Loving Emily (15 page)

“Naw, man, we have a really cool object in mind to study,” Calvin tells me. “A car!”

A car? The example Mr. Simpson had given us was a billiard ball. Now that I think about it, Simpson kind of
looks
like a billiard ball. His head does anyway. Round and smooth and shiny.

“I thought he wanted us to pick something simple.”

“Yeah, but a car’s way cooler. We can get into some really advanced concepts with it,” Calvin says.

So I follow them into Simpson’s office, feeling like the dummy they already know me to be, and Simpson blows their idea out of the water.

“A car’s way too complex for this project. I wanted you to select a simple object and evaluate its movement from a number of standpoints.” He looks back and forth between the three of us. “So what’s your back-up proposal?”

Jonathan and Calvin look blank.

“I had expected you to be prepared for this meeting.” Simpson taps his pencil on the desk.

I jump into the void. “We were also thinking about golf clubs. You know, using physics concepts to evaluate our golf swings.”

“Excellent suggestion!” Mr. Simpson booms. “For example, you can evaluate how your body positioning and the type of club you’re using affect the distance that you hit the ball. In that alone, there’s a wealth of physics concepts for you to consider!”

“Yes,” I say, as if I know what he’s talking about. “Calvin and Jonathan are the golfers, and I have the film-making equipment and expertise.” I figure all those thousands of hours spent hanging around Dad’s movie sets when I was younger should help me out now.

“Way to save our ass, Ryan!” Jonathan says afterward. “Now what do we do?” The two of them look at me for direction.

In a matter of minutes, I’ve gone from group outcast to group leader. I flail for a few seconds, then finally say “Why don’t I put together some script ideas, and then we’ll meet on the golf course?”

I better not blow it now, I think. This project is thirty percent of our grade.

I
’m holding a bouquet of flowers and standing on the Wintraubs’ front doorstep. Having decided it’s time to check me out, Emily’s parents have asked me to dinner. They’re way ahead of my parents, who have barely even figured out I’m seeing someone.

I’ve arrived right on time. Although I just showered, my shirt’s already pitted out from the prospect of meeting Mr. Wintraub. I’m glad I wore a jacket.

The Wintraubs have a Spanish-style house in a neighborhood where you can see the houses from the street, and the kids ride their bikes and walk to school. I like it better than my neighborhood in Bel-Air, where there are no sidewalks and all you see as you wind along are privacy hedges and security gates.

As the front door opens, I hear a raspy bark and the scrabbling of toenails on hardwood. Toby bursts past Emily and her mother and launches himself in my direction.

“Hi, Mrs. Wintraub. I’m Ryan.” I hand her the flowers as Toby throws himself against me. He must weigh a hundred pounds, but I withstand the blow. “Hey, there!” I say to him, scratching his ears.

“Why, thank you. These are lovely!”

I had expected Emily’s mother to be a hot Momma, kind of a cougar type. Instead, she’s this plain woman with a wide, pale face. When she smiles, though, her eyes shine and she’s almost pretty.

“Please call me Eleanor. I’m so glad to meet you, Ryan.” She and Emily take me to sit in the living room. Eleanor gets me a Coke, saying “My, Toby really likes you!”

Way to go, Ryan.
My plan tonight is to win over every member of the family, and I think I’ve already gotten Eleanor in my corner.

Emily’s mom is a schoolteacher, and Mr. Wintraub is an accountant. Emily has told me her dad’s goal in life is to put his three kids through private school. “He’s doing it,” she had said, “but there’s never any money left over for anything else.”

As Mr. Wintraub walks in, I leap to my feet, displaying my perfect manners.

“Dad,” Emily says, “This is Ryan.”

He looks me over. “Hello, Ryan.” With his super short salt-and-pepper hair, steely gray eyes and ramrod posture, it’s all too easy to picture him in commando gear with an assault rifle, using me for target practice.

“It’s very nice to meet you, sir.” I put out my hand to shake his. “Thank you for having me.”

After letting me stand there for a second with my hand out, he shakes it as if he knew I had head lice or maybe a social disease.

“That your car out there?” He nods toward it, looking out the living room window. My sports car is parked in between a VW Beetle and a van with a sagging bumper.

“Yes sir.” I even got it washed before I came. The perfect red paint and silver chrome glitter obscenely at us from the Wintraubs’ curb.

“
My
first car was a rusted-out ten-year old Chevy Impala. Worked for two years to save the money for it.”

I stare at a corner of the living room ceiling. “Yes, sir.”

We go into the dining room, where the table is set with a cloth, flowers, and candlesticks. The Wintraubs sit down to dinner like this every night. In addition to Emily and her parents, the younger kids are at the table—twelve-year old Julia, and my telephone friend, Ethan. He’s ten.

Julia has her dad’s steel gray eyes and, Ethan, his mom’s smile. Emily, I can’t place in this family. She must be a throw-back to some long lost ancestor.

I turn to Julia, who Emily has told me goes to the same school as my sisters.

“You go to Elsie Williams, don’t you?” I say. “My sisters go there. They’re in second grade – Molly and Madison Mills.”

“Molly’s my second grade buddy!” At Elsie Williams, each little kid gets paired with an older student for the school year. The pairs get together for reading and other projects.

“You’re
that
Julia?” I ask. “Molly loves you. You’re practically the only good thing that’s happened to her this year, since she ended up getting…” Julia and I say it in unison. “Miss Cruella!” Julia clutches her throat, making gagging noises.

“I had Miss Cruella in second grade, too,” she says. “She sucks!” Two down, I say to myself. Eleanor—and now Julia—are in the bag.

Ethan begins to grouse about his soccer coach. “He only plays me if we’re totally winning or totally losing.”

I find myself looking at Emily. She’s facing her brother, giving me a view of her profile.

“And he plays Jackson Schwartz twice as much as me, even though I’m better than him.”

She’s so beautiful. I admire her forehead, the way her hair falls, the dimple in her cheek when she smiles. She wears this red sweater that sets off those perfect round …

“Ryan?” I jump and crush my knee against a table leg. It’s Mr. Wintraub. He has gone from cold to glacial, having caught my lust-filled inspection of his daughter. His expression is about ten percent
I’ve-been-there
and ninety percent
don’t-even-think-it
.

“Yes?” I croak. I attempt to shove my acute knee pain down into my subconscious brain, so that I can pretend to myself I don’t feel it.

“I understand your father’s in the film industry?”

I’ve avoided bringing this up with Emily, but it looks like they all know anyway. I don’t know why he’s being so cutesy about it. Saying to me
I understand your dad’s in film
is like saying to the President’s kid
I understand your dad’s in politics.

“Yes, sir,” I say. When no one says anything, I add, “He directs films, mainly, now, but he used to write all his own screenplays, too.”

“I just read an article about your father in
The American
,” Eleanor says.
The American
, a national magazine, did a cover article on my dad, something about his influence on American cinema. Dad’s assistant Phyllis has it framed and hanging in Dad’s office with all the other magazine covers he’s been on.

“Are you planning on following in his footsteps?” Mr. Wintraub has a mean glint in his eye.

“I haven’t made any decisions yet.”
I will never be anything more than a gnat, a nothing, compared to my dad.
I got used to the idea a long time ago.

“So, no goals or plans for the future?”

“I’m still working on that.”

Mr. Wintraub nods, as if to say,
it figures.

Emily’s passing around plates of warm peach cobbler with ice cream. She leaps into the conversation, speaking directly to her dad. “Ryan’s an amazing tennis player. You should see him.”

“Ethan’s getting interested in tennis,” Eleanor says.

I see my chance. “Ethan, if you want, I’ll take you to my club some time. Knock a few balls around?”

His face lights up. “All right!” Third one in the bag, I think.

Emily hands me the cobbler pan, and for a moment we make sizzling eye contact in front of her entire family. I spoon out a second helping, thinking to myself, God I love this girl.

As I raise a forkful of cobbler to my mouth, I happen to catch Mr. Wintraub’s eye. I give him a weak smile as I read his expression.

You’d better look out, boy, because I’m watching you.

•   •   •

I tell Emily I want to take Chrissie to her doctor’s appointment next Wednesday. “She has to change buses twice and walk six blocks, and it’s really hard for her,” I say, hoping to generate some sympathy.

“But then I’ve got no way to get home,” Emily says. She is giving me this look that says
thanks a lot, buddy.

“I thought Chloe could take you, like she used to.” We’ve been walking Toby in Emily’s neighborhood, while we hash over the subject of Chrissie.

“Not anymore. Her schedule’s changed.”

I hadn’t known that. “What about someone in Songbirds?”

Her hand slips out of mine. “Are you going to take her to every doctor’s appointment?” She corrects Toby as he barks at a terrier across the street.

Now that she mentions it, Chrissie did say something about monthly appointments. “Just once a month.”

“That’s only in the beginning of the pregnancy. My neighbor, who I babysit for, is due next month, and she goes to the doctor every
week
.”

Every week. I gulp.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” she says. “Michael’s parents should help her, not you.” Toby has wound his leash around a lamppost, and she stops to untangle him.

“She’s totally scared of them.”

“But why does it have to be
you
helping her? And why do you have to drive her to doctor’s appointments?” She finally unwinds Toby and leads him away from the lamppost. “I mean, don’t you think it’s strange for us to be caught up in something like this? We’re only sixteen!” She stands there in the middle of the sidewalk, breathing in and out really fast, like she’s having a panic attack.

I stop, too. “Emily,
I’m
caught up in it. Not you.”

“I
am,
though. If you’re going to stop driving me home on account of her.”

“It’s just a few times!”

She takes a few slow, deep breaths, calming herself down. “Okay.” More breaths. “I understand. And I can find another ride home on Wednesday.”

“Thanks.” I have the coolest girlfriend in the whole world.

“Derek Masters will do it. He’s offered before.”

“What!”

“He has basketball practice on Wednesdays, and he doesn’t mind driving out of his way to drop me off.” Emily’s mood seems to have mellowed, because she’s looking almost calm.

My nice, neat plan concerning Chloe has exploded, and chunks of it are falling down all around me. Now I’m the one having a panic attack. “Wait a minute! Why does it have to be Derek?”

“I need a way to get home. What do you want me to do?”

“But why Derek?”

“There’s nothing going on between me and him.”

“But Derek’s after you! He’s only doing this to get you away from me. Don’t you see that?”

She doesn’t answer, but steps to the side to bypass a hole in the sidewalk.

“Hah!” I say. “You know I’m right.”

She still doesn’t answer.

“Chrissie knows I have a girlfriend. We’ve agreed nothing’s going to happen. But Derek’s interested in you. If you ride with him, you’re encouraging him. You’re leading him on.”

“Derek knows I have a boyfriend,” Emily says in a quiet voice. “I need a ride every day, not just the days you feel like doing it. Derek’s willing to help me out.”

“But Emily….”

We’ve reached her house. She stops by my car. “I’ve gotta go in now. I’ll see you tomorrow, Ryan.”

T
he subjects of Chrissie and Derek are now these two hard, sensitive little spots that Emily and I have to avoid, or we’ll start to argue. Since I can’t talk to her about them, I find myself venting to Jonathan, sitting with him on a bench during a free period at school.

“A baby! That’s intense,” he says. “That was Michael’s secret, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah.” We sit there contemplating Michael and all the ways he had of getting himself into trouble.

“How are you helping her?”

“Taking her to doctor’s appointments, for one thing.”

Jonathan lets out a bark of laughter. “Oh, so, up in the stirrups, huh? Is she hot?” He leers through his black-framed glasses.

“Shut up, man! It’s not like that.” Jeez, this is bad enough without Jonathan acting like an infant.

“Just stand by her head,” he says, looking wise.

“Thanks, I’ll remember that.” After a second I add, “The worst part is, Emily’s getting rides from Derek Masters now.”

Jonathan whistles, his eyebrows arching up over his glasses.

“But no worries,” I say. “Emily and I are officially an exclusive item.”

He cackles. “Not for long!”

“Cut it out!” I brood for a minute. “And on top of it, Emily doesn’t think I should be helping Chrissie. She thinks Nat and Yancy should do it.”

Now he’s stern. “What does it matter what Emily thinks?”

“Well, she’s my girlfriend.”

“So? It’s none of Emily’s business!”

“It’s not?” The bell rings, signaling five minutes to get to class.

“Dude. Your bitch doesn’t tell you how to live your life!”

Again, I wonder how he would know. Although he
has
taken Samantha Morton out a couple of times recently, his first dates ever. She’s a fun girl who’s on the debate team with him.