Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree Page 11

  Emma-Jean nodded back.

  That evening, Vikram, Emma-Jean’s mother, and Emma-Jean headed out for the movies. They drove in Vikram’s car. It was a dark, moonless night, but up the road, William Gladstone Middle School was fully illuminated.

  Of course, Emma-Jean remembered. The dance. She thought of the loud music and the salty snacks served in unhygienic communal bowls. She thought of her fellow seventh graders, how they would scream and shout and grow hoarse, how the music would pulsate against her eardrums. The floor would be sticky from spilled soda. The air would be stuffy and hot. Someone could bump into her, causing further injury to her rib.

  “Vikram,” she said. “Could you please pull into the school parking lot? I would like you to drop me off at my school.”

  Chapter 28

  Emma-Jean lingered in front of the school after Vikram’s car pulled slowly away. It was obvious, even from outside, that the cafeteria was very warm, as the windows were fogged. The music and shouts of her classmates, muffled only slightly by the walls of the school, rose up around her. She turned around and looked back out toward the street. The walk home would be pleasantly brisk on the dark and quiet streets, under the protective shadow of the elm trees and the watchful gazes of the nocturnal creatures. She could be home within ten minutes, cozy in her room, enjoying the quiet companionship of Henri.

  And yet something propelled her forward, through the front door of the school, and into the lobby. The door slammed behind her, as though an invisible hand had pushed it.

  And then . . .

  “Oh my gosh! You’re here!!” shrieked Colleen Pomerantz, who came running toward her, dressed in head-to-toe kelly green. Kaitlin, Valerie, and Michele followed Colleen like emerald shadows.

  “This is so amazing, I don’t know what to say!” said Colleen, breathless. “I had a feeling you’d come! Didn’t I? Didn’t I say she would be here?”

  “You did!” said Kaitlin.

  “Amazing!” said Michele.

  “How did you know?” said Valerie.

  “Well, come on!” Colleen said, grabbing Emma-Jean’s hand like she often grabbed the hands of Kaitlin or Valerie or Michele in the hall between classes. A sharp pain shot through Emma-Jean’s rib as Colleen pulled her toward the cafeteria. She held her breath but did not let go of Colleen’s hand.

  “So are you ready to dance?” Colleen said, with a wiggle of her hips.

  It was hard to hear over the pulsating music, so Emma-Jean had to shout “No!” several times and shake her head emphatically as the girls persisted in their pleas for Emma-Jean to join them on the crowded dance floor.

  “Okay!” Colleen said “But you have to know, Emma-Jean, one day we’ll get you out there. You know we will!”

  She sounded so certain that Emma-Jean could almost picture herself standing alongside Colleen and her friends, kicking her legs high into the air and shaking her shoulders and gyrating her hips. The image was most amusing, and Emma-Jean laughed. The sound, not unlike her mother’s laugh, seemed to startle Colleen and her friends, who regarded her with wide eyes.

  It surprised Emma-Jean as well.

  She conjured up the dancing image again, and once more she laughed.

  The other girls laughed too.

  “You’re sure you don’t want to?” Colleen said.

  “Quite sure,” Emma-Jean said.

  Colleen and the other girls peeled away from Emma-Jean. They skipped together over to the dance floor and disappeared in the sea of bobbing heads and waving arms. Emma-Jean was satisfied to see her fellow seventh graders in such high spirits. Colleen, in particular, seemed restored to her usual state of cheer.

  As Emma-Jean had predicted, the cafeteria was unpleasantly hot, and the music was irritating to Emma-Jean’s sensitive ears. There were several teachers milling about, including Ms. Wright, who was elegantly dressed in a green dress that skimmed her ankles. When she saw Emma-Jean she smiled and waved, and Emma-Jean waved back. It was unfortunate for Ms. Wright that Vikram was no longer available to be her husband. However, it occurred to Emma-Jean that a woman as intelligent and attractive as Ms. Wright must have many suitors, and that Ms. Wright would have the good judgment to choose a man worthy of her. It also occurred to Emma-Jean that she could still invite Ms. Wright home for dinner, that her favorite teacher would fit in very well at their dining room table. She would extend the invitation first thing on Monday.

  Despite the presence of Ms. Wright and other chaperones, some of the boys were engaged in questionable displays of revelry. Most alarmingly, Brandon Mahoney was tossing a full, two-liter bottle of Sprite high into the air. It spun on its way up and down, and Brandon caught it as though it were a football. He continued with this game, tossing the bottle higher and higher, harder and harder, to the encouraging hoots of his friends. And then, as was inevitable, Brandon failed to catch the bottle and it crashed to the floor. The bottle burst open, spewing a fizzing spray of liquid directly into his face, and also across the floor.

  “Oh jeez!” Brandon cried.

  Emma-Jean found Mr. Johannsen standing at the large, rusty sink, filling a large plastic bucket with water.

  “Hello, missy,” he said, smiling.

  “Hello, Mr. Johannsen.”

  “Enjoying yourself?”

  “It is very loud and too hot. There is a spill near the dance floor. I can show you where.”

  “I’m on the case,” he said. “You don’t worry about it. Go have some fun.”

  Emma-Jean watched as Mr. Johannsen lifted the bucket and, without spilling a drop, placed it on a small rolling cart. He took his mop from the corner and set the wooden handle on his shoulder like a musket.

  “So I’m retiring at the end of this year,” he said. “You know that, right?”

  “No, I did not,” Emma-Jean said, frowning.

  “Thirty-four years,” he said. “My wife and I have a little lake house, we’ll see the grandkids more. It’ll be nice and quiet.”

  “I’m pleased for you, but I am concerned that the facility will deteriorate after you are gone.”

  “They’ll find someone to take my place. And you’ll watch over things for me, help the new guy learn his way around, won’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Of course I will be here.”

  “Good. Now you hurry along. You have nothing to worry about. Nobody’s going to cause you any trouble, not so long as I’m here.”

  Then Mr. Johannsen did something perplexing. He picked up a large wrench from the counter, held it in the air, and winked at her.

  In the final minutes of the dance, Emma-Jean was in the girls’ room. She was about to flush when someone entered the stall next to her. She peered underneath the wall: black, uncomfortable-looking high-heeled boots, green velvet pants.

  Laura Gilroy.

  Emma-Jean waited until Laura had flushed. She watched through the gap in the door as Laura stood at the mirror, combed her fingers through her hair, and smiled at her reflection. Emma-Jean was not the least bit surprised that Laura Gilroy did not wash her hands.

  Emma-Jean was leaving the girls’ room, her own hands well scrubbed, when she saw Laura Gilroy and Will Keeler talking in the corner of the hallway. She stopped and listened, concealing herself in the water fountain alcove.

  “I gave you those chocolates, you know,” Laura said.

  “Oh. Thanks.”

  “So you have to dance with me!” Laura was saying. “I’ve been waiting all night. The dance is almost over.”

  “I told you,” Will said, backing away. “I don’t dance.”

  “Not even with me?”

  “Nope.”

  “But that’s not very nice,” Laura said in a high, babyish voice. She put both hands on Will Keeler’s shoulders.

  Will broke away. “Gotta go!”

  Laura Gilroy watched Will Keeler run back toward the cafeteria. And Emma-Jean watched Laura Gilroy.

  Laura leaned her back against the pale yellow wall and slowly sank to
the floor in the manner of a helium balloon with a leak. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her green velvet knees.

  Laura Gilroy appeared so dejected that Emma-Jean considered offering some assistance. Emma-Jean was fairly certain that she could compel Will Keeler to dance with Laura. She had not forgotten what Will had said to her upon the successful resolution of his problem: that he owed her. Though Emma-Jean had not planned to accept his offer, she knew he was honorable, and would make good on his promise. If Emma-Jean asked him to dance with Laura Gilroy, he would do it. And Laura Gilroy would never have to know that Emma-Jean had intervened.

  But Emma-Jean dismissed this idea. She was no longer interested in solving other people’s problems. At least for now. And besides, it was possible that Will Keeler’s favor would come in handy. Perhaps sometime in the not-so-distant future, Emma-Jean would want to dance with Will Keeler herself.

  ACKNOWLEGMENTS: One page is not enough to express my gratitude to all of the people who helped and inspired me as I wrote this book. I would like to write a whole book of thank-yous for Nancy Mercado, my editor, who taught me so much, who took such great care with this book and with me. I am grateful to the entire Dial team, especially to Jessica Dandino, who helped edit this book; Regina Castillo, for her keen copyediting talents; Lauri Hornik, for her ideas and support; Kristen Smith for the beautiful cover and illustrations; and Teresa Kietlinski for creating such a lovely interior.

  Another thick book of gratitude is for my agent Gail Hochman, who so graciously read my work years ago and gave me the confidence to keep trying.

  Chaya Deitsch, Caroline Sherman, and Mary-Lou Weisman read an early draft of this book and urged me to keep with it. Without these fabulous women and their critical input through several drafts, this book would not exist.

  Freja Andrews was ten years old when she became my first reader. Her kind words couldn’t have meant more to me. My many friends and colleagues at Storyworks magazine helped me fall in love with the world of middle grade literature, and I especially thank David Goddy for giving me my start there.

  I owe a heartfelt thank you to my family and friends who encouraged me along the way, in particular Karen and Barry Tarshis, Stefanie Dreyfuss, Deborah Dinger, Lynn Massey, Della Herden, Debbie Bofinger, and Michele Rubin, who offered ongoing help and encouragement over many years.

  To my husband David, for this and everything, I am inexpressibly grateful.