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Authors: Lauren Tashis

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BOOK: Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree
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Laura raised an eyebrow. “Oh come on, Emma-Jean. I wanted to say hi. Didn’t you know? I stop by my friends’ houses all the time.”
“But we are not friends,” Emma-Jean said. Emma-Jean would never associate closely with a girl of Laura’s unscrupulous character.
“Oh,” Laura said, walking through the doorway past Emma-Jean. “You’re hilarious.”
Hilarious
was not a word that Emma-Jean would use to describe herself, even when she was in a mirthful mood.
“No, I—”
“Interesting house,” Laura interrupted, surveying the living room. “My mom just paid a total fortune for a rug like that.”
“My parents brought that home from Turkey,” Emma-Jean said. “They went there on their honeymoon. ”
“I bet your room’s really cool too,” Laura said, heading toward the stairs. “It’s up here, right?”
Before Emma-Jean could answer, Laura was rushing up the steep, narrow staircase, her black parka billowing behind her in a most sinister manner.
Emma-Jean rushed after her, taking the stairs two at a time. She found Laura in her room, standing at her desk.
“I’ll repeat what I said to you downstairs,” Emma-Jean said, out of breath from her sprint up the stairs. “I am not allowed to have visitors now.”
Laura opened her mouth as if to speak, but then was overcome by a violent fit of coughing. Her face turned bright red and she pounded her chest.
“A drink,” Laura sputtered, hands at her throat. “Juice. Cold. Please hurry!”
Emma-Jean hesitated. She did not want to leave Laura Gilroy alone in her room. However, she could not simply allow her to choke, possibly to death.
Emma-Jean rushed down the stairs. She would get some juice. Once she was sure Laura’s airway was clear, she would ask her—firmly—to leave.
And if she refused? Emma-Jean wasn’t sure what action to take.
Perhaps she would have to call the police.
Fortunately, this was not necessary. As Emma-Jean was leaving the kitchen with a tall glass of cold grape juice, a piercing shriek rang through the house. Laura Gilroy raced down the stairs, shouting, “Get it off me! Get it off me!”
Before Emma-Jean could respond, Laura was gone.
Emma-Jean stood in the hallway. She was perplexed, until she saw, perched on the banister, Henri. The bird flew down and settled on Emma-Jean’s shoulder.
“Emma-Jean,” the bird squawked. “Emma-Jean.”
“Thank you, Henri,” she said, gently rubbing a finger against the back of Henri’s tiny head. “As I’ve told you before, you are a very perceptive creature.”
That night, Emma-Jean and her mother ate dinner together at the kitchen table. Her mother made what was once Emma-Jean’s favorite evening meal: broiled chicken and broccoli. Emma-Jean complimented her mother on the chicken, which was crisp yet moist. But after months of curry and chutneys and daals, the chicken tasted almost unbearably bland. Emma-Jean was about to tell her about her most unpleasant encounter with Laura Gilroy, when the phone rang. Her mother reached over and grabbed the phone from the counter.
“Oh, Vikram!” her mother said, standing up so abruptly that her napkin fell onto the floor. “Hello! How are you! We’ve been thinking of you!”
Emma-Jean’s eyes followed her mother as she paced excitedly around their kitchen with the phone pressed to her ear. “Oh wonderful! Yes! Fantastic! I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that.” She smiled at Emma-Jean and nodded. “Yes! Yes! I got your e-mails. We miss you too. Yes . . .”
She glanced at Emma-Jean and then walked out of the kitchen. Emma-Jean heard the front door squeak and her mother’s footsteps on the porch. Emma-Jean frowned. It was thirty-three degrees outside.
It was several minutes before her mother returned to the table. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled as though her lashes had turned to tiny icicles.
“Vikram’s mother is going to be fine!” she said.
“That is very good,” Emma-Jean said.
“I miss him. Don’t you? It feels a bit . . . I don’t know, lonely here without him. Don’t you think?”
“I’m not lonely when you are here.”
“Well of course I’m not lonely with you either, I’m just saying that it’s a little different, don’t you think?”
Emma-Jean nodded, but she was already contemplating this unsettling problem. It was clear that Vikram’s absence had in no way loosened the bond between him and her mother.
“Tomorrow night I think we should go out to dinner,” her mother said. “To that Indian restaurant. ” She got up and began clearing the dishes. “That’s exactly what we should do.” She hummed as they did the dishes and prepared a cup of Vikram’s favorite chai tea to take up to her room. Emma-Jean watched her closely, with growing alarm.
After they’d said good night, Emma-Jean sat down at her computer, gripped by a grim sense of purpose. She missed her friend Vikram, but it was necessary that she take action to ensure that he stayed in India, away from her mother, who already had a love of her life. This was deeply regrettable, since Vikram was one of Emma-Jean’s closest friends. But there was no alternative.
It was well past midnight when she finally settled on a strategy. It was a risky plan. But as Poincaré once wrote, delicate problems require creative solutions. With the Frenchman’s words in her mind, Emma-Jean turned on her computer and wrote the following letter.
Dear Mrs. Adwani,
I am writing to tell you that your son Vikram is in love with my mother, Elizabeth Lazarus. It is understandable that Vikram would be in love with my mother, since she is a highly intelligent and sensitive person. It is also understandable that Elizabeth Lazarus would feel affection toward your son, since he possesses a fine character, is a talented cook, and practices excellent personal hygiene. Under normal circumstances, he would make an excellent husband for Elizabeth Lazarus. However, Elizabeth Lazarus is already in love with another man. His name is Eugene Lazarus. He was a brilliant mathematics professor. Though he died over two years ago, he remains the love of Elizabeth Lazarus’s life. You can understand that it is not possible for her to be in love with another man.
I felt it was necessary to inform you of this situation since it is your responsibility to find a suitable wife for your son. I suggest you expedite your efforts to find a woman who meets Vikram’s specifications. If you would like my ideas on this subject, you may contact me at any time.
Congratulations on recovering from your heart attack. Now you must watch your diet carefully to prevent further arterial blockage. Also, exercise is an important part of your recovery program. I recommend a brisk thirty-minute walk each day. I understand from my reading that Mumbai is a crowded city with a serious traffic problem. I recommend that you find a safe place to conduct your daily walk.
Sincerely,
Emma-Jean Lazarus
Emma-Jean addressed the envelope. For added credibility, she wrote her name and return address in Hindi lettering.
Chapter 18
Colleen was about to leave school at the end of the day when she felt a clawlike grip on her shoulder. day when she felt a clawlike grip on her shoulder.
"Come,” said Laura Gilroy.
Laura took Colleen’s arm and led her—dragged her, basically—through the empty halls of William Gladstone. They wound up at the girls’ locker room. Laura pushed the door open and gave Colleen a little shove.
“Sit,” she said, pointing to the changing bench.
Colleen sat.
“It’s over,” Laura said. “For you and Emma-Jean Lazarus. I have proof.”
Colleen opened her mouth to talk. No sound came out.
“Emma-Jean Lazarus keeps files in her room. You should see. All these files about weird stuff like germs and trees. And she had this one file that was so interesting. You know what the file was called?” Laura opened her eyes wide and flashed her straight white teeth like a vampire. “Colleen Pomerantz!”
Colleen looked at her sneakers, which looked very small and helpless, like kittens that had just been born.
“You know what’s in the file? A copy of that bogus letter I got, about the basketball banquet. And you know what else? A note that you wrote, on your lame heart stationery, telling Emma-Jean you need to talk to her about . . . let me remember exactly . . . oh, right—Laura Gilroy and the ski trip. What do you think of that?”
Colleen had no thoughts. Her brain had melted.
“It all adds up,” Laura said. “And tomorrow morning, I’m going to take that file from my locker, and bring it straight to Tucci. And then . . . well, we’ll see what happens. But it won’t be good. For you or that freak Emma-Jean Lazarus. You’re pathetic, Colleen. You and Emma-Jean Lazarus. What a pair.”
Laura made a gross snorting sound.
“You’ve really done it, Colleen,” she said. “It’s all over.”
She spun around and walked out of the locker room.
Colleen had never in her life felt so alone.
But she was not alone.
There was a clang from the other end of the locker room, some footsteps, and the whoosh of a toilet flushing. A moment later Mr. Johannsen appeared, holding a bucket and plunger.
“Sorry,” Mr. Johannsen said. “Toilet’s on the fritz again.”
Colleen nodded and tried to smile, but her face was numb.
Mr. Johannsen looked at her.
“Anything I can do for you, missy?”
Somehow, Colleen managed to stand up.
“Thank you, but I’m really fine,” she said.
Mr. Johannsen stared at her. Colleen knew she must look completely hideous, but she guessed Mr. Johannsen didn’t care about that.
“Okay, missy. You don’t worry about it, then. You hear me?”
Colleen managed a little nod.
Mr. Johannsen left Colleen in the locker room.
It’s hard to say how long it took for Colleen to make her way out of the locker room. Because Colleen wasn’t really Colleen anymore. She was no longer exactly a person. She was like a zombie. Zombie Colleen. The real Colleen, terrified and small, was hiding inside zombie Colleen, who was large and had no fear or any other feelings.
Zombie Colleen carried real Colleen through the halls of William Gladstone Middle School and out the side door and all the way home. Her mom was waiting at the front door, looking furious.
“What took you so long!” she scolded. “I’ve been worried sick!”
“Mommy . . .”
“What is it? You don’t look right!”
Of course Colleen didn’t look right.
“Are you ill?” She put a cold hand to Colleen’s forehead.
Yes, sick, very, very ill.
A zombie.
Chapter 19
Colleen Pomerantz was not in school the next day. Emma-Jean questioned Kaitlin Vogel about Colleen’s whereabouts. “I talked to her last night and she sounded real bad,” Kaitlin said. “Some stomach thing.”
When Colleen still hadn’t returned to school the next day, or the next, Emma-Jean grew concerned. Perhaps Colleen was not taking the proper palliative measures. For example, a person experiencing digestive problems should avoid all dairy products, which can cause irritation in the intestines and bowel. Emma-Jean believed it was prudent to personally communicate this information to both Colleen and her mother.
After school, Emma-Jean walked directly to Colleen’s small brick house. In anticipation of the upcoming Easter holiday, the manicured evergreen bushes in front of the house were decorated with pink, yellow, and light-blue plastic eggs. Emma-Jean pressed the doorbell, which chimed loud and cheerful, as one would expect at Colleen’s house. Emma-Jean expected to hear quick footsteps, and then see a pale but nonetheless smiling face through the windowed door. But the house remained silent, and nobody appeared. She rang again, and again. Emma-Jean sat down on the stoop. She would wait.
Fifteen minutes had passed when, sensing some movement behind her, Emma-Jean turned around and looked up at the house. There was Colleen, looking through a curtained upstairs window. Emma-Jean stood up and waved, but Colleen’s face disappeared.
Emma-Jean went back to the door and pressed the bell, pleased this trip had not been in vain. Perhaps Colleen had been in the bathroom or shower when Emma-Jean had first rung the doorbell. Emma-Jean stood expectantly, certain that at any moment Colleen herself would open the door and invite her in.
Minutes passed, and Colleen did not open the door. Emma-Jean put her ear against the door. No sound was audible from inside the house.
This was most perplexing.
Emma-Jean backed away from the door and looked up at the curtained window through which Colleen had been peering. There was no sign of Colleen. In fact, to the casual observer, the house would appear completely empty.
However, Emma-Jean was not a casual observer. Colleen Pomerantz was in this house. And there was only one explanation for her failure to respond to the doorbell: She was too weak, perhaps in a state of collapse. Very likely, her mother had gone to the market or the drugstore, believing that Colleen’s condition was stable. Perhaps she was unaware of the capricious nature of viruses, how symptoms can subside only to flare suddenly and violently just hours later.
Colleen could be helplessly writhing on the floor with agonizing cramps, delirious with fever. Ringing the doorbell wouldn’t do. Emma-Jean needed to gain entry into the house. Immediately.
Emma-Jean pulled on the front door, which was locked. She ran to the garage doors, which were bolted closed. She ran all around the perimeter of the house, checking the side entrance and the rear sliding doors. All were locked.
Emma-Jean stood breathless in the front of the house. She studied a mature magnolia tree next to the front stoop. Its limbs reached up past the roof of the house. Several large branches led directly to the upstairs window.
It had been nearly two and a half years since Emma-Jean had climbed, but the motions came right back to her, as if they had been programmed into her limbs. She shimmied up the skinny trunk like her father had taught her, keeping her knees tight together. She grabbed the lowest branch, hoisting herself up in the manner of a gymnast mounting the uneven parallel bars. At several junctures, the branches formed sturdy V-shaped joints, providing footholds for Emma-Jean’s white Keds. She was mindful not to disturb the tiny buds that were forming, and kept her feet clear of the most delicate branches.
BOOK: Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree
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