.
all
butter looked like, all the time! Because who wants even the possibility of other people’s crumbs on their own private food? Besides, butter is prettier this way, all shiny and dressed up.
I unwrap two of my three pats and start piling butter on my breadstick in a long, skinny mountain ridge while Mom and Dennis Engelman watch, silent.
Dennis Engelman
is
tall, Annie Pat will be happy to learn, and even though he wears glasses he is medium-handsome, which I have to admit is just about right for a man. Because what lady wants to go out with someone who looks better than she does? Not that Mom looks bad or anything. She looks beautiful, and she is wearing her almost-new, silky-soft, pale-pink dress again.
is
tall, Annie Pat will be happy to learn, and even though he wears glasses he is medium-handsome, which I have to admit is just about right for a man. Because what lady wants to go out with someone who looks better than she does? Not that Mom looks bad or anything. She looks beautiful, and she is wearing her almost-new, silky-soft, pale-pink dress again.
I am wearing my best dress, which is dark green and has long sleeves. Its skirt is so smooth that I keep starting to slide off the dark-red leather seat, so far off that my nose is practically sitting on the table. I can barely eat my breadstick. But it’s fun pretending that I’m a Christmas leprechaun.
“Don’t slouch, Emma,” my mom murmurs, and so I hoist myself back up.
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