Emma Jean Lazarus Fell in Love Read online

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 face—the determined set of his eyes, an almost regal arch of his nose. Could it be that Brandon Mahoney looked a bit like . . . George Washington?

  Oh no.

  Emma-Jean hurried away. She would be sure to avoid Brandon in the coming weeks, or until she could be entirely sure that the epidemic of spring fever had passed.

  As she walked through the crowd, she heard something, a rhythmic chorus, chanting her name.

  Emma-Jean!

  Emma-Jean!

  It was her friends.

  Emma-Jean!

  Emma-Jean!

  She looked at them with surprise. They were smiling at her, and waving, beckoning for her to join them.

  And then a warm feeling came over her, though it seemed to have nothing to do with the temperature in the gym. The feeling came from within her, and it grew stronger as she made her way toward her friends, who continued to call her name.

  Emma-Jean!

  Emma-Jean!

  Their voices swirled around her, encircling her like the soft silk of her sari, lighting the air around her like the sparkle of her father’s eyes.

  As she stepped into their midst, she felt their hands on her shoulders, the girls’ kisses brushing her cheeks. She closed her eyes and smiled. And for a moment she couldn’t hear anything, not the music or the giggles or the shouts.

  All she could hear was her own poetic heart, beating steady and true, echoing with possibilities.

  Acknowledgments

  Every day—every hour—I feel grateful for the blessings of my life, including the opportunity to be a part of the world of children’s books. For this, I am deeply grateful to Lauri Hornik, whose editorial wisdom, unflagging support, and friendship have made this book a source of ongoing delight and excitement for me. I would like to thank the entire team at Dial Books, especially Mary Raymond for opening all those library doors, Kristin Smith for her beautiful Yellow Warblers, Regina Castillo for her keen editorial eye, and Shelley Diaz for all of her help. I would not be writing children’s books if it were not for Gail Hochman, the finest agent a person could hope for, who offered words of encouragement way back when and whose embracing attentions would give anyone confidence. Nancy Mercado helped bring Emma-Jean into my life in 2007, and her guiding spirit remains with me. I am ever grateful to my friends and colleagues at Storyworks magazine, particularly Deb Dinger, who has been my beloved friend and creative partner for more than fifteen years. To Stefanie Dreyfuss, I am grateful for your friendship and daily words of support. To my parents, Karen and Barry Tarshis; my husband, David Dreyfuss; and my children, Leo, Jeremy, Dylan, and Valerie, I love you all more than I could ever express in words. And to my Nana, Jennie Ross, happy ninetieth birthday.