{"product_id":"another-day-as-emily-isbn-9780449809891","title":"Another Day as Emily","description":"\"Taut, fast-paced, economical, devoid of sham, Spinelli’s book echoes Dickinson’s own deceptive simplicity.\"--\u003ci\u003eThe New York Times Book Review\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eEleven-year-old Suzy just can't win. Her brother is a local hero for calling 911 after seeing their elderly neighbor collapse, and only her best friend was able to win a role in the play they both auditioned for. Feeling cast aside from all angles, Suzy sees a kindred spirit in Emily Dickinson, the subject of her summer project. Suzy decides to escape from her disappointments by emulating the poet's life of solitude: no visitors or phone calls (only letters delivered through her window), no friends (except her goldfish, Ottilie), and no outings (except church, but only if she can wear her long white Emily dress).\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut being a recluse is harder than Suzy predicted. Will she find a way to fold Emily into her life while also remaining true to herself?EILEEN SPINELLI is the popular, critically acclaimed, and beloved author of nearly 50 children's books. Among these are the middle-grade novels \u003ci\u003eSummerhouse Time\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eThe Dancing Pancake \u003c\/i\u003eand picture books such as \u003ci\u003eCold Snap\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003ePrincess Pig.\u003c\/i\u003e Eileen and her husband live in Western Pennsylvania.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJOANNE LEW-VRIETHOFF graduated from the Art Center College of Design in 1995 and began her career creating characters for children's television. In 1997 she became the art director for New York's DiVision Studio, creating award-winning designs for various hi-profile clients. Since then she has moved to the Netherlands where she continues to forge her talents as a designer and illustrator. Joanne is married and has two children.EMERGENCY\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Harden nearly died today.\u003cbr\u003eI know because I was there.\u003cbr\u003eI saw her slumped\u003cbr\u003eon her kitchen floor\u003cbr\u003elooking white as an egg.\u003cbr\u003eI wasn't there\u003cbr\u003efrom the beginning, though.\u003cbr\u003eOnly from the time\u003cbr\u003emy little brother, Parker,\u003cbr\u003ewent missing.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHE BEGINNING\u003cbr\u003eIt seems Parker wanted to\u003cbr\u003edrive somewhere\u003cbr\u003eon his new trike.\u003cbr\u003eHe's only allowed to go\u003cbr\u003eone house up\u003cbr\u003eeach way.\u003cbr\u003eAnd only if he tells someone\u003cbr\u003ewhere he's going.\u003cbr\u003eHe obeyed the first rule.\u003cbr\u003e(Mrs. Harden lives next door.)\u003cbr\u003eBut he forgot the second rule.\u003cbr\u003eHe told no one.\u003cbr\u003eHe drove to Mrs. Harden's.\u003cbr\u003eHe parked in her driveway.\u003cbr\u003eHe knocked at her back door.\u003cbr\u003eShe invited him in\u003cbr\u003efor a cookie.\u003cbr\u003eThat's how it started.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHE SPELL\u003cbr\u003eBefore Mrs. Harden\u003cbr\u003ecould reach the cookie jar,\u003cbr\u003eshe had what grown-ups call\u003cbr\u003e\"a spell.\"\u003cbr\u003eParker saw her collapse.\u003cbr\u003eHe remembered his safety lessons.\u003cbr\u003eHe climbed on a chair.\u003cbr\u003eHe reached for the phone.\u003cbr\u003eHe dialed 911.\u003cbr\u003eThis is where I come in.\u003cbr\u003eI find him\u003cbr\u003eshouting to the dispatcher:\u003cbr\u003e\"Emergency! Emergency!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHELP IS ON THE WAY\u003cbr\u003eI'm here because\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Harden and I\u003cbr\u003eare supposed to paint posters\u003cbr\u003efor her women's club bake sale.\u003cbr\u003ePaints and rags and poster board\u003cbr\u003eare sitting on her craft table.\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Harden and I do lots of\u003cbr\u003eprojects together.\u003cbr\u003eShe is sort of an honorary\u003cbr\u003egrandmother to me.\u003cbr\u003e(My real ones live across the country.)\u003cbr\u003eI crouch on the floor\u003cbr\u003enext to her.\u003cbr\u003eI take her hand.\u003cbr\u003eIt's cold and clammy.\u003cbr\u003eI pat it.\u003cbr\u003e\"It's me. Suzy,\" I tell her.\u003cbr\u003e\"Don't worry, Mrs. Harden. Help is on the way.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHE LITTLE HERO\u003cbr\u003eThe ambulance comes.\u003cbr\u003eThe EMTs carry Mrs. Harden\u003cbr\u003eoff on a stretcher.\u003cbr\u003eNow Dad is in the driveway\u003cbr\u003easking what happened.\u003cbr\u003eNeighbors mill around\u003cbr\u003eshaking their heads,\u003cbr\u003ewhispering.\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Capra pats Parker\u003cbr\u003eon the head.\u003cbr\u003e\"So you're the little hero.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCALLING PAUL\u003cbr\u003eDad calls Mrs. Harden's nephew, Paul.\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Harden is a widow. No children.\u003cbr\u003eA couple years ago she gave us\u003cbr\u003ePaul's phone number \"just in case.\"\u003cbr\u003ePaul says for us to lock up\u003cbr\u003ehis aunt's house.\u003cbr\u003eHe asks us to hold her mail,\u003cbr\u003etake in her newspapers,\u003cbr\u003ekeep an eye on things\u003cbr\u003euntil he finds out\u003cbr\u003ewhat's what.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMONKEY-FACED\u003cbr\u003eBack home,\u003cbr\u003eParker is all monkey-faced\u003cbr\u003e(which is what he calls\u003cbr\u003ebeing upset).\u003cbr\u003eI give him a hug.\u003cbr\u003e\"Don't worry,\" I tell him.\u003cbr\u003e\"Mrs. Harden will be okay.\u003cbr\u003eShe's in good hands now.\"\u003cbr\u003e(I don't tell him\u003cbr\u003ehow worried I am.)\u003cbr\u003eParker sniffles.\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes, but Mrs. Capra\u003cbr\u003ecalled me a little hero.\u003cbr\u003eI'm not little, Suzy.\u003cbr\u003eI'm four and a half.\u003cbr\u003eI'm a big hero.\"\u003cbr\u003eParker pumps\u003cbr\u003ehis (little) fist in the air.\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm Hero Boy!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHREES\u003cbr\u003eWait till Mom finds out.\u003cbr\u003eShe likes Mrs. Harden\u003cbr\u003ealmost as much as I do.\u003cbr\u003eMom's in Arizona right now,\u003cbr\u003etaking care of Grandma Fludd,\u003cbr\u003ewho recently had a bad fall.\u003cbr\u003eGee--two people I know\u003cbr\u003ein the hospital.\u003cbr\u003eMy best friend, Alison,\u003cbr\u003esays bad things come\u003cbr\u003ein threes.\u003cbr\u003eUh-oh, I think.\u003cbr\u003eWhat's next?\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMOM FROM ARIZONA\u003cbr\u003eDad puts Mom on speakerphone\u003cbr\u003eso Parker and I can hear too.\u003cbr\u003eShe says she hopes Mrs. Harden\u003cbr\u003ewill be okay.\u003cbr\u003eShe says she is proud of\u003cbr\u003eher \"big boy\"\u003cbr\u003efor dialing 911.\u003cbr\u003eShe says: \"Thank you, Suzy Q,\u003cbr\u003efor helping out with things.\"\u003cbr\u003e(\"Things\" is code\u003cbr\u003efor Parker.)\u003cbr\u003eShe says she is trying to convince\u003cbr\u003eGrandma Fludd to move\u003cbr\u003eto Pennsylvania.\u003cbr\u003eUp pipes Grandma Fludd:\u003cbr\u003e\"What? And freeze my patootie off\u003cbr\u003ein the winter? Forget it!\"\u003cbr\u003eParker howls,\u003cbr\u003ewiggles his little behind.\u003cbr\u003e\"Patootie! Patootie!\u003cbr\u003eWatch me shake my bootie!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eVOICE MAIL\u003cbr\u003eThere's a voice mail from Alison.\u003cbr\u003eShe sounds all breathless:\u003cbr\u003e\"Sooze, I heard about Mrs. Harden.\u003cbr\u003eThe whole town is talking.\u003cbr\u003eI hope she's not dead.\u003cbr\u003eIs she?\u003cbr\u003eIs she?\u003cbr\u003eCall me!\u003cbr\u003eRight away!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eJUST IMAGINE\u003cbr\u003eI call Alison.\u003cbr\u003e\"Tell me--quick!\" she says.\u003cbr\u003eI tell her: \"We got a message\u003cbr\u003efrom Mrs. Harden's nephew.\u003cbr\u003eShe's going to be okay.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Whew! What a relief,\"\u003cbr\u003esays Alison.\u003cbr\u003e\"Just imagine if she died.\u003cbr\u003eYou'd be neighbors\u003cbr\u003ewith a dead person!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHOW WE STARTED\u003cbr\u003eI was in second grade\u003cbr\u003ewhen Herbie Sizemore\u003cbr\u003epushed me up against\u003cbr\u003ethe playground fence.\u003cbr\u003e\"Say it!\" he ordered.\u003cbr\u003e\"It\" was a bad word.\u003cbr\u003eA very bad word.\u003cbr\u003eThe very, very worst.\u003cbr\u003e\"No,\" I told him.\u003cbr\u003eI tried to push past him.\u003cbr\u003eHe wouldn't let me.\u003cbr\u003eSuddenly a girl appeared,\u003cbr\u003ebracelets jangling.\u003cbr\u003eShe stared Herbie\u003cbr\u003eright in the nose.\u003cbr\u003e\"Let her go,\" she snarled.\u003cbr\u003eI was surprised.\u003cbr\u003eShe was in the other\u003cbr\u003esecond-grade class.\u003cbr\u003eWe never played together.\u003cbr\u003eHerbie growled: \"This is\u003cbr\u003enunna your beeswax.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm making it my beeswax,\"\u003cbr\u003esaid the girl.\u003cbr\u003eShe pulled a sparkly pink phone\u003cbr\u003efrom her pocket.\u003cbr\u003e\"I have the state police\u003cbr\u003eon speed dial.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Yeah, right,\" said Herbie.\u003cbr\u003eThe girl punched a button.\u003cbr\u003eHerbie backed off.\u003cbr\u003eWhen he was gone,\u003cbr\u003eI said: \"That's a toy phone,\u003cbr\u003eisn't it?\"\u003cbr\u003eThe girl wagged her finger.\u003cbr\u003e\"Nunna your beeswax.\"\u003cbr\u003eI laughed. \"You rescued me.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm Alison Wilmire,\" she said.\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm Suzy Quinn,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003eWe shook hands.\u003cbr\u003eWe've been best friends\u003cbr\u003eever since.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDIFFERENT\u003cbr\u003eWhich is pretty amazing\u003cbr\u003esince we're so different.\u003cbr\u003eAlison is curly blond wonder-hair.\u003cbr\u003eI'm mousy brown ponytail.\u003cbr\u003eShe's pink sandals and short skirts.\u003cbr\u003eI'm red Phillies cap and jeans.\u003cbr\u003eShe's hip-hop dance lessons.\u003cbr\u003eI'm \"Go Phillies!\"\u003cbr\u003eShe collects bracelets.\u003cbr\u003eI collect rocks.\u003cbr\u003eShe wants to be an actress when she grows up.\u003cbr\u003eI don't have a clue.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNOT DIFFERENT\u003cbr\u003eDad says Alison and I\u003cbr\u003eare a perfect example of\u003cbr\u003ethe old saying\u003cbr\u003e\"Opposites attract.\"\u003cbr\u003eMom says\u003cbr\u003ewhile Alison and I\u003cbr\u003emay be different\u003cbr\u003eon the outside,\u003cbr\u003ewe are a lot alike\u003cbr\u003eon the inside\u003cbr\u003ewhere it counts most.\u003cbr\u003e\"You both have heart,\"\u003cbr\u003eMom says.\u003cbr\u003e\"That's the best thing\u003cbr\u003eI can say about\u003cbr\u003ea person.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTICKLE MONSTER\u003cbr\u003eWhen Mom first went to Arizona,\u003cbr\u003eParker got all stubborn\u003cbr\u003eabout bedtime.\u003cbr\u003eDad and I tried extra bedtime stories.\u003cbr\u003eExtra snacks.\u003cbr\u003eNew stuffed animals.\u003cbr\u003eOld stuffed animals.\u003cbr\u003eBlue night-light.\u003cbr\u003eGlow-in-the-dark stickers.\u003cbr\u003eNothing worked--\u003cbr\u003euntil I came up with\u003cbr\u003eTickle Monster.\u003cbr\u003eI started creeping\u003cbr\u003einto Parker's bedroom\u003cbr\u003estep by step,\u003cbr\u003ewaving Mom's feather duster.\u003cbr\u003e\"Here comes Tickle Monster,\"\u003cbr\u003eI'd say.\u003cbr\u003eI only had to tickle Parker's big toe\u003cbr\u003ebefore he would giggle and beg:\u003cbr\u003e\"Stop! Stop, Tickle Monster!\u003cbr\u003eI'll sleep now!\"\u003cbr\u003eBut this night\u003cbr\u003ewhen I creep into his room,\u003cbr\u003ehe's all curled up\u003cbr\u003ewith his stuffed owl,\u003cbr\u003esnoring like\u003cbr\u003ea little eggbeater.\u003cbr\u003eI guess it's exhausting\u003cbr\u003ebeing a hero.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eCHATTING\u003cbr\u003eI'm tired too.\u003cbr\u003eI get into my nightie.\u003cbr\u003eI open my window wide.\u003cbr\u003eThere's a cool June breeze blowing.\u003cbr\u003eIt feels like it might rain.\u003cbr\u003eI tell Ottilie--my goldfish--about\u003cbr\u003ethe day's excitement:\u003cbr\u003e\"Mrs. Harden nearly died today.\u003cbr\u003eBut Parker called 911.\u003cbr\u003eAnd now she's going to be fine.\u003cbr\u003eAnd the Phillies won against the Pirates--\u003cbr\u003eeven though I missed watching\u003cbr\u003ethe whole game on TV.\u003cbr\u003eAnd we talked to Mom and Grandma Fludd.\"\u003cbr\u003eOttilie swims closer\u003cbr\u003eto the glass in front of her tank.\u003cbr\u003eHer tiny fish mouth sends me kisses.\u003cbr\u003eI think she enjoys our nighttime chats.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eOTTILIE\u003cbr\u003eAlison says\u003cbr\u003eOttilie is just a goldfish\u003cbr\u003eand goldfish don't know anything.\u003cbr\u003eBut I read about goldfish\u003cbr\u003ebefore I got Ottilie.\u003cbr\u003eGoldfish can recognize their owners.\u003cbr\u003eThey react to light and different colors.\u003cbr\u003eI trained Ottilie to eat fish flakes\u003cbr\u003efrom my fingers.\u003cbr\u003eOttilie knows plenty.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eDISGUSTING TRIVIA\u003cbr\u003eDad--who teaches history\u003cbr\u003eat Ridgley Community College--\u003cbr\u003etold me that in 1939\u003cbr\u003ea fad was started by\u003cbr\u003ea Harvard University student\u003cbr\u003ewho swallowed a live goldfish.\u003cbr\u003eThe fad spread to other colleges.\u003cbr\u003eEventually, Dad said,\u003cbr\u003ethe president of Boston's Animal League\u003cbr\u003edecreed that goldfish swallowers\u003cbr\u003eshould be--would be--\u003cbr\u003earrested\u003cbr\u003eif they didn't stop this behavior.\u003cbr\u003eMy sentiments exactly.\u003cbr\u003eOttilie's too!\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGILBERT LENHARDT\u003cbr\u003eThis morning Gilbert Lenhardt stops by.\u003cbr\u003eHe heard about Mrs. Harden.\u003cbr\u003eHe was supposed to weed her herb garden\u003cbr\u003eand pull out a dead holly bush.\u003cbr\u003eHe is wondering if he should go ahead.\u003cbr\u003eDad tells him yes.\u003cbr\u003eGilbert does a lot of odd jobs around the neighborhood.\u003cbr\u003eHe's thirteen. Not old enough to get a regular job.\u003cbr\u003eAccording to Alison, Gilbert really needs the money.\u003cbr\u003eHis dad drinks a lot and probably spends\u003cbr\u003ehis money on beer instead of his family.\u003cbr\u003eFor a kid with a father like that, Gilbert is always\u003cbr\u003echeery. Always whistling.\u003cbr\u003eYou can hear him a block away.\u003cbr\u003eDad says they are songs from the 1940s.\u003cbr\u003eOdd--but nice too.\u003cbr\u003eOne thing I've learned from Dad is\u003cbr\u003eto appreciate ancient history.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKNOCK AT THE DOOR\u003cbr\u003eTen minutes later,\u003cbr\u003ethere's a knock at the door.\u003cbr\u003e\"Hi,\" says a lady in a gray suit.\u003cbr\u003e\"I'm Marsha Levine, reporter for\u003cbr\u003ethe Ridgley Post.\"\u003cbr\u003eShe introduces the man next to her--\u003cbr\u003e\"And this is Joe Perchek, photographer.\u003cbr\u003eWe're here to see the little boy\u003cbr\u003ewho called 911 yesterday.\u003cbr\u003eThe little hero.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eNOT LITTLE\u003cbr\u003eDad says it's okay\u003cbr\u003efor them to talk to Parker\u003cbr\u003efor a few minutes.\u003cbr\u003eAnd to take a couple\u003cbr\u003epictures for the paper.\u003cbr\u003eParker says: \"Wait!\"\u003cbr\u003eHe runs upstairs,\u003cbr\u003ecomes back wearing\u003cbr\u003ehis Superman T-shirt\u003cbr\u003eand his Count Dracula cape\u003cbr\u003efrom last Halloween.\u003cbr\u003eHe poses--arms out\u003cbr\u003elike he's flying.\u003cbr\u003eMs. Levine tweaks his cheek.\u003cbr\u003e\"You're the cutest little boy ever.\"\u003cbr\u003eParker squawks: \"Don't call me little!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003ePASSING MRS. BAGWELL'S\u003cbr\u003eI head over to Alison's.\u003cbr\u003eI pass Mrs. Bagwell's.\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Bagwell is chasing after something\u003cbr\u003ewith her big green flyswatter.\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Bagwell is always after something--\u003cbr\u003ekids trying to retrieve balls from her yard,\u003cbr\u003ebeetles nibbling her roses,\u003cbr\u003ethe Kims' gray cat, Shady.\u003cbr\u003eThis time it's a crow.\u003cbr\u003eI wave. \"Good morning, Mrs. Bagwell.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Dang crow,\" she growls.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eGARNET OR CHARM?\u003cbr\u003eWhen I get to Alison's,\u003cbr\u003eshe is still getting dressed.\u003cbr\u003eShe dangles two bracelets under my nose.\u003cbr\u003e\"Which one, Sooze--garnet or charm?\"\u003cbr\u003eI groan. \"Who cares? We're just going\u003cbr\u003eto the library.\"\u003cbr\u003eShe rolls her eyes at me. \"I repeat--garnet or charm?\"\u003cbr\u003eI point to the garnet bracelet.\u003cbr\u003eShe scowls. \"You're only saying that because it's red.\u003cbr\u003eLike the Phillies.\"\u003cbr\u003eShe flips both bracelets into her jewelry box.\u003cbr\u003eShe pulls out a purple beaded one\u003cbr\u003ethat matches her nails.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWHAT'S WRONG WITH READING?\u003cbr\u003eI coaxed Alison into\u003cbr\u003esigning up with me for\u003cbr\u003eTween Time at the Ridgley Library.\u003cbr\u003eEvery Tuesday morning at eleven.\u003cbr\u003eShe fought it.\u003cbr\u003eShe said she reads enough\u003cbr\u003eduring the school year.\u003cbr\u003eI told her: \"Tween Time isn't\u003cbr\u003ejust about reading.\u003cbr\u003eIt's crafts too. And games. And field trips.\"\u003cbr\u003eAnyway--what's wrong with reading?\u003cbr\u003eI happen to love it.\u003cbr\u003eIt's in my DNA.\u003cbr\u003eI get it from my mom,\u003cbr\u003ewho is totally addicted to books.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMOM'S BOOK ADDICTION\u003cbr\u003eNobody--\u003cbr\u003eI mean nobody--\u003cbr\u003eloves books\u003cbr\u003emore than Mom.\u003cbr\u003eShe breathes books--literally.\u003cbr\u003eShe holds them up to her nose,\u003cbr\u003etakes deep whiffs.\u003cbr\u003e\"Each book has a scent\u003cbr\u003eall its own,\" she says.\u003cbr\u003e\"Ink, tree bark, a hint of thyme,\u003cbr\u003esummer-dust.\"\u003cbr\u003eDad pipes up: \"Mold!\"\u003cbr\u003eHe's remembering when Mom\u003cbr\u003ebought six cartons of books\u003cbr\u003efrom someone's half-flooded basement.\u003cbr\u003eMom sleeps books.\u003cbr\u003eShe keeps one under her pillow.\u003cbr\u003eI'm not kidding.\u003cbr\u003eShe got into the habit\u003cbr\u003ewhen she was a kid.\u003cbr\u003eShe used to wake up at night\u003cbr\u003eand read by moonlight.\u003cbr\u003eI won't be shocked\u003cbr\u003eif one morning\u003cbr\u003eI come down to breakfast\u003cbr\u003eand find Mom\u003cbr\u003ein one of her fogs,\u003cbr\u003eeating a page of a book\u003cbr\u003ewith a dollop of strawberry jam.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMEET AND GREET\u003cbr\u003eWe tweens, ages ten to twelve,\u003cbr\u003emeet in the Bennett Room\u003cbr\u003eof the Ridgley Library.\u003cbr\u003eOne of the librarians--Ms. Mott--\u003cbr\u003estands in the doorway.\u003cbr\u003eShe's wearing a black bonnet\u003cbr\u003eand a blue fringed shawl.\u003cbr\u003eShe's twirling a parasol\u003cbr\u003e(which is an umbrella for sun).\u003cbr\u003e\"Welcome, tweens,\" she says,\u003cbr\u003echirpy as a bird.\u003cbr\u003eAlison gives me a dark look.\u003cbr\u003e\"Give it a chance,\" I whisper.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHEME\u003cbr\u003eThere are three other\u003cbr\u003ekids in the room.\u003cbr\u003eTwo girls and a boy.\u003cbr\u003eAlison and I don't know them.\u003cbr\u003eMs. Mott sighs.\u003cbr\u003eShe looks at her watch.\u003cbr\u003eSighs again.\u003cbr\u003eI think she was hoping for\u003cbr\u003ea bigger crowd.\u003cbr\u003eFinally she closes her parasol.\u003cbr\u003eShe smiles\u003cbr\u003eand makes an announcement:\u003cbr\u003e\"The theme for Tween Time\u003cbr\u003ethis summer is\u003cbr\u003eeveryday life in the 1800s.\"\u003cbr\u003eAlison slumps in her seat,\u003cbr\u003ehisses at me:\u003cbr\u003e\"I hate history!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eQ AND A\u003cbr\u003e\"Any questions?\" asks Ms. Mott.\u003cbr\u003eNo one raises a hand.\u003cbr\u003eI feel bad for her.\u003cbr\u003eSo I raise my hand.\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes, Suzy?\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Was there baseball back then?\"\u003cbr\u003eMs. Mott brightens. \"Indeed there was.\u003cbr\u003eBut the field was smaller.\u003cbr\u003eAnd players didn't wear gloves.\u003cbr\u003eAnd batters were called strikers.\u003cbr\u003eAnd runs were called aces.\"\u003cbr\u003eThe boy raises his hand.\u003cbr\u003e\"Were there cars?\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Yes,\" says Ms. Mott.\u003cbr\u003e\"As a matter of fact, in 1895\u003cbr\u003ethere was a total of four cars\u003cbr\u003ein the entire country.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Holy cow!\" says the boy.\u003cbr\u003eThe girl in green asks,\u003cbr\u003e\"What did kids do for fun?\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Simple things,\" says Ms. Mott.\u003cbr\u003e\"Roller-skating, kite flying,\u003cbr\u003esledding, checkers, kickball,\u003cbr\u003ehoop rolling.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"What's hoop rolling?\" asks\u003cbr\u003ethe girl with the pigtails.\u003cbr\u003e\"You'll see,\" says Ms. Mott.\u003cbr\u003e\"We'll be trying some of these things\u003cbr\u003ein the weeks to come.\"\u003cbr\u003eAlison mutters under her breath:\u003cbr\u003e\"Whoop-dee-doo.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eSOME PUMPKINS\u003cbr\u003eBy the time we are dismissed,\u003cbr\u003ewe've learned quite a bit\u003cbr\u003eabout the 1800s.\u003cbr\u003eWe know that--according to\u003cbr\u003estagecoach etiquette--\u003cbr\u003eit was considered bad manners\u003cbr\u003eto point out where horrible murders\u003cbr\u003ehad been committed.\u003cbr\u003eWe know that\u003cbr\u003esome people in the 1800s\u003cbr\u003emade toothpaste out of\u003cbr\u003ehoney and pulverized charcoal.\u003cbr\u003eAnd that tomatoes were\u003cbr\u003ethought to be poisonous.\u003cbr\u003eAnd that \"some pumpkins\"\u003cbr\u003emeant \"impressive\"\u003cbr\u003eor \"very good at.\"\u003cbr\u003eAs we left, Ms. Mott chirped:\u003cbr\u003e\"When it comes to paying attention,\u003cbr\u003eyou kids are some pumpkins.\"\u003cbr\u003eAlison grabs my arm.\u003cbr\u003e\"Let's skedaddle,\" she says--\u003cbr\u003ewhich in 1800s talk means\u003cbr\u003e\"Let's get the heck out of here!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eLUNCH\u003cbr\u003eDad makes grilled cheese for lunch.\u003cbr\u003eI tell him about the Tween Time theme.\u003cbr\u003eOf course he's pleased.\u003cbr\u003eHe waves his sandwich at me.\u003cbr\u003eHe says what I've heard\u003cbr\u003ea hundred times before:\u003cbr\u003e\"History is life. Its purpose is a better world.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"I know, Dad,\" I say.\u003cbr\u003eParker pipes up: \"I know something too!\"\u003cbr\u003e\"What?\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Mrs. Bagwell got robbed!\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eTHE THIRD BAD THING\u003cbr\u003e\"You missed it, Suzy,\" says Parker.\u003cbr\u003e\"Cops came and everything.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"Only one police officer,\" says Dad.\u003cbr\u003e\"Seems Mrs. Bagwell wanted to report\u003cbr\u003ea stolen ring.\"\u003cbr\u003e\"There's robbers in town!\" says Parker.\u003cbr\u003e\"We don't know that,\" says Dad.\u003cbr\u003eI get to thinking about\u003cbr\u003ebad things happening in threes.\u003cbr\u003eGrandma Fludd falls.\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Harden has a spell.\u003cbr\u003eAnd now\u003cbr\u003eMrs. Bagwell is a crime victim.\u003cbr\u003eMaybe Alison was right.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBIKES ACCORDING TO ALISON\u003cbr\u003eAfter lunch, I get on my bike.\u003cbr\u003eAlison gave hers away last year.\u003cbr\u003e\"Bikes are for babies,\" she told me\u003cbr\u003eat the time.\u003cbr\u003e\"Tell that to Mr. Capra,\" I said.\u003cbr\u003e\"He rides his bike to work every day.\"\u003cbr\u003eShe ran her nose up the flagpole.\u003cbr\u003e\"Okay--babies and old people.\"\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eINTO THE BREEZE\u003cbr\u003eIt's a bright afternoon.\u003cbr\u003eI ride my bike\u003cbr\u003einto the warm breeze,\u003cbr\u003eaway from the house,\u003cbr\u003ealong the bike path.\u003cbr\u003eTrees ripple green.\u003cbr\u003eThe light is golden.\u003cbr\u003eThe sky is blue.\u003cbr\u003eAnd I am a bird\u003cbr\u003eflying . . . \u003cbr\u003eflying . . . \u003cbr\u003eAlison doesn't know\u003cbr\u003ewhat she's missing.","brand":"Yearling","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46301563453669,"sku":"NP9780449809891","price":8.99,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780449809891.jpg?v=1767721641","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/another-day-as-emily-isbn-9780449809891","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}