Happily Ever Emma Read Free Page B

Sanchez scowls—and she’s still pretty. “This is not funny, Emma,” she tells me. “You’re not acting at all like yourself today.”
    She’s right! She’s right! Because I am not myself today. I am a girl whose father lives in England and whose mother is now dating a strange man.
    Which leaves me all alone, in case you didn’t notice. I’m practically an orphan!
    I try to find the words that will make Ms. Sanchez like me again, without me having to tell her my private business. “I’m sorry. But—my stomach hurts,” I say, clutching at my middle.
    Ta-da! I have instantly turned a small worry-ache in my stomach into what Ms. Sanchez must be thinking are sharp, stabbing pains, with the possible forecast of hurling in the immediate future, and I feel only a little bit guilty.

    “I think I’d better go home,” I add, my voice weak. “Before I— you know.”
    Before I vomit , I add silently . Before I vomit, Ms. Sanchez! All over your cute brown boots!
    I don’t say this last part out loud, but I don’t have to. Teachers everywhere hate it when a student throws up in class, because then they have to take care of the sick kid and wait for the custodian with the sawdust at the same time. Also, one or two other kids in class are sure to start gagging, just thinking about what happened.
    Vomiting can be contagious—like yawning, only a hundred times worse, because yawning never involves a custodian with sawdust.
    Ms. Sanchez has already stepped back a couple of paces, probably to protect her boots. “I’ll call the school nurse and tell her you’re coming,” she says in a great big hurry.
    “Can’t you just call my mom?” I ask in a wheedly, about-to-barf way. “She’s home. She works at home.”
    “That’ll be up to the nurse,” Ms. Sanchez tells me. “Now, go gather your things, Emma. Remember to get your jacket from the closet, too. And I hope we see you back here soon, honey. Feel better.”
    And do you know what?
    I already do!

5
    Happily Ever Emma
    “Of course you’re well enough to go back to school tomorrow,” my mom tells me right after dinner. “Look at what you just ate, for heaven’s sake.”
    Meatballs, mashed potatoes, and peas. And applesauce for dessert.
    Sure, I ate everything. But maybe I was only being polite.
    “In my humble opinion,” Mom says, “you were well enough today to stay in school.” She gives me a look. “The nurse said so, Emma. In fact, I don’t know why I let you talk me into bringing you home. I figured you needed a day off, so I gave in. But don’t press your luck, sweetie.”
    “I did need a day off,” I agree. “And about that so-called school nurse, I don’t think she really even is one! She doesn’t wear a uniform, Mom. Just regular clothes. And she keeps saying ‘tummy,’ instead of ‘stomach,’ which is just wrong, if you’re a real nurse. Sure, she has a stethoscope and a name tag, but that doesn’t make it official. Anyone can buy those things in a costume store.”
    Mom laughs. “So you think the school nurse is pulling off some elaborate stunt because she really, really, really wants little kids to sneeze on her all day long? And upchuck in her office?”
    “Hey, I just ate,” I remind my mom, cradling my stomach—which really could still be queasy, for all she knows.
    But I do think it’s funny how my mom says “upchuck.” What a weird word. It reminds me of woodchuck. Did you know that a woodchuck is the same thing as a groundhog? And that woodchucks are mostly vegetarians, and by the end of October they are fast asleep under the ground—for the entire winter? Sounds okay to me, the way things are going.

    “You will be at school tomorrow,” Mom says slowly. She gives one last wipe to the kitchen counter with a Santa Claus dish towel and then throws the towel into an almost-full laundry basket.

    Then she tosses her library
    book into the basket, too. “I’ll be downstairs doing the wash,” she says in her