Emmy was a good girl. At least she tried very hard to be good.
She did her homework without being told. She ate all her vegetables, even the slimy ones. And she never talked back to her nanny, Miss Barmy, although it was almost impossible to keep quiet, some days.
Of course no one can keep this kind of thing up forever. But Miss Barmy had told Emmy that if she were a good girl, her parents would probably want to see her more often; and so Emmy kept on bravely trying.
So far it hadn't helped. Emmy's parents went on one vacation after another—to Paris, to Rumania, to the Isle of Bugaloo—and hardly ever seemed to come home, or even to miss her at all.
“If you did better in school, I'm sure they would be pleased,” said Miss Barmy, admiring her polished fingernails.
This was unjust. “My last report card was all As,” Emmy said sturdily.
“But not a single A+, dear.” Miss Barmy smiled sweetly, checking her lipstick in a pocket mirror. “And how are your ballet lessons coming? Are you getting any less clumsy?”
Emmy's shoulders slumped. She had tripped just last week.