Read Best Friend Emma for Free Online Page B

people, ever. Especially not the people you care about.”
    “And I was careless with Annie Pat?” I say, kind of seeing it that way for the first time.
    “I think you were,” my mom says, nodding.
    “Well, you don’t have to be mad at me, Mom,” I tell her softly. “Because I’m already even madder at myself.”
    “I am so glad to hear that, Emma,” my mom says, hugging me again, only this time there are tears in her eyes.
    The weirdest things make her happy—and sad.
    “I’ve got a good idea,” she says, changing the subject with food, which always works. “This is a perfect day to bake some pies.”
    “Pies?” I repeat. “But it’s too early to cook for Thanksgiving. They’ll get stale, won’t they?”
    “Not if we eat ’em,” Mom says with a grin. “Or give ’em away. Come on, Em—I thought you
liked
pumpkin pie.”
    Pumpkin pie
! “I love it,” I say, almost drooling.
    “And you didn’t get to have any last year, as I recall,” my mother continues. “You griped about it for weeks, in fact. And I did the bulk of my holiday shopping yesterday, to beat the crowds, so we have the ingredients. Why
not
make our pies today? And even eat one, if we feel like it!”
    “But—but we usually buy pumpkin pie in the store, Mom,” I say. “It must be really hard to make.” I picture my mother, who really doesn’t like to cook, plopping our poor old Halloweenpumpkin—which we never got around to carving—into a frozen pie crust and hoping for the best.
    “I’ve actually got a recipe,” she says, grinning at me. “And lots of canned pumpkin,” she adds. “So let’s make our sandwiches and eat them fast, sweetie. We’ve got some serious pie baking to do!”

      11      
Really, Really, Very, Very Sorry
    Like I told my mom, I hate having to say I’m sorry. And it’s especially hard in person. But it looks like that’s what I’ll have to do, because it is Sunday afternoon, and we are on our way over to Annie Pat Masterson’s house so I can give her my apology letter. Also, we are bringing the Mastersons one of our pumpkin pies. Also, my mom has a small present that she has been meaning to take over to Murphy, the Mastersons’ new red-haired baby.
    The pumpkin pie looks a little burned on top, and a chunk of the crust broke off when we got in the car, but Mom says they’ll still appreciate it. She says that when you have a new baby, you’redesperate for food someone else has made.
    Annie Pat, on the other hand, is not desperate. In fact, she will probably slam her bedroom door in my face. And I’ll deserve it, too—not because I forgot about going to Marine Universe yesterday, but because I forgot about
her
, my best friend, Annie Pat. At least for a little while.
    And that was a wrong thing to do.
    “Did Mrs. Masterson say that Annie Pat and her father had a good time at Marine Universe?” I ask gloomily, staring out the car window at the trees whizzing by.
    “They didn’t go,” Mom says, eyes on the road. “Annie Pat was too upset.”
    “Oh.”
    That’s not good
. I start rehearsing my apology all over again.
    “What’s their house number?” Mom asks, peering out the window at Sycamore Lane, where the Mastersons live.
    I’ve only been to Annie Pat’s house once, becauseof the baby, but I remember. “Three-fifteen,” I mumble, and then we are there.
    Way
too soon.

    Knock, knock
. “Can I come in?” I whisper at Annie Pat’s bedroom door, which I happen to know is decorated on the inside with pictures of beautiful jellyfish.

    “Nuh-uh,” Annie Pat’s muffled voice says from behind the door.
    “Please?”
I say.
    No answer. Then, “I’m busy reading about leopard sharks.”
    I slump down onto the floor outside Annie Pat’s room and listen to the grown-ups in the living room cooing over the baby. “Look at those little hands!” Mom marvels, as if she’s never seen hands before.
I
have hands, and all she ever notices is whether or not my