EMERGENCY
Mrs. Harden nearly died today.
I know because I was there.
I saw her slumped
on her kitchen floor
looking white as an egg.
I wasn't there
from the beginning, though.
Only from the time
my little brother, Parker,
went missing.

THE BEGINNING
It seems Parker wanted to
drive somewhere
on his new trike.
He's only allowed to go
one house up
each way.
And only if he tells someone
where he's going.
He obeyed the first rule.
(Mrs. Harden lives next door.)
But he forgot the second rule.
He told no one.
He drove to Mrs. Harden's.
He parked in her driveway.
He knocked at her back door.
She invited him in
for a cookie.
That's how it started.

THE SPELL
Before Mrs. Harden
could reach the cookie jar,
she had what grown-ups call
"a spell."
Parker saw her collapse.
He remembered his safety lessons.
He climbed on a chair.
He reached for the phone.
He dialed 911.
This is where I come in.
I find him
shouting to the dispatcher:
"Emergency! Emergency!"

HELP IS ON THE WAY
I'm here because
Mrs. Harden and I
are supposed to paint posters
for her women's club bake sale.
Paints and rags and poster board
are sitting on her craft table.
Mrs. Harden and I do lots of
projects together.
She is sort of an honorary
grandmother to me.
(My real ones live across the country.)
I crouch on the floor
next to her.
I take her hand.
It's cold and clammy.
I pat it.
"It's me. Suzy," I tell her.
"Don't worry, Mrs. Harden. Help is on the way."

THE LITTLE HERO
The ambulance comes.
The EMTs carry Mrs. Harden
off on a stretcher.
Now Dad is in the driveway
asking what happened.
Neighbors mill around
shaking their heads,
whispering.
Mrs. Capra pats Parker
on the head.
"So you're the little hero."

CALLING PAUL
Dad calls Mrs. Harden's nephew, Paul.
Mrs. Harden is a widow. No children.
A couple years ago she gave us
Paul's phone number "just in case."
Paul says for us to lock up
his aunt's house.
He asks us to hold her mail,
take in her newspapers,
keep an eye on things
until he finds out
what's what.

MONKEY-FACED
Back home,
Parker is all monkey-faced
(which is what he calls
being upset).
I give him a hug.
"Don't worry," I tell him.
"Mrs. Harden will be okay.
She's in good hands now."
(I don't tell him
how worried I am.)
Parker sniffles.
"Yes, but Mrs. Capra
called me a little hero.
I'm not little, Suzy.
I'm four and a half.
I'm a big hero."
Parker pumps
his (little) fist in the air.
"I'm Hero Boy!"

THREES
Wait till Mom finds out.
She likes Mrs. Harden
almost as much as I do.
Mom's in Arizona right now,
taking care of Grandma Fludd,
who recently had a bad fall.
Gee--two people I know
in the hospital.
My best friend, Alison,
says bad things come
in threes.
Uh-oh, I think.
What's next?

MOM FROM ARIZONA
Dad puts Mom on speakerphone
so Parker and I can hear too.
She says she hopes Mrs. Harden
will be okay.
She says she is proud of
her "big boy"
for dialing 911.
She says: "Thank you, Suzy Q,
for helping out with things."
("Things" is code
for Parker.)
She says she is trying to convince
Grandma Fludd to move
to Pennsylvania.
Up pipes Grandma Fludd:
"What? And freeze my patootie off
in the winter? Forget it!"
Parker howls,
wiggles his little behind.
"Patootie! Patootie!
Watch me shake my bootie!"

VOICE MAIL
There's a voice mail from Alison.
She sounds all breathless:
"Sooze, I heard about Mrs. Harden.
The whole town is talking.
I hope she's not dead.
Is she?
Is she?
Call me!
Right away!"

JUST IMAGINE
I call Alison.
"Tell me--quick!" she says.
I tell her: "We got a message
from Mrs. Harden's nephew.
She's going to be okay."
"Whew! What a relief,"
says Alison.
"Just imagine if she died.
You'd be neighbors
with a dead person!"

HOW WE STARTED
I was in second grade
when Herbie Sizemore
pushed me up against
the playground fence.
"Say it!" he ordered.
"It" was a bad word.
A very bad word.
The very, very worst.
"No," I told him.
I tried to push past him.
He wouldn't let me.
Suddenly a girl appeared,
bracelets jangling.
She stared Herbie
right in the nose.
"Let her go," she snarled.
I was surprised.
She was in the other
second-grade class.
We never played together.
Herbie growled: "This is
nunna your beeswax."
"I'm making it my beeswax,"
said the girl.
She pulled a sparkly pink phone
from her pocket.
"I have the state police
on speed dial."
"Yeah, right," said Herbie.
The girl punched a button.
Herbie backed off.
When he was gone,
I said: "That's a toy phone,
isn't it?"
The girl wagged her finger.
"Nunna your beeswax."
I laughed. "You rescued me."
"I'm Alison Wilmire," she said.
"I'm Suzy Quinn," I said.
We shook hands.
We've been best friends
ever since.

DIFFERENT
Which is pretty amazing
since we're so different.
Alison is curly blond wonder-hair.
I'm mousy brown ponytail.
She's pink sandals and short skirts.
I'm red Phillies cap and jeans.
She's hip-hop dance lessons.
I'm "Go Phillies!"
She collects bracelets.
I collect rocks.
She wants to be an actress when she grows up.
I don't have a clue.

NOT DIFFERENT
Dad says Alison and I
are a perfect example of
the old saying
"Opposites attract."
Mom says
while Alison and I
may be different
on the outside,
we are a lot alike
on the inside
where it counts most.
"You both have heart,"
Mom says.
"That's the best thing
I can say about
a person."

TICKLE MONSTER
When Mom first went to Arizona,
Parker got all stubborn
about bedtime.
Dad and I tried extra bedtime stories.
Extra snacks.
New stuffed animals.
Old stuffed animals.
Blue night-light.
Glow-in-the-dark stickers.
Nothing worked--
until I came up with
Tickle Monster.
I started creeping
into Parker's bedroom
step by step,
waving Mom's feather duster.
"Here comes Tickle Monster,"
I'd say.
I only had to tickle Parker's big toe
before he would giggle and beg:
"Stop! Stop, Tickle Monster!
I'll sleep now!"
But this night
when I creep into his room,
he's all curled up
with his stuffed owl,
snoring like
a little eggbeater.
I guess it's exhausting
being a hero.

CHATTING
I'm tired too.
I get into my nightie.
I open my window wide.
There's a cool June breeze blowing.
It feels like it might rain.
I tell Ottilie--my goldfish--about
the day's excitement:
"Mrs. Harden nearly died today.
But Parker called 911.
And now she's going to be fine.
And the Phillies won against the Pirates--
even though I missed watching
the whole game on TV.
And we talked to Mom and Grandma Fludd."
Ottilie swims closer
to the glass in front of her tank.
Her tiny fish mouth sends me kisses.
I think she enjoys our nighttime chats.

OTTILIE
Alison says
Ottilie is just a goldfish
and goldfish don't know anything.
But I read about goldfish
before I got Ottilie.
Goldfish can recognize their owners.
They react to light and different colors.
I trained Ottilie to eat fish flakes
from my fingers.
Ottilie knows plenty.

DISGUSTING TRIVIA
Dad--who teaches history
at Ridgley Community College--
told me that in 1939
a fad was started by
a Harvard University student
who swallowed a live goldfish.
The fad spread to other colleges.
Eventually, Dad said,
the president of Boston's Animal League
decreed that goldfish swallowers
should be--would be--
arrested
if they didn't stop this behavior.
My sentiments exactly.
Ottilie's too!

GILBERT LENHARDT
This morning Gilbert Lenhardt stops by.
He heard about Mrs. Harden.
He was supposed to weed her herb garden
and pull out a dead holly bush.
He is wondering if he should go ahead.
Dad tells him yes.
Gilbert does a lot of odd jobs around the neighborhood.
He's thirteen. Not old enough to get a regular job.
According to Alison, Gilbert really needs the money.
His dad drinks a lot and probably spends
his money on beer instead of his family.
For a kid with a father like that, Gilbert is always
cheery. Always whistling.
You can hear him a block away.
Dad says they are songs from the 1940s.
Odd--but nice too.
One thing I've learned from Dad is
to appreciate ancient history.

KNOCK AT THE DOOR
Ten minutes later,
there's a knock at the door.
"Hi," says a lady in a gray suit.
"I'm Marsha Levine, reporter for
the Ridgley Post."
She introduces the man next to her--
"And this is Joe Perchek, photographer.
We're here to see the little boy
who called 911 yesterday.
The little hero."

NOT LITTLE
Dad says it's okay
for them to talk to Parker
for a few minutes.
And to take a couple
pictures for the paper.
Parker says: "Wait!"
He runs upstairs,
comes back wearing
his Superman T-shirt
and his Count Dracula cape
from last Halloween.
He poses--arms out
like he's flying.
Ms. Levine tweaks his cheek.
"You're the cutest little boy ever."
Parker squawks: "Don't call me little!"

PASSING MRS. BAGWELL'S
I head over to Alison's.
I pass Mrs. Bagwell's.
Mrs. Bagwell is chasing after something
with her big green flyswatter.
Mrs. Bagwell is always after something--
kids trying to retrieve balls from her yard,
beetles nibbling her roses,
the Kims' gray cat, Shady.
This time it's a crow.
I wave. "Good morning, Mrs. Bagwell."
"Dang crow," she growls.

GARNET OR CHARM?
When I get to Alison's,
she is still getting dressed.
She dangles two bracelets under my nose.
"Which one, Sooze--garnet or charm?"
I groan. "Who cares? We're just going
to the library."
She rolls her eyes at me. "I repeat--garnet or charm?"
I point to the garnet bracelet.
She scowls. "You're only saying that because it's red.
Like the Phillies."
She flips both bracelets into her jewelry box.
She pulls out a purple beaded one
that matches her nails.

WHAT'S WRONG WITH READING?
I coaxed Alison into
signing up with me for
Tween Time at the Ridgley Library.
Every Tuesday morning at eleven.
She fought it.
She said she reads enough
during the school year.
I told her: "Tween Time isn't
just about reading.
It's crafts too. And games. And field trips."
Anyway--what's wrong with reading?
I happen to love it.
It's in my DNA.
I get it from my mom,
who is totally addicted to books.

MOM'S BOOK ADDICTION
Nobody--
I mean nobody--
loves books
more than Mom.
She breathes books--literally.
She holds them up to her nose,
takes deep whiffs.
"Each book has a scent
all its own," she says.
"Ink, tree bark, a hint of thyme,
summer-dust."
Dad pipes up: "Mold!"
He's remembering when Mom
bought six cartons of books
from someone's half-flooded basement.
Mom sleeps books.
She keeps one under her pillow.
I'm not kidding.
She got into the habit
when she was a kid.
She used to wake up at night
and read by moonlight.
I won't be shocked
if one morning
I come down to breakfast
and find Mom
in one of her fogs,
eating a page of a book
with a dollop of strawberry jam.

MEET AND GREET
We tweens, ages ten to twelve,
meet in the Bennett Room
of the Ridgley Library.
One of the librarians--Ms. Mott--
stands in the doorway.
She's wearing a black bonnet
and a blue fringed shawl.
She's twirling a parasol
(which is an umbrella for sun).
"Welcome, tweens," she says,
chirpy as a bird.
Alison gives me a dark look.
"Give it a chance," I whisper.

THEME
There are three other
kids in the room.
Two girls and a boy.
Alison and I don't know them.
Ms. Mott sighs.
She looks at her watch.
Sighs again.
I think she was hoping for
a bigger crowd.
Finally she closes her parasol.
She smiles
and makes an announcement:
"The theme for Tween Time
this summer is
everyday life in the 1800s."
Alison slumps in her seat,
hisses at me:
"I hate history!"

Q AND A
"Any questions?" asks Ms. Mott.
No one raises a hand.
I feel bad for her.
So I raise my hand.
"Yes, Suzy?"
"Was there baseball back then?"
Ms. Mott brightens. "Indeed there was.
But the field was smaller.
And players didn't wear gloves.
And batters were called strikers.
And runs were called aces."
The boy raises his hand.
"Were there cars?"
"Yes," says Ms. Mott.
"As a matter of fact, in 1895
there was a total of four cars
in the entire country."
"Holy cow!" says the boy.
The girl in green asks,
"What did kids do for fun?"
"Simple things," says Ms. Mott.
"Roller-skating, kite flying,
sledding, checkers, kickball,
hoop rolling."
"What's hoop rolling?" asks
the girl with the pigtails.
"You'll see," says Ms. Mott.
"We'll be trying some of these things
in the weeks to come."
Alison mutters under her breath:
"Whoop-dee-doo."

SOME PUMPKINS
By the time we are dismissed,
we've learned quite a bit
about the 1800s.
We know that--according to
stagecoach etiquette--
it was considered bad manners
to point out where horrible murders
had been committed.
We know that
some people in the 1800s
made toothpaste out of
honey and pulverized charcoal.
And that tomatoes were
thought to be poisonous.
And that "some pumpkins"
meant "impressive"
or "very good at."
As we left, Ms. Mott chirped:
"When it comes to paying attention,
you kids are some pumpkins."
Alison grabs my arm.
"Let's skedaddle," she says--
which in 1800s talk means
"Let's get the heck out of here!"

LUNCH
Dad makes grilled cheese for lunch.
I tell him about the Tween Time theme.
Of course he's pleased.
He waves his sandwich at me.
He says what I've heard
a hundred times before:
"History is life. Its purpose is a better world."
"I know, Dad," I say.
Parker pipes up: "I know something too!"
"What?"
"Mrs. Bagwell got robbed!"

THE THIRD BAD THING
"You missed it, Suzy," says Parker.
"Cops came and everything."
"Only one police officer," says Dad.
"Seems Mrs. Bagwell wanted to report
a stolen ring."
"There's robbers in town!" says Parker.
"We don't know that," says Dad.
I get to thinking about
bad things happening in threes.
Grandma Fludd falls.
Mrs. Harden has a spell.
And now
Mrs. Bagwell is a crime victim.
Maybe Alison was right.

BIKES ACCORDING TO ALISON
After lunch, I get on my bike.
Alison gave hers away last year.
"Bikes are for babies," she told me
at the time.
"Tell that to Mr. Capra," I said.
"He rides his bike to work every day."
She ran her nose up the flagpole.
"Okay--babies and old people."

INTO THE BREEZE
It's a bright afternoon.
I ride my bike
into the warm breeze,
away from the house,
along the bike path.
Trees ripple green.
The light is golden.
The sky is blue.
And I am a bird
flying . . .
flying . . .
Alison doesn't know
what she's missing.