Loving Emily (13 page)

“But you and Emily are just friends, right?” Jonathan looks at me sideways.

“Well, I guess we’re more than just friends now.” I stare at the floor tiles, noticing a couple of cracks beginning. Things are going great with Emily, but how great? Does she love me?

We arrive at the door to my Spanish class.

“Very interesting.” Jonathan puts his hand on the doorframe, leaning on it. He gives me a knowing look.

“You can take Masters down.”

“You think?”

He points at me. “But not if you wimp around. You have to go for it.” Having delivered his opinion, he leaves.

I wonder what Jonathan would know about winning over women. All he ever does is surf and blow things up in home chemistry experiments. Still, he has a point.

I go into Spanish and sit there thinking about Emily, about how beautiful and smart and amazing she is. More than anything, I want to tell her that I love her. I want to tell her that I love her eyes and her smile and her gorgeous ass, and I love the way she makes me feel, that there’s hope for me, that I will make my mistakes up to Michael, and that maybe, despite all my screw-ups, I’m still entitled to have some kind of a life. I love Emily absolutely and without end. I want to tell her all of that.

But I need to know she’ll love me back. To win out in the long run against a guy like Masters, I have to be smart, successful, accomplished. I have to make a plan. I pull out a piece of paper and start to write.

“Mr. Mills?”

My head jerks up.

My ancient Spanish teacher Mrs. Witherspoon points to a sentence written on the whiteboard. Her eyes are like little pieces of hard, black flint. They gleam at me.

Ellos ________________ que yo soy adicto al chocolate.

“Which verb correctly fills in the blank:
saben
or
conocen
?”

Easy. “
Conocen
.”

The eyes brighten as she realizes she’s found a victim. “Mr. Mills, did you do last night’s assignment?”

I squirm and glance at my watch. “Most of it.” I think.

“Class! Why is Mr. Mills’ answer incorrect ?”

Hands shoot up, while I slump down in my seat and wait for the bell to ring.

•   •   •

That night in my room, I throw darts and brood about Derek. I’ve hung the dartboard so I can hit it from anywhere in the bedroom. I lie on my bed and aim for the bullseye.

I must outmaneuver Derek with my suaveness and expertise. I need a plan to make Emily fall in love with me.

I sink one dart right in the center then, overconfident, send the next one into the wall. It glances off and falls to the floor.

In Phase One of the plan, I decide, I have to impress her. I have to show Emily—and myself—that I deserve her. This means I have to kick ass in my semester finals, which are only a week away, just before the winter holiday break.

As another dart hits the target, I decide to start right away. I locate all my textbooks without too much trouble, but reading them is another matter. My history book is like a force field of gray text, impossible to penetrate. I sit at my desk and stare at it blindly, trying to concentrate, but I find myself worrying instead about where Chrissie’s gone. Throwing down my book, I google her and try to find a website for her, but there’s nothing.

I go back to reading, but I can’t get worked up about the Louisiana Purchase. Ace the class—what was I thinking? Between Michael’s death and meeting Emily, I’ve done even less work this semester than usual. Right now I’m headed for a C.

I look at my watch. It’s 8 o’clock, too soon to go to bed. As I stare at the history book, I notice bits of bold print floating around in the sea of gray.

Cool. The bold print’s the most important stuff, the material I need to know. I spend the rest of the evening jotting down all the bold sections on color coded flash cards. I’ll learn the flash cards cold and pray that’s enough.

The next day I move from studying history to Spanish, but I can’t concentrate. I find myself calling SAG and AFTRA, only to learn that Chrissie’s not a member of either. I eventually learn my vocabulary by making lists and getting Ro and my sisters to quiz me.

I meet with Calvin and Jonathan. Using my bold print approach, I’ve produced my section of the study guide for physics. Calvin looks it over and says “You got the main ideas, but none of the fine points.”

“I’ll do it over,” I try to say, but they shake their heads. Ashamed, I swear to myself I’ll do better in the spring.

Why doesn’t Chrissie call me back?
Two days before exams, when I should be jamming on my books, I drive up to her apartment building again and try to talk to the manager. He’s not there, so I leave him a message, which he doesn’t answer.

Taking my finals, I think I did okay, but I’m not sure I got the A’s I wanted. I’ll have to wait for my grades.

As I leave school for the holidays, my mind runs over what I have to do next. Chrissie’s building manager must have a forwarding address for her. I’ll go up there tomorrow morning and look for him. But this afternoon, it’s time for Phase Two of my plan to win Emily.

I drive to the bank and plunder my savings account. It holds money I’ve been given over the years, for birthdays and graduations, which I’ve never spent. Pockets stuffed with hundred dollar bills, I take a deep breath and drive into Beverly Hills.

I am a man, fighting for what I want. Derek Masters may have good grades, but I bet he doesn’t know how to show a woman she’s special. It’s time for me to sweep Emily off her feet.

T
iffany’s is on this fancy pedestrian-only shopping street they’ve constructed off of Rodeo Drive. The first thing I notice as I walk into the store is the walls are red. This throws me, as I don’t remember red walls from the one time I came here with Dad. It must be a holiday thing. They have pine branches and gold and silver Christmas decorations all around – as if Tiffany’s doesn’t have enough gold and silver in it already.

I walk in with my jeans and high-top sneakers, wondering if I should have dressed up a little.

A human mountain in a guard uniform moves toward me. “May I assist you?”

I’m thinking he may soon assist me out into the street, where he decides I belong.

“I need a present for a girl – a piece of jewelry.”

He takes me over to a round-faced lady with scary fingernails. Her name is Stephanie.

“What’s the occasion?” she asks.

I’m already jumpy and irritated, a sure sign that I’ve entered a Place of Shopping.

“It’s for…. well, she’s kind of my girlfriend. Starting to be, anyway. So, I want to… give her something.” Ten minutes, I think, ought to be enough to find something nice.

Stephanie eyes my old t-shirt and my backpack, where Emily has made these cool doodles with Sharpie markers. “How much were you thinking to spend?”

I have no idea. I plunge my hand into my right jeans pocket and unearth a roll of C-notes, which I drop on the counter.

“Oh!” She counts them. “I think we can help you!”

“Wait—I’m not done.” I produce another wad of bills from my left jeans pocket.

Giving me a warm smile, she counts those, too. “I can show you a number of things in your price range.” One at a time, she pulls things from cases, laying them out on a black display tray. “For a sixteen year old girl,” she says, “I think either a short necklace or a bracelet.”

All I know is that I want something simple and classy. Stephanie has just gotten started showing me all my choices when I see it—a plain, but interesting-looking chain with a heart.

“Is this silver?” I ask.

“White gold. And the stone in the center of the heart’s an aquamarine.” The stone is this perfect blue, kind of an Emily blue. The heart’s very simple, but it looks elegant to me.

“This looks like Emily,” I say. “I’ll take it.”

“That’s it? So fast?” She almost sounds disappointed.

“That’s it.” I wonder to myself if I’m nuts to do this, to spend this kind of money on a girl I’ve only known a few months.
Don’t wimp around. Just go for it
.

After handing over my fat roll of cash, I wait for whatever piddling change Stephanie can throw my way. She packs the necklace up for me in an aqua box and slips it into an aqua bag.

“One suggestion,” she says. “Give her a card along with the necklace, and write something romantic on it. Win her with words.”

“I will. Thanks a lot.” And Ryan-as-Sir Lancelot rides off into battle.

Following instructions, I buy a heavy plain white card. In my neatest block printing, I write:

Dear Emily,

I studied hard for exams this time. I think I did well. I think you are a good influence on me.

I love you. A lot.

Ryan

I read the message over. I sound like a moron. But I only have one card; I didn’t think to buy a back-up. I seal it into its envelope and drop the card into the aqua bag.

Now, I just need to set up the perfect moment to give it to her.

•   •   •

Arriving home from Tiffany’s, I garage my car and head for the house, thinking about what I’m going to do at Chrissie’s building tomorrow. If I can’t run down the manager, maybe I can find those two guys again and ask some more questions.

Our gardener Alberto is trimming a hedge. He has brought Hector and even put him to work watering pots. Hector stands with his short legs apart, holding a hose with both hands, his mouth all scrunched up like he’s really concentrating. He checks a pot and asks, “Enough water, Papa?” He’s barely tall enough to look over the edge of those huge pots and has to stand on his toes to see.

My brain flashes back to when I would hang around my dad’s movie sets, watching him work. I always asked a million questions, and dad would take the time to answer them. “Hey, Hector. So you helping your dad? Way to go, man.”

He’s focused on getting the stream of water into the pot just right. “Thanks, dude,” he manages to say.

For the millionth time, I think about Michael’s kid.
I want to know him.
But to do that, I have to find him.

Losing him would feel like losing Michael all over again.

•   •   •

The next morning, I pull up in front of Chrissie’s building and sit for a minute, studying it. It’s easy to pick out her door, Apartment 206, on the second floor, six over from the left.

Walking up to the staircase, I notice the mailboxes for the first time. The name on mailbox 206 is Fellars. Funny that whoever moved in after her didn’t change the mailbox name. Maybe the place is still empty.

Nobody answers my knock at Apartment 206. Same thing at Apartment 101, where the manager lives. I decide to stake out the building, private detective style, and go back to wait in my car.

Anyone going in or out can see me parked there in my bright red Beemer, but I’m just hoping I’ll see them first. I’ve brought some tennis magazines, but the articles are too basic to be interesting. Also, it’s hard to read when I’m looking up every five seconds.

An hour goes by. I shift around in the car seat and get out a couple of times to stretch my legs. Every once in a while a door opens to let someone out, but it’s never anyone I know. That’s when I realize I’m not even sure who I’m looking for. Chrissie’s gone. I don’t know what the manager looks like.

I can look for those two guys and talk to them again. Another half hour passes. The sun is straight overhead, baking me, and I have a dentist appointment.

I’m just about to leave, but when a van pulls up and a guy gets out. He’s short, carries a toolbox, and has a big circle of keys attached to his belt. Seeing him walk toward Apartment 101, I head him off.

“Excuse me. I’m looking for a forwarding address for Chrissie Fellars. It’s very important.”

He throws me a suspicious look. “Why you want Chreesie?” he demands.

“I need to reach her. I need to know where she went.”

He pulls his head back, looking even more suspicious. “Where she went? She don’ go nowhere.”

“What do you mean? I thought she moved out.”

“Nah, she no move out. You haf bad information!” He stomps off.

Thank God.
I find myself with this huge, stupid grin on my face.
She and the baby are still here.
Until now, as relief floods me, I hadn’t realized how worried I really was.

Those two guys lied to me. I wonder why. What is Chrissie so scared of?

She’s obviously not going to answer the door for me. I’ll have to catch her coming or going. I’ll come back, and I’ll stake this place out until I find her.

I
get one A on my fall report card.

One. And a bunch of crummy B’s.

It’s just because you started studying so late, I tell myself. This semester I’ll stay caught up and learn the stuff as I go along.

I look down at the assignment sheet from my physics teacher, Mr. Simpson. It says:
Your project will analyze the motion of an object with regard to displacement, velocity, work, force, power, and energy. Example of object: a billiard ball. I must approve your choice of object before you start.

Jonathan, Calvin, and I are going to research possible topics and present ideas to Mr. Simpson next week. I’m determined to walk into that meeting with a good idea.

I don’t know anything about physics, but I do know how to find things on the internet. I sit down at my computer. After checking for emails from Emily, I type into the search box:
eleventh grade physics project: movement of objects.

Sweet. A whole list of project ideas pops up. Something catches my eye: golf clubs. When they’re not talking about physics, Calvin and Jonathan are talking about golf. Apparently, Calvin’s a fantastic player, and Jonathan’s just starting to learn. I’ve only played golf a couple of times, but these two are obsessed.

I read up on it for a while, then write an email.

Hi, you guys—

What about golf clubs? We could film both of your golf swings and do a frame-by-frame analysis. I have all the camera equipment and editing skills to do this. It would make a very cool video presentation.