Emma Jean Lazarus Fell in Love (8 page)

Everyone started to giggle, except for Colleen.

“What's funny about Emma-Jean liking Will?” Colleen said.

Everyone looked at Colleen, and they tried to stop laughing, but they were still smiling.

“It's . . . cute is all,” Valerie said, which was so wrong and everyone knew it. Emma-Jean was lots of great things—brilliant, gorgeous, clean. But Emma-Jean was never, ever cute.

“Emma-Jean should go to the dance with Will,” Colleen said.

“Oh Coll, that's so ridiculous!” Valerie said, stamping her foot.

“No way!” Michele said.

“You're totally crazy if you think Will Keeler would go to the Spring Fling with Emma-Jean Lazarus,” Kaitlin said. “You're dreaming!”

Maybe Colleen
was
dreaming. But was that so bad? How many amazing things had started out as dreams? Lightbulbs? Strawberry ice cream? Hamsters? You don't think those were dreams first?

“And Laura is going to ask him,” Kaitlin said.

“She's going to ask him any second,” Michele said. “You know that!”

“Why should I care about Laura?” Colleen said.

Colleen's cheeks felt hot, like she'd said a dirty word.

“Coll . . .” Kaitlin said. “That's not like you, to say something like that.”

“Well, it's the truth,” Colleen said, in a voice that was soft but strong, kind of like Ms. Wright's.

Her friends all looked at one another. Nobody said anything for a minute.

“I guess it would be kind of amazing if Emma-Jean went with Will,” Valerie said.

Michele nodded.

“Anything's possible,” Colleen said.

Her boy thought so too.

O
ver the next two days, Emma-Jean made steady progress in her search for Colleen's admirer. Through patient observation and astute analysis, she was able to eliminate five left-handed boys from the list, three because they were going to the Spring Fling with other girls and two because they were absent on Monday, when the note was delivered to Colleen's locker.

That left only four boys: Dylan Dreyfuss, Aki Bofinger, Barry Lee, and Andrew Dinger. It pleased Emma-Jean to note that all were upstanding members of the William Gladstone community. She had harbored some concern that the admirer might be unsuitable for Colleen in some way. Regrettably, there were some boys in the seventh grade who could not be counted on for courtly companionship.

There had been a particularly unfortunate episode at the leprechaun dance this past March. Toward the end of the evening, Brandon Mahoney and several of his more rambunctious cohorts had commandeered the dance floor, stripped off their shirts, and banged their bare stomachs together like walruses competing for mates. Several girls had run shrieking from the cafeteria, and Mr. Tucci, the principal, had corralled the boys into the office and detained them until the dance was over.

Emma-Jean was confident that none of these four left-handed boys would engage in such an ungentlemanly display.

With only four boys to observe, Emma-Jean's job became much more manageable, and she could shift to the next phase of her investigation: surveillance of Colleen's locker. She had identified an ideal observation post: a utility room located across the hall from Colleen's locker. The room was kept unlocked, and the door had a small window through which Emma-Jean could watch.

As for missing her classes, that was not a problem. She wrote a general memo to all of her teachers explaining that she was working on an independent study project that would require her to miss classes for several days. Due to her impeccable academic record and unblemished disciplinary file, none of her teachers had questioned her plan.

Emma-Jean stood watch throughout Friday, taking just a short break to eat her lunch with her friends and enjoy a few moments of fresh air on the blacktop. She also did some light calisthenics to keep her muscles from cramping. She was performing a stretching maneuver when suddenly the door to the utility room swung open. Though she had permission to be out of classes, she had not specified that she would be spending her time in the utility room, which was marked with a sign that said “No Admittance.” It was thus a relief when the doorway filled with the large figure of Mr. Johannsen.

He stepped back in alarm when he saw Emma-Jean.

“You almost gave me a heart attack there, missy,” he said. “I thought you were a grizzly waiting to pounce.”

“Mr. Johannsen, you know there are no grizzly bears in Connecticut,” she said, quickly closing the door behind him.

“You got me there,” he said, smoothing what was left of his fluffy white hair.

He eyed her with some concern.

“Everything a-okay here?” he said. “Kids giving you trouble?”

“No,” said Emma-Jean, who found it perplexing that Mr. Johannsen so frequently asked her this question. Of course she wished there was less locker slamming and shrieking between classes, and more vigilant toilet flushing in the girls' room. But none of that was terribly troubling.

“Then mind if I ask what you're doing standing next to my water heater?” Mr. Johannsen asked.

“I am performing surveillance on Colleen's locker,” Emma-Jean said.

“You are, are you?” Mr. Johannsen said.

“Yes,” Emma-Jean said. “I am.”

“Mind if I ask why?”

Emma-Jean hesitated for a moment, but then decided that Mr. Johannsen, who had flown top-secret missions during the Vietnam War, could be trusted with the classified details about Colleen's secret admirer.

“A boy left an anonymous note in Colleen's locker,” Emma-Jean explained. “She has asked me to find him so that she can invite him to the Spring Fling.”

“Ah, the Spring Fling,” Mr. Johannsen said. “I'm afraid I'll be missing that one. The grandsons are coming in that weekend. We're having a little family celebration. For my retirement, you know. It's coming up fast.”

“Yes, I know,” said Emma-Jean, frowning at the mention of Mr. Johannsen's imminent departure, which she anticipated with dismay. She understood that after thirty-four years of service, Mr. Johannsen was ready to trade his mops and brooms for his fly-fishing pole. But Mr. Johannsen was one of the most important members of the William Gladstone staff. He was also one of Emma-Jean's closest friends. She could not imagine her days at school without him.

“Now hear this,” Mr. Johannsen said, eyeing her from beneath his unruly eyebrows. “No need for the long face. I won't be here every day, that's true. But if you need me, you call me and I'll come running. You know that, right?”

It was difficult to picture the portly and arthritic Mr. Johannsen running for more than a few paces. But Emma-Jean understood his meaning: that they would always be friends. And besides, since Mr. Johannsen had a reliable car, running would not likely be necessary.

“Yes,” she said. “I do know that.”

“I'm glad you've got that straight,” he said. He smiled at Emma-Jean, his familiar lopsided smile.

“I hope you're going to the dance,” he said.

“That is unlikely.”

“And why not?” Mr. Johannsen said.

“I don't enjoy dances,” she said.

“You seemed to have fun at the last one,” Mr. Johannsen said.

Emma-Jean thought back on the leprechaun dance—the uncomfortable heat in the cafeteria, the floor sticky with spilled soda, the pulsating music that pounded against her eardrums. How her friends had stood around her, how they made her laugh trying to coax her onto the dance floor.

Yes, it had been an enjoyable evening overall.

“I have nobody suitable to ask,” Emma-Jean said.

“Nobody?”

“I would consider attending with Will Keeler, but he is likely going with someone else.”

“He is, is he?”

“Yes. It is expected that Laura Gilroy will ask him.”

“Laura Gilroy, eh,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yes, Laura Gilroy.”

They stood together for a moment as the water heater gurgled behind them, then Mr. Johannsen opened the door, which had a pronounced squeak.

“Okay then,” Mr. Johannsen said, inspecting the door's hinges. “I'll see if I might be able to fix this little problem, missy.”

After Mr. Johannsen left, Emma-Jean wondered what problem he was referring to.

Most likely it was the squeaky door.

C
olleen was in Spanish, where she was supposed to be learning about the customs of the indigenous people of Belize. But all she could think about was Kaitlin.

Why was she acting so strange?

It wasn't just today, Colleen realized. It had been going on all week. Since right around the time Colleen had found the note. Colleen wondered if Kaitlin's allergies were bothering her, or if she was worried about her cat Monty, who was thirteen and not getting any younger.

But no, that couldn't be it.

Colleen didn't want to be paranoid, but it was almost like Kaitlin was mad at her. What had she done wrong?

“Sorry, Señora!”
Colleen said.

“Consiga su cabeza de las nubes, señorita!”
Señora Weingart said.

What was she saying?

A few of the smarter kids started to giggle.

“Sorry?” Colleen said.

Señora Weingart walked over and ruffled Colleen's hair.

“Get your head out of the clouds,” she said softly.

Usually when this happened, Colleen wanted to click her pen and disappear in a puff of pink smoke and Wild at Heart perfume. But now Colleen understood that Señora Weingart just wanted Colleen to learn Spanish so she could achieve her dreams and have a happy life.

And besides, maybe Señora Weingart was right. Colleen's head
was
in
las nubes!
With her boy!

Colleen looked over at Kaitlin, who was sitting four rows away. Colleen and Kaitlin weren't allowed to sit together in Spanish; Señora Weingart had separated them back in September because they were always whispering. But it didn't matter. Colleen and Kaitlin could have a whole conversation with a few raised eyebrows, flared nostrils, and halfway smiles. They could be a football field apart and Colleen would still know exactly what Kaitlin was thinking.

Except for now.

Kaitlin would hardly look at Colleen. And when she did, her face was as blank as the blackboard.

Something was wrong.

Really, really, wrong.

And then Colleen remembered a fascinating article from the February issue of
Teen Beauty
magazine, which she read each and every month, because that magazine could really get you thinking. And not just about hair conditioner and nail polish. Like this one article, called

 

Friend-tastic! How to be the best friend you can be!

It included a quiz, with really thought-provoking questions like:

 

Colleen had taken the quiz because it was always good to learn more about your inner self. She was totally honest because she would never cheat on any quiz. She'd added up her points and had been so happy to have gotten a 99. According to
Teen Beauty,
Colleen was a friend-tastic friend. “You always put your friends first,” wrote the author, Dr. Amber Smith. Colleen had been really proud.

But now Colleen had a horrible thought.

She had taken that quiz before she'd had her boy. What if she took it again right now? Would she answer the questions the same way? Would Kaitlin be the first person she called if she won the lottery? Was Kaitlin still the first person Colleen thought of before she went to bed and when she woke up each morning?

Or . . .

Colleen took a deep breath.

Was her head so far up in the clouds, with her boy, that she hardly thought about Kaitlin at all?

Dr. Amber Smith would be so ashamed. She was a really famous friendship-ologist and she probably knew all about girls like Colleen, girls who got so boy crazy that they dumped their best friends.

Colleen wanted to cry. She wasn't friend-tastic anymore. No.

She was a . . .

Friend-isaster.

No wonder Kaitlin was mad! No wonder she didn't want to come to the youth group party. No wonder she didn't want Emma-Jean looking for Colleen's boy and she was tired of talking about the Spring Fling, which was all Colleen wanted to talk about!

How did this happen? Colleen had to get a grip! Having a boy had made her totally lose sight of her priorities.

Now she gave herself an even more important quiz.

When Colleen was the only girl in the entire fifth grade to not make the travel soccer team, who gave Colleen a stuffed piglet with the sweetest smile in the world? When Colleen's dad moved away, who never left Colleen's side? Who never told a soul that Colleen's mom cried in the middle of the night? Who convinced Colleen that it wasn't her fault?

Answer to all of the above: Kaitlin.

And how had Colleen thanked Kaitlin for being the best friend ever?