Emma Jean Lazarus Fell in Love Page 5

  “I need a nice serving bowl like that,” Ms. Wright said. “I’m having a friend over this Saturday, and I have nothing really lovely to serve with.”

  “Someone we know?” Emma-Jean’s mother asked as she offered Ms. Wright a dollop of pineapple chutney.

  “You must know Phil Petrowski,” Ms. Wright said.

  “Of course,” Emma-Jean’s mother said, her eyebrows raised in surprise. “The science teacher. I didn’t realize you were friends.”

  “We have our differences,” Ms. Wright said. “But lately I’ve come to appreciate Phil. He’s a good man, a very good man.”

  “Will this be a romantic evening?” Vikram asked delicately.

  A chickpea fell off of Emma-Jean’s fork, as though Vikram’s shocking suggestion had caused it to faint. Was it possible that the graceful and enlightened Ms. Wright was in love with the blustery Mr. Petrowski, whose main passion was his red Cadillac Escalade?

  If this was true, Emma-Jean knew even less about love than she had feared.

  “No, nothing like that,” Ms. Wright said. “Last week I was mentioning that I loved fresh tomatoes, and on Sunday afternoon he stopped by with a tomato plant to plant in my yard. I said to him, ‘Phil, if I were twenty years younger, I’d have to marry you.’ We had a good laugh over that one. Anyway, I’m going to make him a nice dinner, to thank him. I think he’s . . . maybe a little lonely.”

  Emma-Jean had never stopped to consider Mr. Petrowski’s life outside of the seventh-grade wing. And now it saddened her to think that he went home each afternoon to an empty house. Perhaps she could suggest to him that he purchase a parakeet, like Henri, who could say hello in English, Spanish, French, and Hindi.

  “Has Mr. Petrowski ever been married?” asked Emma-Jean’s mother.

  “No,” Ms. Wright said. “I suppose he never found the right person.”

  “That’s a shame,” said Emma-Jean’s mother as Vikram gazed at her.

  “Maybe he could still find someone,” said Emma-Jean.

  Ms. Wright nodded. “Of course,” she said.

  Emma-Jean hoped so.

  “And what about you?” Emma-Jean’s mother said to Ms. Wright.

  This was a sensitive subject for Emma-Jean, for not long ago she was quite certain she had found the perfect match for Ms. Wright: Vikram. Of course, that was before Emma-Jean discovered that Vikram was in love with her mother. She still hoped to find a suitable match for her esteemed teacher.

  “I don’t think you need much help in that area,” Emma-Jean’s mother continued, smiling at Ms. Wright.

  “That’s very nice of you to say,” Ms. Wright said. “The truth is that I am very content as things are. I’m not really looking.”

  “It would not be easy to find someone for you,” Emma-Jean said.

  Ms. Wright looked surprised.

  “Why is that?” Emma-Jean’s mother asked.

  “Because few men are worthy of Ms. Wright.”

  Ms. Wright smiled. “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” Emma-Jean said. “It is.”

  “Well, no pressure. But if you happened to find an intelligent man out there with a good sense of humor and a love of music, you can send him my way.”

  Emma-Jean’s mother raised her glass. “To music and laughter,” she said, and they all tapped their glasses together with a most satisfying clink.

  Chapter 13

  Even with her boy right there beside her, Colleen felt pretty nervous as the party got started, especially when Father William told everyone to huddle up.

  “Let’s give a hand to Colleen for putting together this beautiful gathering,” he said. “Colleen, you put your heart into this like you always do, and it shows.”

  Usually Colleen felt totally embarrassed when Father William singled her out. Her cheeks would get bright red and she’d try to hide behind Kaitlin until people stopped clapping and staring.

  This time, though, her boy wouldn’t let her hide. He gave her a little nudge toward Father William, and told her to smile and enjoy this moment.

  And the most amazing thing happened a little later, when Colleen was neatening up the platters on the snack table.

  “Those look awesome,” said a familiar boy’s voice behind her.

  Was that Will Keeler? Talking to Colleen?

  Colleen turned around and there he was, looking at her and pointing at the chocolate marshmallow cupcakes, which did look really delicious.

  “Who made these?” he said.

  Colleen’s head popped off and flew into the air, but her boy caught it and put it back on her neck. She took a deep breath. She never talked to Will or any of the boys. There were so many times she’d wanted to talk to them, when she thought of something fascinating to say, like “How long is your bus ride?” or “Don’t you think the cafeteria should get strawberry milk?” But then she would get nervous that her voice would sound all squeaky or that the boy would walk away without answering.

  But now when Colleen looked at Will, she didn’t see the handsome thirteen-year-old basketball boy. She saw cute little Willy K. from nursery school, with the yellow curls and tow truck T-shirt. She remembered how he used to hug his mom so tightly when she said good-bye at drop-off. Probably Will was still the same sweet boy now that he was then, only with hairier arms and bigger muscles.

  “I made those,” Colleen said. “My mom and me.”

  “They look good.”

  “They are,” Colleen said.

  Who said that? Was that really Colleen Julianna Pomerantz talking? Oh gosh, was she bragging?

  “Really?” Will said, smiling at her.

  Will looked at her right in the eyes. And if Colleen hadn’t been totally in love with her boy, she would have thought that Will Keeler was the dreamiest boy she’d ever seen, or ever would see for as long as she lived.

  No wonder Laura was in love with him! And Emma-Jean too!

  Will picked up a cupcake and took a big bite. He chewed very slowly, watching Colleen. He swallowed in a cartoony way, which was really funny. Colleen laughed, and her laugh didn’t sound squeaky. It sounded normal and funny, like she was an actress on TV playing the part of a girl with a good laugh.

  “Those are the best cupcakes I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Thank you!” Colleen said.

  And just like that, Will Keeler and Colleen were friends. Colleen knew how that could be, how one funny little moment—like a tiny drop of superglue—was enough to stick two people together. Moments like that were really precious, Colleen knew, because she’d had some with all of her friends. She collected them, memorizing every detail. Sometimes in bed, she’d play these memories back in her mind, tiny movies that would lull her happily to sleep.

  Just then someone slapped Will on the back so hard he almost fell face-first into a Bundt cake.

  Brandon Mahoney!

  “There you are!” he said to Will.

  Brandon grabbed one of Colleen’s cupcakes and stuffed the whole thing into his mouth.

  “Mmmmm,” he said.

  “Colleen made those,” Will said.

  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.

  La, la, la

  La, la, la

  La, la, la, la, la

  Chapter 14

  As usual, their evening with Ms. Wright continued long after they’d eaten the last of the ch
icken 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.

  Dr. David H. Markt

  Stanford University

  Chairman, Department of

  Immunology and Microbiology

  Fairchild Building

  300 Pasteur Drive

  Stanford, California 94305

  Dear Dr. Markt,

  I understand that you have hired Vikram Adwani to join your faculty in the department of immunology and microbiology at Stanford University. It is understandable that you would wish for Vikram to join your department because he is a man of outstanding character and keen intelligence. And if you admire his work with DNA, you will be most impressed with what he can do with some curry and garlic.

  Unfortunately, it is not possible for Vikram to work at Stanford. While Stanford is one of the finest universities in the world, it is 3,000 miles away from my mother, Elizabeth Lazarus, who is the love of

  Vikram’s life. I regret that Vikram did not consider this before accepting your offer. I have concluded that Vikram’s love for my mother has made it difficult for him to think clearly. As perhaps you know, love can make people behave in irrational ways.

  I have read about your work on smallpox and find it very fascinating. I hope you take the appropriate precautions with these dangerous pathogens, and wash your hands vigorously before eating your lunch.

  Sincerely,

  Emma-Jean Lazarus

  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 o
ne Elizabeth Lazarus.

  Chapter 15

  All 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.

  Walk away.

  Really?

  Just walk away.

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