And We Stay (22 page)

She isn’t even sure she’ll be able to get out of the house.
Time to pray
, she thinks, and closes her eyes. When she opens them, she walks as quietly as she can to the front door where an old-fashioned key peeks out of the lock. The key turns easily, and out Emily goes, clicking the door shut behind her. She turns the knob to the right, then to the left, but the door is locked. The porch light blinks on and off three times. Emily checks her watch: 9:15.

Across the street on the bench is a silhouette, but it does not belong to Amber. It rises, floating toward her, the pale face of Madame Colche catching the light of the moon. Emily walks slowly down the steps as Madame Colche crosses the street. They meet at the iron gate.

“Allons,”
says Madame Colche.
Let’s go
.

“How did you know I was here?” Emily asks, shivering.

“Call it an educated guess,” says Madame Colche.

Emily hunches into herself. “Am I in trouble?”

“Oui.”

“Will I be sent home?” She watches her breath make little clouds in the air.

“That remains to be seen,” Madame Colche says. “But it’s a possibility.”

“A possibility or a probability?”

Madame Colche pats Emily on her shoulder. “Shhh. Where’s your coat?”

“I left it at school.”

“You must be
très froide
.”

“Je suis,”
Emily says.
I am
.

They walk for two blocks without talking, and then Emily says, “You remember my friend Terra from the train trip who lives in Winesburg, Ohio?”

“Oui.”

“I didn’t know that was the name of a famous book. Amber told me.”

“She is
a font de connaissance
,” says Madame Colche.

“A what?”

“A fountain of knowledge.”

“Yeah,” says Emily. “She can be. Anyway, have you read it,
Winesburg, Ohio
?”

“I have.”

“What’s it about?”

“Well, it’s a collection of stories about various people living in a small town who are searching for truth, all different kinds,” Madame Colche says.

“How many different kinds are there?”

“So many. Too many to count.”

Emily looks up at the moon. “Like stars,” she says.

“Oui,”
says Madame Colche.
“Comme les étoiles dans le ciel.”

“That’s what her voice sounded like,” Emily says.

“Whose voice?”

“Emily Dickinson’s. When I was in her house, she spoke to me.”

“My dear girl,” says Madame Colche, “of course she did.”

In 15 Hart Hall, Amber and K.T. are waiting, and Emily tells them how she got back.

“I don’t know what will happen,” she tells them. “Madame Colche and Dr. Ingold and I don’t know who all are meeting first thing in the morning.”

“Madame Colche came by before dinner to see if we wanted to eat at her house,” K.T. says. “That’s how she knew you weren’t here.”

“But I don’t know how she knew you were there,” Amber says. “We didn’t tell her.”

“It’s okay,” says Emily. “It’s probably better that she found me. At least that way, I didn’t have to lie to anybody.”

“And who knows?” says K.T. “She might be able to soften the blow. She’s taught here for over twenty years. Dr. Ingold has been here only half that long. People listen to Madame Colche.”

“What was it like, being in there at night?” Amber asks. “Was it spooky? I started to ring the doorbell, but I was afraid you’d have a heart attack.”

“It was a different kind of spooky,” Emily says. “I’ll tell you about it sometime, but right now, I have to make a phone call.”

“Are they making you call your mom and dad and tell them what you did?” Amber asks. “ASG loves that kind of shit.”

“No. I have to call a friend from home.”

“I’ll walk you out,” says Amber. “See you, K.T. Thanks for keeping me company.”

K.T. gives Emily a look, but she’s smiling. “It was an experience,” K.T. says.

For once, the hall phone has no one attached to it. Most of the girls are in the student center watching a marathon of John Hughes films, including
The Breakfast Club
, which was what was playing when Amber came and got K.T. Emily picks up the receiver and dials the number she can’t forget and Carey answers on the first ring.

“It’s me,” Emily says. “Are you alone?”

“Mom and Dad are asleep in the den,” says Carey.

“I’m alone, too,” Emily says. “Finally. Sorry I haven’t called before now.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” says Emily, “but thank you for saying so. I have a feeling that I know why you called.”

“You do?”

Emily takes a deep breath. “You found the letter.”

“Yeah,” Carey says. “In the pocket of Paul’s pants.”

“Did you tell your parents?”

“What’s the point? It would just have made everyone sadder than they already are,” Carey says.

“That was nice of you,” says Emily.

“I didn’t do it for them.”

“How did you know the letter was there?”

“I didn’t,” Carey says. “I went into Paul’s room the night after he died, looking for something, anything, I don’t know. His clothes were lying there on the floor, waiting for him to take them to the laundry room. It was so final. He wouldn’t be back to do that, so I did it for him, and that’s how I found it.”

Emily knows what she must say. It’s not the nicest way to handle it, but Emily has had enough of nice. Look where nice has gotten her.

“I wouldn’t have gotten back together with Paul,” Emily says. “I know it says so in the letter, but I don’t think I could have. I hurt him beyond repair. Burn the letter, Carey. Okay? Burn it.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“Why not?”

“It was something Paul touched.”

“Then send it to me and I’ll burn it.”

“No,” Carey says. “I can do it. He was my big brother.”

“Please don’t tell anyone, ever, that I was pregnant. Please.”

“I won’t. Like I said, it would just bring more hurt. We all knew you had broken up with him. It was because of the baby, I know, but do you think that’s why he—?”

“I don’t know, Carey. But it might be. In which case maybe you
should
tell your parents. At least it might take some of the confusion out of it. And some of the guilt.”

“None of us believe that Paul planned to kill himself,” says
Carey. “We’ve talked to the therapist. We’ve talked to Ms. Albright. It was an impulse. And that’s not your fault.”

“Yes, it is.” Emily starts to cry. “I wouldn’t blame you if you hated me. Paul was a really good person. And a really good boyfriend, too. I miss him.”

“I miss him, too.”

“Maybe we can get together and talk when I come home for spring break?”

“I don’t hate you,” Carey says. “And, yes, let’s. And, Emily, your secret is safe. I promise. Paul would have wanted it that way.”

Emily knows she will always remember Paul, but she isn’t sure where it is he will stay. She hopes he’ll stay in her head. She will need room in her heart for other things, other people. She tells Carey goodbye for now and walks back down the hall to the room, where K.T. is about to jump out of her skin. She hands Emily a piece of notebook paper.

Emily rushes over to the bed and runs her hand under the mattress. She looks under the bed. The poem is gone. She dumps the contents of the trash can on the floor. The balled-up entry form is gone, too, the one she marked all over.

“Annabelle and Waverley,” Emily tells K.T. “Payback
time. Amber saw Annabelle coming out of our room today. She stole my poem.”

“Which one?”

“My secret one. God, I am so screwed. They’re going to broadcast it to the entire school.”

“Maybe not,” K.T. says. “What’s the poem about?”

“My abortion.” On a sheet of paper, she jots down some of the lines she remembers and shows them to K.T.

“I don’t think you need to worry,” K.T. says. “If they think they’ve got something on you, you can just be mysterious and say it’s all metaphor.”

Emily laughs a little laugh.

“Who knows? Maybe they were trying to be nice,” K.T. says. “Turn over a new leaf. It can happen.”

“Annabelle was snooping around in my room,” says Emily. “I don’t think she was doing that to be nice.”

“Well, if you win, the pizza’s on you for the rest of the year.”

“I won’t win,” says Emily. “I’m not the winning type.”

K.T. offers a sad smile. “You can probably get the poem pulled out of the contest if you want to, right? But maybe you don’t want to.”

“I think I’ve written better ones,” Emily says. “Clearer ones. Tell me the truth. Do you think I’m a bad person for what I did?”

“Well, Emily Beam Me Up Scotty, here’s what I think. If God made us in His image, then maybe we have a right to play God when we can’t find Him anywhere. But we will find Him, eventually. It’s what my pastor told us after Caroline died.”

“He sounds smart.”

“She,” K.T. says. “Yeah, Reverend Fairfax is brilliant. She went to Harvard. Where you will go, too. Especially if you win the contest. You never know—Annabelle and Waverley might have done you a huge favor.”

“They were doing it to be mean,” Emily says.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

“Well, Doubt
is
my middle name.”

“What
is
your middle name?”

“Elizabeth.”

“Oooo. Can I start calling you ‘e. e.’?”

Emily laughs. “Please don’t.”

“e. e. beam.” K.T. claps her hands. “How about ‘eeb’?”

“How about just Emily?”

“Just Emily. Kind of like Madonna, but humbler. Yeah, that’s perfect for you.”

“You might have to call me Exit Emily after tomorrow.”

K.T. walks over to Emily’s bed and sits down beside her. “They’ll want to keep you,” she says. “You’re an ASG girl through and through. They’re going to want you to stay.”

ON SUNDAY MORNING, EMILY WAKES TO A COLD, HARD RAIN. K.T. IS
still asleep. Emily checks the clock. They still have time to get to the dining room before breakfast ends, before she is summoned to Dr. Ingold’s office to accept her punishment.

She gets out of bed and shakes K.T.’s shoulder. “I’m hungry,” she says. “And I’m scared. Let’s go eat.”

K.T. rolls over. “Two minutes,” she says. She flips on the radio, and the girls get dressed to classical music. Back in Grenfell County, Emily didn’t care for Mozart and Beethoven and all those powder-wigged composers, but she is learning to respect the complexity of their work. K.T. is teaching her about music, just as she is teaching K.T. about Emily Dickinson.

“All right, Poet Girl,” says K.T. “I’m ready, so grab that umbrella, and leave those other boots behind. You’re going to need your rain boots.” Emily does as K.T. says, but as they push through the heavy door of their dorm and onto the quad, the rain turns to snow.