Emma Jean Lazarus Fell in Love (5 page)

A
fter the dinner dishes were done and the floors were swept clean, Emma-Jean and her mother retreated to Emma-Jean's mother's bed to read and review the day's events. It was a nightly ritual that began in the days following Emma-Jean's father's accident, when the bed had seemed like a tiny raft on a vast and turbulent sea. These waters had calmed in recent months, but neither Emma-Jean nor her mother was eager to give up their cozy evening routine.

Her mother had scarcely settled her head back on the pillows when Emma-Jean began telling her about Will Keeler. Her mother listened closely as Emma-Jean described in great detail the commotion of the Spring Fling and the frenetic vibrations of her heart whenever she saw Will.

“It is clear that Will is not suitable for me in any way,” Emma-Jean said. “And yet I find myself thinking about him even when I want to be thinking about other things.”

Indeed, she could not recall a single fact from her classes that day. She had concluded, however, that the arrangement of freckles on Will's forearm closely resembled the constellation Virgo.

“Could it be,” Emma-Jean asked, her tone grave, “that I am suffering from spring fever?”

Her mother leaned close to Emma-Jean. A spiral of auburn hair had sprung free from its barrette, and it tickled Emma-Jean's nose. It was a moment before her mother spoke.

“It is possible,” she said.

Emma-Jean sat back in her pillows and put her hand to her chest.

“But it is nothing to be concerned about,” her mother said, her voice briskly reassuring. “It is completely normal. It sounds like you might have a crush on Will.”

“A crush?” Emma-Jean said. This sounded very serious. She pictured a boa constrictor wrapped around the neck of a lemur.

“An infatuation,” her mother clarified.

“Is it the same as being in love?” asked Emma-Jean warily.

Her mother weighed the question, her eyes drifting over to her nightstand, where two framed photographs stood atop a neat stack of novels, financial reports from her job at the bank, and a Hindi dictionary she'd borrowed from Emma-Jean.

There was their favorite picture of Emma-Jean's father, smiling as he held a newborn Emma-Jean in his arms. And there was a newer photograph that Vikram had given to her, of himself as a young boy wearing the cricket uniform of his championship team.

“No,” she said. “Being in love is one of the most powerful experiences anyone can have. I think that's why we have crushes when we're younger. Maybe it's how we get ready for real love.”

This seemed logical to Emma-Jean. After all, many important life skills—walking, talking, cooking, identifying birds in flight—were learned in stages and honed through practice.

“Have you ever had a crush on someone?” asked Emma-Jean.

“Absolutely,” her mother said. “Several times. Haven't I told you about James Dean and me?”

Emma-Jean shook her head. She remembered the names of everyone important in her mother's life, and was quite sure that her mother had never mentioned a gentleman friend named James Dean.

“When I was about your age—maybe just a bit older—I was home sick from school and I watched a movie on TV,
Rebel Without a Cause
. And, well . . .” Her mother put a hand up to her heart. “That's when I met James Dean.”

“He came to visit you?” said Emma-Jean, wondering what she would do if Will came to visit her when she was sick in bed. Perhaps he would bring her some chicken soup, though hopefully he would leave it in the kitchen so he would not be exposed to her germs.

“No, no,” her mother said. “He was an actor, in the movie.”

“And you knew him?”

Her mother shook her head.

“He died a good twenty years before I was even born. But that didn't matter. I was captivated. For weeks he was all I thought about.” Her mother closed her eyes and smiled dreamily.

Emma-Jean considered this information. She wondered if several months before she herself had experienced a crush on George Washington. She had studied him with her social studies class, and had been deeply impressed by his forbearance during the battle of Trenton. For some weeks after, she had carried a one-dollar bill in her sweater pocket, taking it out regularly to admire the founding father's dignified gaze and impressive pompadour.

“Is there a cure for spring fever?” Emma-Jean said.

Her mother shook her head.

Emma-Jean sighed.

“Would you like my advice?” her mother said.

“I always want your advice.”

“Whether or not you decide to ask Will to the dance, enjoy the experience. Because here's the big difference between being in love and having a crush: Love endures, but a crush doesn't. A crush comes on suddenly and then poof—it's gone.”

“Like hives?” Emma-Jean said, recalling the time she had developed a rash after consuming a large quantity of shrimp.

Her mother smiled slightly and brushed a piece of hair from Emma-Jean's forehead.

“I'd say it's more like a dream,” her mother said.

Emma-Jean looked closely at her mother. Though she was younger than the mothers of most of Emma-Jean's peers, her eyes crackled with the wisdom of a tribal elder. Emma-Jean knew she could have confidence in her mother's diagnosis: that these feelings for Will were part of a temporary condition. They would subside on their own, without outside intervention.

And in the meantime, perhaps Emma-Jean would find a way to enjoy the experience.

S
earching for a secret admirer in the seventh-grade wing was like tracking a great horned owl in the Connecticut woods. Both were skittish creatures, prone to flight. At no time could Emma-Jean allow the secret admirer to detect that somebody was on his trail.

She had come to school with the names of all of the seventh-grade boys written in her notebook. Throughout the morning, she observed the boys in her classes, noting
R
or
L
next to their names as they wrote in their notebooks and lab journals and calculated the volumes of irregular polygons.

The boys with whom she did not share classes posed a bigger challenge. She could not easily observe them in the act of writing, nor could she simply approach them in the hallway and bluntly ask if they were left-handed, which could arouse suspicion. It was thus necessary to devise a clever ruse, a strategy for obtaining the needed information without signaling her motives.

“I am working on a survey,” she explained to the boys when she stopped them at their lockers or outside the boys' room. “I am investigating the statistical probability of left-handedness among adolescent boys.”

Of course the boys did not question the notion that Emma-Jean would be working on such an important-sounding research project. They readily provided her with the information she requested. A few also laughed heartily. This pleased her, as it wasn't often that she had the opportunity to spread mirth through the seventh-grade wing. She was happy to contribute to the positive morale in the school.

Her work went so smoothly that this phase of the project was complete before lunch. There were nine left-handed boys in the seventh grade. None of them had bandages or visible wounds on their right index finger, and while this would make Emma-Jean's job more difficult, she was relieved that the author's wound had apparently healed. Emma-Jean's friends were waiting for her at their table, and before she could even pull out her chair, they were barraging her with questions.

“Why were you talking to those boys after math?” asked Michele.

“I bet you know exactly who it is!” Valerie exclaimed, bouncing in her chair.

“You found him, didn't you?” said Colleen.

Emma-Jean sat down and took out her thermos. “I have not yet completed my investigation,” she said.

“I told you she wouldn't know,” Kaitlin said, shaking her head at Valerie.

“But you have some idea, Emma-Jean,” Valerie said, eyeing Kaitlin with annoyance. “Don't you?”

Emma-Jean now found herself in a delicate position. She could certainly understand her friends' curiosity. But to reveal anything now was risky. While her friends would never intentionally undermine her investigation, they were loquacious by nature, trading intimacies as casually as they shared lip gloss and breath mints. Any details Emma-Jean disclosed could quite possibly get back to the secret admirer, with disastrous results.

“I am sorry,” Emma-Jean said. “All information pertaining to this project is confidential.”

“We would never tell a soul!” Michele said.

“You can trust us,” Colleen said.

“We know how to keep secrets,” Valerie said, making a zipper-like motion over her tightly closed lips.

They continued to question and cajole in such an insistent manner that Emma-Jean lost her appetite. Her thermos sat before her unopened, as though it too had secrets it could not divulge. As the pleading persisted, Emma-Jean thought of the hungry mallards that followed her and her mother along the riverbank, flapping their wings and quacking frantically for bread crusts.

Perhaps a few crumbs of information would satisfy her friends' ravenous curiosity.

“All right,” Emma-Jean said in a low voice. “I will tell you that I have made an important discovery.” She looked over her shoulder for eavesdroppers, and then said in a low voice, “The boy who wrote the note is left-handed.”

“Oh my gosh!” Colleen said, clasping her hands to her heart. “Everyone knows left-handed boys are the most romantic!”

“But how can you tell he's left-handed?” Kaitlin asked.

“I examined the note under magnification,” Emma-Jean explained. “I discovered fingerprints on the paper, and from their placement I deduced that he is left-handed.”

“What's deduced?” Michele said.

“It's guessing,” Kaitlin said.

“No it's not,” Valerie said.

“A deduction is a conclusion drawn through logic,” Emma-Jean clarified.

“Wow,” Michele and Valerie chorused, shaking their heads with awe.

“Aren't there a lot of left-handed boys?” Kaitlin said.

“Only one in ten people in the world is left-handed,” Emma-Jean said. “I have discovered that there are nine in our seventh grade.”

“That's all?” Valerie said, grabbing Colleen's hands. “And one of them is in love with you!”

“That's a lot,” Kaitlin said. “And there could be more.”

“Kaitlin, stop being so negative!” Valerie scolded. “You're ruining all the fun!”

“This isn't a game, Valerie,” Kaitlin said in an aggrieved tone. “This is Colleen's life! And don't blame me for not wanting her to be totally devastated if this doesn't work out how she wants!”

All eyes turned to Colleen, who was indeed the most fragile of the girls, easily upset by even the most benign conflicts. A recent debate about soda flavors had caused Colleen to put her hands over her ears and implore, “Can't we all just agree?”

But now Colleen sat tall, her face serene. She did not look any different, with her long neck and neatly combed bangs and spray of freckles across her upturned nose. But she seemed changed somehow, more distinct and illuminated, as though there was a bright light shining out from behind her large turquoise eyes. Perhaps she was taking vitamins, Emma-Jean thought, or eating more leafy vegetables.

It was Kaitlin who appeared agitated, her cheeks blotchy and flushed, her curls askew.

“You don't have to worry about me,” Colleen said, putting her arm around Kaitlin. “No matter what, I'll be okay.”

“But what about Emma-Jean?” Kaitlin said. “She's totally stressed out. It's too much pressure. I mean, look at her!”

The girls leaned forward to inspect Emma-Jean, who did her best to maintain her usual unperturbed expression.

“She looks gorgeous,” Colleen pronounced. “As usual.”

Kaitlin opened her mouth to comment, but the sound of Laura Gilroy's voice called their attention to the other side of the cafeteria.

“Come on, lazy butts,” Laura called, pointing in their direction and shaking her hips, the dreaded signal that it was time for the girls to report to the blacktop for a dance rehearsal. The girls did not enjoy these sessions, during which Laura bullied and belittled them as they attempted to follow her complex choreography of shimmies and kicks. And Emma-Jean knew they did not relish Laura's company. They complained about her when she was out of earshot, and quietly rejoiced when she failed a pop quiz in language arts or split her pants performing a particularly showy leap.

But for some reason they admired Laura, and feared her. And now, like dutiful soldiers, they rose out of their chairs.

Colleen lingered as the other girls returned their trays and disappeared out the back door.

“I hate dancing with Laura,” Colleen sighed.

“I know you do,” Emma-Jean said, which caused Colleen to smile.

“You know everything about me, don't you, Emma-Jean?” Colleen said.

“Not everything,” said Emma-Jean, who would never presume to have total knowledge of any subject.

“Well, I know some things about you too,” Colleen said. “And one thing I know for sure is that you're a really good friend.”

“Thank you,” Emma-Jean said, surprised by the compliment. Emma-Jean had many areas of expertise—geometry and watercolor painting and the flora and fauna native to Connecticut. But her knowledge of friendship was still rudimentary. Colleen, on the other hand, was an expert.