Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree (7 page)

Within a few weeks of Vikram’s arrival, Emma-Jean had moved some school supplies from her desk to the kitchen table, where she would do her homework. She liked being as close as possible to the wonderful aroma of curry spices and garlic and steaming rice, and to Vikram, who hummed in a soft and soothing manner as he chopped and stirred.

Emma-Jean’s mother obviously enjoyed the aromas as well. She no longer seemed so exhausted when she returned from her job at the bank. “What are those heavenly smells?” she would say as she hung up her coat. “What delights do you have in store for us today, Vikram?”

Her glasses would fog up as she peeked into the pots of dal or paneer or korma simmering on the stove. Their dinners often stretched for an hour or longer, as they lingered at the table to discuss their days. Vikram would share stories about his students, which sometimes made her mother laugh. The sound startled Emma-Jean at first, so long had it been since she had heard the carefree and tinkling sound of her mother’s merriment.

Sometimes Vikram told about his childhood in the chaotic city of Mumbai, and his words would take Emma-Jean across two oceans to the shores of the Indian subcontinent. She could vividly imagine the Adwani family’s small gated house with the mango tree in the courtyard, the cement floors that cooled one’s feet on sultry days, and the sweet-scented jasmine vines that climbed up the walls. It all sounded most pleasant, and Emma-Jean hoped to visit one day.

She also hoped to meet Vikram’s mother, who wrote to Vikram every week. Emma-Jean looked forward to finding Mrs. Adwani’s letters in the mailbox, the envelopes festooned with brightly colored postage stamps showing famous cricket players and Indian dignitaries wearing high-collared shirts and somber expressions. Emma-Jean was always curious to hear the interesting news of Vikram’s family.

The most recent letter contained a picture of a young woman with light brown skin, large, long-lashed brown eyes, and a faint smile.

“Who is this?” Emma-Jean asked.

“This is Jayavanti Prakesh,” Vikram said.

"Why did your mother send you her picture? Is she a relative?”

“No,” Vikram said. “My mother believes she might be a suitable wife for me.”

“Why does she think this?” Emma-Jean said.

Vikram unfolded the letter and read what his mother had written, translating the Hindi into English. “. . . She is from a very good family. Her father is a pulmonary specialist and her mother is a second cousin of your first cousin Prayam’s wife, Raya. I had tea with the family and found this girl to be lively and bright, though not stubborn. I do not wish for you to marry a stubborn girl, nor do I wish for you to spend your life with someone who is too meek to express her views. This girl seems not meek and is quite level-headed and very outgoing and talkative. She wishes to be a research biologist, and expounded at great length on her work on cells. So you see you would have much in common.”

Vikram handed the letter and picture to Emma-Jean, who studied the Hindi lettering. A few weeks after Vikram moved in, Emma-Jean had begun teaching herself the Hindi alphabet. She had ordered a book at the library and spent long hours studying. She now knew all of the letters and sounds, and could write them capably. She had even taught Henri the traditional Hindi greeting:
Namaste
.

Emma-Jean examined the photograph of Jayavanti Prakesh.

“Have you met this woman?” she asked.

“No,” he said. “If I express an interest, my mother will arrange a meeting when I return home for a visit.”

“Do you have to marry her?”

“No.”

“Do you think she is suitable?”

Vikram studied the picture. “I would need to consider the question over time.”

Henri squawked, and Vikram offered him several grains of rice.

“What kind of woman do you want to marry?” Emma-Jean asked.

Vikram went to the refrigerator and took out a glass bowl containing chicken thighs coated in a thick cinnamon-colored marinade. “A strong woman,” Vikram said, setting the bowl on the counter. “Someone kind and intelligent and curious, yet also practical.

“I would like to marry somebody I admire,” he added, pouring a cup of pearly rice into a pot of water and setting it on the stove. “Someone generous-hearted. Above all, I think, I would like to marry someone with whom I can talk about many things.”

A comfortable silence settled over the kitchen and mixed with the sweet smell of simmering basmati rice. Vikram chopped some spinach and onions and set the oven to broil. Emma-Jean sat very still while he worked. It was a good ten minutes before she spoke.

“This woman Jayavanti is not right for you. She would not make you happy.”

“How is that?” Vikram asked, raising his thick eyebrows.

“She is talkative and you like it quiet sometimes. ”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“And when you are interested in talking, you don’t want to talk about science. You like talking about books, or cooking, or India. This woman is a biologist, so she will want to talk to you about science. You will find that tiresome.”

Vikram nodded. “Interesting,” he said.

It occurred to Emma-Jean that since Vikram’s mother was across two oceans, he might need some additional assistance finding a suitable wife. And who better to assist than Emma-Jean, whose problem-solving skills had been honed by her work on behalf of Colleen Pomerantz and Mr. Petrowski? The problem of finding Vikram a suitable wife would not be difficult to solve. Many women would be interested in a man possessing such high intelligence, great cooking talents, and excellent personal hygiene habits.

“Now that you have told me the kind of woman you are looking for, I will try to find you the person you should marry.”

“Really?” Vikram said, raising his eyebrows even higher.

“Yes,” Emma-Jean replied.

"I look forward to your thoughts on the matter,” Vikram said.

Chapter 10

Did Emma-Jean Lazarus write the letter to Laura Gilroy?

Colleen shook her head and tried to focus on her math quiz.

Oh gosh. What if Emma-Jean wrote it?

Colleen pressed down so hard with her pencil that the point broke and flew up over her shoulder. She fished another pencil out of her backpack and took a deep breath.

No, of course Emma-Jean hadn’t written the letter. That would be just too weird.

Colleen stared at the algebra equations. She had gotten all the practice questions right last night. But now the numbers seemed to be buzzing all around on the paper, like a swarm of wasps.

Emma-Jean did it!

No she didn’t.

Colleen closed her eyes and
ordered
this idea to
please
leave her brain. But it kept sneaking in through some secret door in Colleen’s skull.

Finally Colleen realized she had to do something or her head would explode. Somehow she managed to finish the quiz. Then she wrote a note and snuck it into Emma-Jean’s locker while everyone was at lunch.

Colleen could see Emma-Jean coming across the soccer field. She reminded herself to be calm. She’d just ask Emma-Jean if she’d written the letter and Emma-Jean would say, “Of course not, silly!” or something Emma-Jean-ish that meant the same thing. Everything would be fine, Colleen told herself.

“Hi, Emma-Jean!” Colleen said in a voice she wanted to sound normal but sounded totally desperate.

Emma-Jean nodded and pointed at Colleen’s cheek.

“What is that?”

“What?” Colleen said, her hands flying to her face. Did she have a blob of lotion on her cheek or something even grosser?

“That sparkling substance,” Emma-Jean said. “On your cheek. Does it cause your skin to itch?”

“Oh!” Colleen had to smile. “Emma-Jean, it’s just makeup! You don’t even know it’s on! Hey . . .”

Colleen reached into her backpack and pulled out her purple makeup pouch, which Valerie had brought her back from Disney World. Her little tub of sparkly powder was right on top. She opened it and held it out to Emma-Jean.

“Try some,” Colleen said. “You’d look so pretty with some makeup—oh! No offense! I don’t mean that you’re not pretty now! Really, you’re gorgeous! But makeup can enhance your features.” Colleen’s mom didn’t like her wearing too much makeup, but Colleen would never go out without at least some lip gloss and a little blush.

Emma-Jean shook her head. “I don’t care for that at all.”

“Really?” Did Emma-Jean mean that she didn’t like Colleen’s own sparkling cheeks? That Colleen looked bad?

No, she told herself. Remember that Emma-Jean isn’t like other people who say mean things to be funny or to make you feel bad. Emma-Jean just says exactly what she thinks, which is really good because then a person doesn’t have to spend hours—days—wondering if she actually meant something else. Emma-Jean said she didn’t like the sparkling makeup. She did not say Colleen looked bad. So see? There was no reason to feel worried.

Which was a relief.

“Anyway,” Colleen said, putting her powder away and getting down to business. “The reason I wanted to meet is . . . did you do something to Laura Gilroy?”

“What do you mean by do something?”

“I don’t know, I just wondered, after we talked in the bathroom that day, and I told you about the problem with Laura and Kaitlin . . . you didn’t do anything, did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

Colleen blinked.

“What did you do?” Colleen said, trying to keep her voice steady.

“I wrote the letter to Laura. The one she showed you the other day. On the blacktop.”

“On no . . . oh . . . oh my gosh,” Colleen said, easing herself down onto the grass. She hoped she wouldn’t throw up, like she did after getting off the Tilt-A-Whirl at last year’s Pumpkin Festival, which had been one of the top ten humiliations of Colleen’s entire life.

“You wrote that?”

“Yes.”

Colleen had suspected it. So why was she so stunned?

Because Colleen was always thinking and worrying and obsessing about things. That she’d failed the social studies quiz or that her new jeans made her look huge or that her breath smelled like egg salad. And part of the worrying and obsessing was secretly knowing that really she was wrong, that she’d gotten an A on the quiz and that her jeans looked okay and that her breath smelled minty and everything would turn out fine.

Except for this time.

“Oh, Emma-Jean, why did you do that?”

“Because you said you wanted my help,” Emma-Jean said.

“Oh, well, I didn’t exactly realize that you were going to, you know, do something. Like this.”

“The letter was successful,” Emma-Jean said. “You went skiing.”

“Well, yes, I guess. But now . . . what if Laura figures it out? What if she figures out you wrote it . . . for me? Because I think she knows something. She thinks I had something to do with it. Because Laura’s acting really mean. I mean meaner than usual. I hope you know that if Laura finds out, she’s going to think I told you to do it, and she’ll be really, really mad. And Emma-Jean, she can be so awful—if she finds out I had anything to do with it, she’ll . . .”

Colleen closed her eyes to stop herself from thinking about the horrible things Laura might do to her.

“I will not tell her,” Emma-Jean said.

“I know!” Colleen said. “I know you totally wouldn’t. But she’s smarter than she looks, and I’m worried she could figure it out.”

“I think it’s unlikely,” Emma-Jean said.

Colleen nodded. Her body had turned to Jell-O. She wished she could recapture the feeling she’d had the other day at school, when for just a few moments she really didn’t care what Laura Gilroy thought of her.

But that had lasted no longer than the flavor in a stick of sugarless bubble gum. And now Colleen felt terrified. She might as well leave the state. Did the witness protection program accept thirteen-year-olds?

Colleen stood up, but she was all wobbly, and Emma-Jean reached out and grabbed her arm. Colleen bit her lip so hard, she tasted blood through her fruity lip gloss. Was she going into shock?

Emma-Jean was staring at her again. Why did she do that?

“May I ask you a question?” Emma-Jean said.

Colleen nodded.

“Why are you afraid of Laura Gilroy?”

Colleen tried to laugh, but no sound came out. “I’m not afraid of her.”

“Yes you are,” Emma-Jean said. “Even the mention of Laura Gilroy’s name causes you to flinch and avert your eyes.”

“It’s not that I’m afraid. It’s just that Laura can be . . . so mean.”

“But she cannot hurt you.”

“Yes she can, Emma-Jean. She totally can.”

“How? Laura Gilroy is not a physically violent person.”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Colleen said. “She . . .”

How could Colleen explain how it was with girls like Laura—girls who never told you your haircut looked pretty or your new shoes were cool, who never held out a bag of potato chips and said, “Take as many as you want,” who with one look could make you feel like the tiniest bug, or worse, a bug nobody could see.

How could a girl like that make everyone want to be her friend?

Come to think of it, Colleen didn’t understand it either. It just
was.

Colleen stared at the grass and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “I really don’t.”

“Do you know anything about chimpanzees?” Emma-Jean said.

“What?” Colleen said.