He opened the flaps and stared inside with reverence, like a pirate peering into a chest of long-buried gold. Emma-Jean looked over his shoulder, admiring the array of itemsâdozens of neatly bundled stacks of player cards, felt caps, team photographs and pennants.
Vikram reached into the box and brought out a long and bulky object wrapped in many layers of newspaper. He carefully stripped away the paper to reveal a cricket bat that was battered and grass-stained and emblazoned with an illegible signature scrawled in black marker.
“Donald Bradman's bat,” he whispered.
“Who was he?” Emma-Jean said.
Vikram looked at her with surprise. “He is one of the most famous men in the world,” Vikram said. “He was a cricket player, a legend.”
“Why did he give you his bat?”
Vikram seemed amused by this comment.
“He did not. My grandfather did. He gave it to me just before he died. It is worth a small fortune now. My mother sent it because I have finally decided to sell it. I am planning to take a major step in my life.”
A feeling of dread came over Emma-Jean. The weeks had passed with no mention of the job at Stanford University; Emma-Jean had been hopeful that her letter to Dr. Markt had been effective. But now it seemed that in fact Dr. Markt had not received her letter, or he had received it and not heeded Emma-Jean's warning about Vikram's precarious state of mind.
“I have not told a soul about this,” Vikram continued. “Not even your mother.”
Emma-Jean took a deep breath.
“I am aware of your plan,” she said.
“Really?” Vikram said with surprise.
“Yes I am,” Emma-Jean said. “And I must tell you that I am utterly against it.”
Vikram blinked, as though startled by a clap of thunder.
“I'm surprised to hear you say this,” Vikram said. “I expectedâ”
“You are not thinking clearly,” Emma-Jean explained. “You are madly in love with my mother. Your judgment has become clouded.”
“Clouded?”
“The plan is misguided,” Emma-Jean said. “To move to California. To teach at Stanford. I heard you speaking on the phone to Dr. Markt. I have already written to him. I have explained the situation. I had hopedâ”
“You wrote to Dr. Markt?” Vikram interrupted.
Emma-Jean nodded.
“Well, that explains a few things,” he said, shaking his head.
And then Vikram did something quite peculiar. He began to chuckle. And it occurred to Emma-Jean that perhaps Vikram's mental state was even more unbalanced than she had feared.
“Did you by any chance tell him I liked to cook with curry?”
“Yes,” Emma-Jean said.
Vikram's laughter grew stronger until it seemed to fill the room around them and spill out the open window to echo through the streets.
Emma-Jean watched in alarm, wondering if she should call her mother at work.
Finally Vikram stopped laughing. He patted his chest and cleared his throat.
“Emma-Jean,” he said. “I am not moving to California. I have been invited to lead a seminar, over the summer. Your mother and I thought you could both join me for a couple of weeks. We were waiting to tell you, until we had it all planned. It was to be a surprise.”
Emma-Jean opened her mouth to respond, but somehow all of her words had disappeared. Perhaps they had been carried out the window by the force of Vikram's laughter.
“I had wondered why Dr. Markt was so curious about my cooking . . . and about you.”
“Me?”
Vikram nodded. “He will be in Connecticut next week, visiting his mother. He asked if he could come here, for dinner. He specifically asked if you would be here. And he said something very peculiar . . . He said to let you know that he would wash his hands very well before dinner. He hung up before I could ask him what he meant by that.”
Vikram looked searchingly at Emma-Jean, and his expression grew stern.
“You should have spoken to me,” Vikram said quietly. “It is not a good idea to be writing letters to people you don't know. Dr. Markt obviously has a good sense of humor, but you could have . . .”
But then his eyes softened. He picked up Emma-Jean's hand and held it to his chest.
“We can discuss that another time. What I wanted to tell you has nothing to do with California or Stanford,” Vikram said. “I'm selling the bat because I plan to buy your mother a ring.”
Vikram held her hand tighter.
“Emma-Jean,” Vikram said. “I want to ask your mother to marry me.”
Chapter 24
C
olleen had always dreamed that one day she would go to a fancy ball in a pink dress with the nicest boy in the world. Dreams really do come true!
Well, maybe not
exactly
true. At her dream ball, Colleen's mom hadn't been a chaperone.
But when your dream came true, you shouldn't be picky about the details. They needed chaperones at the Spring Fling, and her mom seemed excited to be coming along. She'd even bought a new blouse, with pink flowers on it, and put on lipstick. She looked pretty! Colleen was happy they were going out together, that neither one of them was home alone with the sock puppets.
She was nervous that her mom would hover around her all night, but as soon as they walked inside she gave Colleen a little kiss and went off to help set up the refreshments.
Colleen could see her friends on the dance floor. But she didn't see Will. They never said where they would meet. What if he didn't come? What if he ignored her? What if her breath smelled like egg salad?
She started to get her old panicky feeling. But then someone seemed to be right there with her telling her to calm down.
Her boy! He was here! Even though they'd said good-bye, he was here tonight, just in case Colleen needed him. And now he was telling her that of course Will was coming. He reminded her that she and Will had been talking about the dance every day for weeks. And her breath couldn't smell like egg salad, because she purposely hadn't eaten it for three days.
And then she felt someone's hands over her eyes, for real, and a funny voice whispering in her ear.
“Collcakes.”
And Colleen grabbed Will's wrists and turned around and they both laughed. And oh my gosh he looked so cute!
Oh no! What if her boy got jealous of Will?
But no, of course he wasn't jealous. That's not how it was with Colleen and her boy. The only thing he'd ever wanted was for Colleen to be happy. And now Colleen had the feeling that he would always be there for her, somewhere, in case she needed him.
“Let's go dance!” she shouted to Will over the music.
“I hate dancing!” Will shouted back.
“No you don't!” said Colleen.
“Okay, maybe I don't,” Will laughed.
And they ran over to the dance floor, where all her friends were already dancing. They made room for Will and Colleen and they were all dancing together. And Colleen closed her eyes for a few seconds because she knew this was one of those precious moments that she'd want to remember for her whole life.
They had just finished dancing when she saw Emma-Jean.
How amazing that she was here! And she looked so gorgeous in orange. But, well, maybe for the next dance Colleen's mom could show her how to sew that pretty piece of material into a real dress.
“Look!” Colleen said, pointing to Emma-Jean. “She's here!”
“Who?” Will said.
“Emma-Jean!”
“I can't believe it!” Kaitlin said.
“That's amazing!” Valerie said.
Emma-Jean was standing there, looking around in that Emma-Jean-ish way, like she was studying them for a science project.
“Emma-Jean!” Colleen called, waving the hand that Will wasn't holding.
“Emma-Jean!” Kaitlin called.
“Emma-Jean!” Valerie and Michele called together.
They all started to laugh.
“She's in her own world,” Will said, but not in a mean way. It was like he understood how it was with Emma-Jean.
“Okay, on three,” Colleen said. “We'll all yell together.”
They all huddled together, Valerie and Jeremy, Michele and Leo, Kaitlin and Neil, and Colleen and Will.
Colleen and Will?
This was way better than any dream.
“Okay,” said Colleen as loudly as she could. “One! Two! Three!”
And they all took deep breaths and shouted together across the cafeteria.
“Emma-Jean!”
Chapter 25
T
he decision to attend the Spring Fling had been made just that morning, when Ms. Wright had phoned Emma-Jean's mother to say that the PTA still needed some chaperones.
Emma-Jean had listened as she ate her oatmeal, and when her mother hung up, Emma-Jean said, “Perhaps we should go.”
The words had come out unexpectedly.
“Really?” Emma-Jean's mother said. “You want to go to the dance?”
“Yes,” Emma-Jean said, before she could consider the question too deeply.
“And you want Vikram and me to go too?”
“Vikram has never been to a dance,” Emma-Jean said. “It is one of his regrets.”
“I didn't realize that.”
“It's true,” Emma-Jean said. “And that is why we should go.”
It all seemed rational enough, Emma-Jean thought.
Apparently her mother agreed, because she smiled and grabbed Emma-Jean's hand and said, “Let's go tell Vikram!”
They arrived at the dance more than thirty minutes late, having been delayed by the challenge of arranging Emma-Jean's sari. After an hour of fruitless folding and wrapping and tucking of the orange silk, Emma-Jean's mother had placed a call to Mrs. Adwani, who had not been the least bit annoyed to be awakened at 3:35 a.m. Mumbai time. Despite the early hour, Mrs. Adwani provided coherent instructions to Emma-Jean's mother, who then adeptly wrapped the sari around Emma-Jean's body and draped it over her shoulder. The results were quite fetching.
When they arrived at the school, they found Ms. Wright standing in the doorway of the gym.
“Here you are!”' she said. “And look how stunning you are, Emma-Jean!”
“Thank you,” said Emma-Jean said, confirming that her sari was secure. “You look stunning as well.”
Indeed, Ms. Wright looked especially lovely in a blue dress, which swished gracefully around her knees. Emma-Jean made a mental note to suggest to Ms. Wright that she wear this dress on Wednesday night, to the dinner Vikram was preparing in honor of Dr. Markt. It had been Emma-Jean's idea to include Ms. Wright in the dinner, and Vikram and her mother had readily concurred.
“She loves Vikram's puran-poli,” her mother had said, referring to Vikram's mother's signature dish, a stuffed bread that Vikram would be making for the dinner.
But Emma-Jean had her secret reason for inviting Ms. Wright, a reason that had nothing at all to do with the puran-poli: She had come to see that the illustrious scientist and her esteemed teacher would make an excellent couple.
Over the past two weeks, Vikram had shared with Emma-Jean some compelling details about Dr. Marktâthat he traveled to Connecticut frequently, that he played the mandolin, that he was unmarried. These facts, combined with Dr. Markt's demonstrated intelligence and sense of humor, had led Emma-Jean to conclude that he had many of the qualities that Ms. Wright was looking for.
Emma-Jean had not revealed any of this to Ms. Wright, who might become nervous if she knew she could soon be meeting her future husband. Besides, Emma-Jean could do no more than arrange their meeting. She knew better than to think she could control the unpredictable forces of love. Still, her hopes were high.
Now Ms. Wright linked arms with Emma-Jean's mother.
“I need to take these tardy chaperones to their post,” she said.
“Do you want to come with us?” her mother said.
Emma-Jean shook her head. “I will find my friends.”
Vikram waved and her mother blew her a kiss. The small diamond on her mother's engagement ring seemed to wink at Emma-Jean as they disappeared into the crowd.
Emma-Jean slowly made her way across the gym. She passed Mr. Petrowski, who was standing behind a pile of mats. He was engrossed in conversation with a plump woman wearing a bright flowered blouse. It took Emma-Jean a moment to recognize Colleen's mother.
“And next thing I knew they gave me a new Cadillac Escalade,” Mr. Petrowski was saying.
“That is a remarkable story!” said Mrs. Pomerantz, her hand fluttering across her chest like Colleen's did when she was excited.
“I'm glad you think so. I've got a million stories,” Mr. Petrowski said, standing up straighter and adjusting his glasses.
“Well, I for one would enjoy hearing them.”
“Where to start?” Mr. Petrowski said, and they both laughed.
Emma-Jean smiled to herself. Love really was in the air, she realized. Perhaps it wasn't too late for Mr. Petrowski after all.
Emma-Jean walked to the back of the gym and stood against the wall. She admired the festive decorations and the girls and boys dressed in their finery. Two boys were standing next to her. The closer one was Brandon Mahoney, who looked surprisingly presentable in his buttoned-down shirt and pressed pants.
“This dance kind of stinks,” he said to his friend. “Nobody wants to do anything fun.”
She followed Brandon's gaze across to the dance floor, where Will and Colleen were standing together.
Emma-Jean looked at Brandon, and their eyes met. Emma-Jean girded herself for one of Brandon's unkind smirks, or for him to whisper an unclever pun based on her last name. But he nodded to her, rather cordially. And for the first time she noted something in Brandon's faceâthe determined set of his eyes, an almost regal arch of his nose. Could it be that Brandon Mahoney looked a bit like . . . George Washington?