Emma Jean Lazarus Fell in Love (7 page)

Brandon picked up another one.

“I guess Brandon likes them,” Will said.

“I guess so,” Colleen said.

“You know what your new name is?” Brandon said with frosting all over his teeth.

Uh-oh.

Brandon licked his fingers. “From now on, I'm gonna call you . . .”

Colleen held her breath.

“Collcakes,” Brandon said.

Wait. Was that so bad?

“Know why?” Brandon said.

“Because she's sweet?” Will said.

“Yep,” Brandon said.

And Brandon laughed, and Colleen laughed, and Will laughed, and Colleen's boy laughed too.

A
s usual, their evening with Ms. Wright continued long after they'd eaten the last of the chicken and rice. They debated the day's headlines and critiqued their favorite films. Emma-Jean and Ms. Wright recited their favorite Mary Oliver poem, about gathering peonies in the early morning, and Vikram shared a most humorous story about his high school cricket team. A warm breeze blew through the open window, and Emma-Jean imagined a crowd of skunks and raccoons and woodchucks listening raptly just outside, laughing along.

They were sipping tea when Vikram left the table to take a phone call. Emma-Jean's mother refilled their teacups, and began describing the garden she and Emma-Jean were planning for the backyard. Henri was peacefully asleep on her mother's shoulder, curled up against her glossy braid. Emma-Jean stifled a yawn. She too was extremely tired. Perhaps her crush on Will was sapping her energy.

“Why don't you go to sleep, Emma-Jean?” her mother said. “It's getting late.”

Ms. Wright looked at her watch and gasped.

“Ten thirty! Where did the time go?”

Emma-Jean's mother looked around at the serving bowls and plates, scraped clean but for chicken bones and apricot pits. “I think we ate it,” she said, much to the amusement of both Ms. Wright and Emma-Jean.

Emma-Jean stood up and said a reluctant good night. She did not like to leave such fine company, but she would need to be energized for tomorrow morning, when she would begin her investigation of the nine left-handed boys.

She had just finished brushing her teeth when she realized that in her state of fatigue, she had forgotten Henri, who would be most perturbed if she went to sleep without wishing him sweet dreams. She went downstairs and was heading toward the dining room when Vikram's voice caught her attention. Something in his tone caused her to pause just outside the kitchen doorway. He was facing away from Emma-Jean, his phone pressed tightly to his ear.

“It's an incredible honor for me, Dr. Markt,” he was saying.

Emma-Jean crept closer. Who was Dr. Markt? Emma-Jean had never heard Vikram mention this name before.

“No, I've never been to California, but I hear it is beautiful,” he continued.

California? Who was inviting Vikram to California? “Teaching at Stanford has been a dream for me for as long as I can remember.”

Stanford University?

“ . . . no, I haven't spread the news to anyone.” Emma-Jean suddenly felt chilled, though the house was very warm.

“Dr. Markt, thank you very much,” Vikram said.

Emma-Jean crept away from the doorway and hurried back up to her room. Her fatigue had disappeared. She was now in a state of alarm, her eyes open wide, her breathing shallow and rapid.

Vikram was leaving them?

This question spun around her head, around and around until the words lost their meaning. Henri fluttered through the doorway. He sensed her distress and took up a position on her headboard. He stood up very straight and puffed out his chest.

Emma-Jean took her quilt from the foot of her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her father had sewn it for her when she was born, and there had been only a short period in her life when it had not been on her bed. When Vikram's mother had her heart attack, Emma-Jean had hidden the quilt in Vikram's Pittsburgh Steelers duffel bag, hopeful that it would comfort him on the plane as he crossed two oceans to be by his mother's side.

Emma-Jean had been concerned that the quilt might not survive the trip; its edges were torn and fraying, badly in need of repair. But Vikram brought the quilt back to her not simply intact but transformed. The tattered patches had been removed. In their place were hundreds of tiny squares of sari silk, sewn carefully together by Vikram's mother as she regained her strength in the cardiac unit of Mumbai's Bhagwati Hospital.

Emma-Jean ran her fingers across the quilt's bright border as she considered this deeply disturbing turn of events. How could Vikram leave them? How could he plot his departure without telling Emma-Jean or her mother?

The dazzling colors of the silk seemed to light a pathway in Emma-Jean's mind, and before long she had an answer:

Love.

As her mother had said, true love was one of life's most powerful forces. In fairy tales, love could rouse a princess from death, or turn a frog into a prince. Love inspired poets to write and painters to paint and knights to perform their most heroic deeds.

But it was also true that love's power was unpredictable. Emma-Jean had heard the term “madly in love.” Now she understood its meaning. Vikram was so deeply in love with her mother that he had temporarily lost his senses. He could not be trusted to make rational decisions.

Emma-Jean stood up, gripped by a sense of urgency. Luckily, her crush on Will Keeler had not significantly diminished her powers of logical thinking. She sat down at her desk, turned on her computer, and devised a plan of action.

She recalled the name of the person Vikram was speaking to: Dr. Markt. It took just a moment to locate him on the Stanford University website: Dr. David H. Markt, chairman of the department of microbiology and immunology. Emma-Jean read his impressive biography, which highlighted his laboratory work on smallpox and other pathogens. She studied his picture, focusing on his warm brown eyes. He seemed to regard her with curiosity and perhaps even a hint of understanding.

It took some time for Emma-Jean to compose a letter that achieved the appropriate tone. By the time she had finished, the sun had risen in the sky, and the smell of coffee and curried eggs filled their house.

“Emma-Jean?” her mother said, peering into the room. She was wearing Emma-Jean's father's faded terry-cloth robe and gripping a large mug of coffee. “You're looking very focused for so early in the morning.”

Emma-Jean quickly closed out her computer screen; there was no need for her mother to discover Vikram's misguided plan.

“I'm just finishing a project,” she said.

“It must be important,” her mother said, taking a sip of coffee.

“It is urgent,” Emma-Jean replied.

“Everything under control?” her mother said.

“I have done all I can.”

“You always do,” her mother said, smiling as she headed toward her bedroom.

Emma-Jean waited until she heard the rush of her mother's shower, and then reopened the file and printed out her letter.

Of course, there was no guarantee that the letter would resolve this matter. But Emma-Jean was hopeful. She sensed that Dr. Markt, a man of science, would see the logic in her message. And certainly Vikram would come to appreciate her intervention at this critical juncture in his life.

After all, there were many prestigious universities in the world. But there was only one Elizabeth Lazarus.

A
ll day in school, Colleen just kept getting Colleen-er and Colleen-er.

Like in her classes, she usually kept her hand down because even if she was sure of the answer, who knew what could fly out of her mouth? But now she couldn't stop herself. In science she raised her hand so many times that Mr. Petrowski started calling her Dr. Pomerantz, which everyone thought was really funny, and not in a mean way.

Between classes she usually waited for Kaitlin because Colleen didn't like walking through the halls alone. But now she realized she wasn't alone. Everywhere she looked there were people smiling at her. And whenever she saw Brandon or Will they would yell, “Hey Collcakes!” which for some reason felt really flattering.

But the weirdest of all was what happened after lunch.

For the second day in a row, Laura made them go out and dance. Usually dancing with Laura was torture because the moves were impossible and Colleen was a complete spaz. But today everything felt different. Colleen
wanted
to dance, to jump and leap and twirl all around. And so she did!

She jumped as high as she could and leaped like a ballerina and spun around until she felt dizzy. Valerie started to giggle and so did Colleen. She never knew dancing could actually be fun!

But then Laura started yelling.

“Colleen!” she said. “Those aren't the moves! What are you doing?”

“I'm just having fun,” Colleen said.

“Well, you look like a complete dork,” Laura yelled. “Pay attention!”

Laura shook her head and fluttered her eyes and started showing the moves again. Colleen's friends followed along. But Colleen just stood there.

“Colleen!” Laura yelled. “Are you listening?”

Colleen
was
listening, but not to Laura. Someone was whispering in her ear.

Her boy was telling her something.

Really?

“You know what?” Colleen said suddenly. “I'm going to take a break.”

“What are you doing?” Kaitlin whispered.

“Are you okay?” Michele said.

“I'm fine,” Colleen said. “I just . . . I just don't really want to do this anymore.” And she walked away, like she'd always dreamed of doing, all those times when Laura made her feel like a shaky little dog who'd made a mess on the rug. She'd pictured this moment in her mind so many times, how she would walk slowly with her chin up, how her hair would fly behind her and her little bead earrings would jingle softly in her ears.

And that's exactly how it happened.

Colleen sat down on a bench and she felt her boy sit down right next to her. Colleen leaned against him, and she felt peaceful and strong, like she felt sometimes in church. She looked over at her friends, who were staring at her like she'd sprouted wings, which was sort of how she felt.

And a minute later, the most amazing thing: Valerie came walking over.

“I'm tired too,” she said, plopping down on the bench and putting her head on Colleen's shoulder.

Michele came next, and then finally Kaitlin. They all squeezed in next to Colleen and her boy.

They sat there for a minute, and then Valerie started to giggle, very softly.

“Oh my God, I can't believe that just happened,” she said.

“What do you think she'll do to us?” Kaitlin asked nervously.

They all peeked over at Laura, and Colleen expected her to be glaring at them. But she'd grabbed two other girls and was showing them her famous high kick.

She'd forgotten all about Colleen and her friends.

And suddenly Colleen understood the secret of Laura: She didn't care about anything or anyone, only herself. Colleen had always wished that she could be like that.

But now Colleen was getting a different idea.

That it wasn't bad to care. That you
had
to care—about people, about being nice, about having friends, about the boy out there who liked you best of all.

Because if you didn't care, then what was the point?

Colleen looked at her amazing friends. She felt so happy.

But then Valerie pointed across the blacktop and laughed.

“Look at Emma-Jean!” she said.

Emma-Jean was sitting on her favorite bench, under that huge crooked tree she loved. But now Emma-Jean wasn't staring up at the tree, like she usually did. She was looking over at the basketball court, at Will Keeler. She had her hand on her heart and this look on her face, this dreamy look.

“She's obsessed with him!” Kaitlin said.

“Poor Will!” Michele said, putting her hand over her mouth and cracking up.