Excellent Emma Read Online Free
Author: Sally Warner
“Congratulations!” trophy from when she graduated from preschool, her “Sweetest Smile” certificate from kindergarten, her “Perfect Penmanship” award from first grade, and the “Most Improved Spelling” award from second grade.
And that’s not even counting her prizes and ribbons and plaques from pre-ballet, gymnastics, soccer, and summer camp, where she got an award with glitter on it for “Best Dog Paddle.”
Annie Pat has led a very accomplished life so far.
Not me. I just have one second-place ribbon from the second-grade spelling bee at Magdalena, and one certificate from Parks and Recreation—near my old house—for being able to tread water for two minutes without drowning. But they spelled my last name wrong: Macgraw, not McGraw.
It was still me gasping and splashing in that swimming pool, though.
“Well, of course, there will be prizes—for the winners,” Mom says, flopping some pancake mix into a bowl. “But really, Emma,” she continues, temporarily stalled in her pancake-making project, “at the end of Winter Games Day, everyone is supposed to end up feeling more positive about exercise, and realize how good it makes their bodies feel. Whatever size they are,” my mom adds, frowning a little.
“I guess you’re right,” I say, as if she has just totally convinced me that fat or skinny, fast or slow, winner or loser, prize or no prize, everybody at Oak Glen Primary School is going to be perfectly happy at the end of its First Annual Winter Games Day.
Hah.
Two hours later, my mom and I have finished our Saturday chores. We changed the sheets and towels, did a few loads of laundry in our horrible condo laundry room that smells like a combination of bleach, yucky-sweet fabric softener, and cat pee—even though no one is allowed to have pets, so that smell is a mystery. We also watered all the house plants and cleaned out the refrigerator, even the vegetable drawer, which sometimes has scary-looking bags of green goo hiding in the bottom.
Cucumbers, probably. We always forget to eat them, and that is their revenge.
The six blocks from Candelaria Road, where our condo is, to Annie Pat Masterson’s house at 315 Sycamore Lane is usually a fun and easy walk. Today, though, thanks to the PTA, I am thinking about this walk as exercise , which makes it seem like I’m doing another chore. I even ask my mom to drive me, since I don’t want to start my official training until Annie Pat and I get to the park, but Mom says no.
“Okay, okay,” I tell her, sounding grouchy. “I’ll walk . Even though I won’t get a prize.”
“You bet your buttons you’ll walk,” Mom says, laughing. “It’s a beautiful sunny day, Emma. And the fresh air and exercise will do you good.” Grown-ups always say stuff like that. Usually while they’re sitting inside, by the way.
“It’s windy out,” I complain, not wanting to give in so easily. “My hair will get all tangled up.”
This is not a very good argument, because my hair is already tangled up. It always is. Annie Pat and Kry say my hair is pretty, but it is so curly and long that it hurts—or something hurts, maybe it’s my brain—whenever my mom tries to comb it after a shampoo. And the wind will only make my hair situation worse.
But the wind makes no difference to animals. They always look perfect! This is just one more example of how great animals are. If people had fur instead of hair, we’d be a lot better off.
“Don’t worry,” Mom tells me. “I’ll brush your hair smooth when you get home. Maybe we’ll even go out for a pizza tonight! Let’s live it up for once.”
“Oka-a-ay, but don’t forget that I’m in training,” I say slowly, not wanting her to think she can win me over with mere pizza.
Although, of course, she can.
6
Best Friends
Eucalyptus leaves rustle above me as I walk down Candelaria Road. They release a strong cough-drop smell that makes me want to sneeze.
I like sneezing. It’s fun, if you
And that’s not even counting her prizes and ribbons and plaques from pre-ballet, gymnastics, soccer, and summer camp, where she got an award with glitter on it for “Best Dog Paddle.”
Annie Pat has led a very accomplished life so far.
Not me. I just have one second-place ribbon from the second-grade spelling bee at Magdalena, and one certificate from Parks and Recreation—near my old house—for being able to tread water for two minutes without drowning. But they spelled my last name wrong: Macgraw, not McGraw.
It was still me gasping and splashing in that swimming pool, though.
“Well, of course, there will be prizes—for the winners,” Mom says, flopping some pancake mix into a bowl. “But really, Emma,” she continues, temporarily stalled in her pancake-making project, “at the end of Winter Games Day, everyone is supposed to end up feeling more positive about exercise, and realize how good it makes their bodies feel. Whatever size they are,” my mom adds, frowning a little.
“I guess you’re right,” I say, as if she has just totally convinced me that fat or skinny, fast or slow, winner or loser, prize or no prize, everybody at Oak Glen Primary School is going to be perfectly happy at the end of its First Annual Winter Games Day.
Hah.
Two hours later, my mom and I have finished our Saturday chores. We changed the sheets and towels, did a few loads of laundry in our horrible condo laundry room that smells like a combination of bleach, yucky-sweet fabric softener, and cat pee—even though no one is allowed to have pets, so that smell is a mystery. We also watered all the house plants and cleaned out the refrigerator, even the vegetable drawer, which sometimes has scary-looking bags of green goo hiding in the bottom.
Cucumbers, probably. We always forget to eat them, and that is their revenge.
The six blocks from Candelaria Road, where our condo is, to Annie Pat Masterson’s house at 315 Sycamore Lane is usually a fun and easy walk. Today, though, thanks to the PTA, I am thinking about this walk as exercise , which makes it seem like I’m doing another chore. I even ask my mom to drive me, since I don’t want to start my official training until Annie Pat and I get to the park, but Mom says no.
“Okay, okay,” I tell her, sounding grouchy. “I’ll walk . Even though I won’t get a prize.”
“You bet your buttons you’ll walk,” Mom says, laughing. “It’s a beautiful sunny day, Emma. And the fresh air and exercise will do you good.” Grown-ups always say stuff like that. Usually while they’re sitting inside, by the way.
“It’s windy out,” I complain, not wanting to give in so easily. “My hair will get all tangled up.”
This is not a very good argument, because my hair is already tangled up. It always is. Annie Pat and Kry say my hair is pretty, but it is so curly and long that it hurts—or something hurts, maybe it’s my brain—whenever my mom tries to comb it after a shampoo. And the wind will only make my hair situation worse.
But the wind makes no difference to animals. They always look perfect! This is just one more example of how great animals are. If people had fur instead of hair, we’d be a lot better off.
“Don’t worry,” Mom tells me. “I’ll brush your hair smooth when you get home. Maybe we’ll even go out for a pizza tonight! Let’s live it up for once.”
“Oka-a-ay, but don’t forget that I’m in training,” I say slowly, not wanting her to think she can win me over with mere pizza.
Although, of course, she can.
6
Best Friends
Eucalyptus leaves rustle above me as I walk down Candelaria Road. They release a strong cough-drop smell that makes me want to sneeze.
I like sneezing. It’s fun, if you
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