eemmamma - scholastic

EMMAEMMAIs on the AirIs on the Air

Big News!

b y b y ID A SI E G A LID A SI E G A L

i l l u s t r a t i o n s b y i l l u s t r a t i o n s b y

KA R LA P E NKA R LA P E NA

S C H O L A S T I C I N C .S C H O L A S T I C I N C .

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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware

that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold

and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the

publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

Text copyright © 2015 by Ida Siegal

Illustrations copyright © 2015 by Scholastic Inc.

This book is being published simultaneously in hardcover by

Scholastic Press.

All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC,

SCHOLASTIC PRESS, and associated logos are trademarks and/or

registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

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retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means,

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without written permission of the publisher. For information

regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention:

Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or

are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,

living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is

entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-545-68692-1

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 15 16 17 18 19 20/0

Printed in the U.S.A. 40

First printing 2015

Book design by Sharismar Rodriguez

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1

Chapter Chapter

OneOneFamousFamous

IF you have to do a chore, you might as well

set the table. That’s my chore. It’s better than

cleaning your room, or scrubbing the toilet, or

worse . . . changing your baby sister’s diaper

trash can! Yuck. Plus, when you set the table,

you can practice being famous.

“Plaaaate! Everybody needs a plaaaate!” I

sang as I skipped around our faded wooden

table Sunday evening. That’s how famous people

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2

set the table. They sing and set at the same time.

Singing is a very famous job.

“Fooork! Now everybody needs a fooork!”

My cat, Luna, joined in to help me. She

likes to be famous, too. “Meeeoow! Meow, meow,

meeeoow,” she sang along.

Luna has the softest brown fur you’ve ever

seen. It makes me think of chocolate pudding.

My hair is the same brown as Luna’s, except

with curls and really long. Like chocolate pud-

ding Slinkies. If I stretch my pudding Slinkies

out, I can practically sit on them. I’m eight years

old—and so are my curls. I’ve never cut my hair

before. Next year, my curls will turn nine!

I whipped my eight-year-old pudding-Slinky

curls from one side to the other, famous-style.

Then I used a spoon for a microphone and sang


3

as loud as I could, “Spoooon, glorious spoooon!

Next to the knife youuu go! ”

Down the hall, my baby sister started

crying.

“Emma! What are you doing out there?”

called my mom from the kitchen.

“I’m setting the table, Mom, like you told me

to,” I called back.

“I don’t think I told you to wake up your sis-

ter,” she said, walking into the dining room.

“Though I suppose she had to get up for dinner

soon, anyway.”

Mom went to get Mia, and I continued set-

ting the table.

“Knife and napkin. Knife and napkin. Cut and

wipe and make it happen! ” I sang in my extra-

famous voice.


5

Then Papi yelled from the living room.

“¿Qué pasa aquí?” he asked.

That’s Spanish. It means, “What’s going

on here?”

“¡Nada!” I yelled back. That means,

“Nothing!”

My papi is from a whole other country called

the Dominican Republic. They speak Spanish

there. That’s why I call him Papi—it’s like say-

ing “Daddy,” but in Spanish. You say it like this:

“PAH-pee.”

“Dinner’s almost ready. Isn’t that right, Mia?”

Mom said as she put baby Mia in her green high

chair next to the table. My mom is not from the

Dominican Republic. She’s from here—New York

City. That’s where we live. Our neighborhood is

called Washington Heights. It’s at the very tippy-

top of Manhattan.


6

“GAGA BABA BOO,” Mia said in baby

language.

Mom answered her in grown-up baby lan-

guage. “Yes, I know you’re ready for dinner! Oh,

you’re so cute . . . coo, coo, coo . . . look at that

smile.”

Mia is pretty cute. But baby talk is for babies,

and I’m eight, so I ignored them and kept sing-

ing and setting the table.

“Seriously, Emma,” said my dad. “I’m trying

to watch the news; please pipe down a bit.”

The living room is right next to the dining

room, so when Papi started watching the news

on our TV, I could see it, too.

Ugh. The news. It’s just so boring. It’s horri-

bly, ridiculously, terrifyingly boring!

“But, Papi, I haaaate the news!” I groaned.

“It’s sooo boring.”


7

“Watching the news while you set the table

won’t kill you,” Mom said.

On the TV, there was a man and a woman

sitting at a big news desk. It was blue and yellow

and looked like it glowed in the dark. They

started talking about a boring man with a bor-

ing tie. And then they talked about a boring

doctor, and he talked about a boring doctor

thing.

Then I could feel it. I could feel the boredom

kicking in. It tingled as it entered through my

ears and eyes . . . and then the boredom started

oozing through my whole body and I couldn’t

make it stop! I really was going to be bored to

death! I was about to tell my papi to call an

ambulance when . . . I saw her.

Suddenly there was a woman on the TV. A

fancy-looking newswoman. She was standing on


8

the street, and there were lots of police cars

behind her. She had shiny brown hair, a fabu-

lous red coat, and glossy pink lips. Her cheeks

were rosy with blush, and her eyelashes were

long and black. She was wearing a big white

pearl necklace, and she was holding a micro-

phone with a colorful cube on top. She was

amazing.

“Police say the robber smashed the glass

window,” she was explaining. “He grabbed ten

gold watches and ran away down the street.”

She was not boring at all. She looked so . . .

she just looked so . . . so special.

I placed the last cup on the table and raced

over to the sofa where Papi was sitting.

“Papi, who was that?” I asked hurriedly.

“Oh, her? She’s a reporter. I forget her name,”

he replied.


9

“A news reporter? Do you think she’s

famous?”

“Well, I suppose,” Papi said.

“Aha! I knew it! I knew she was famous. I’m

going to be just like her!” I declared.

“But, Emma, wait . . . that’s not why she—”

But I had already run out of the room. A

news reporter. I knew right away this was how

I was going to be famous! Besides, how hard

could it be?


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