Emma-Jean knew this was true. People sometimes behaved unkindly toward one another, even at William Gladstone Middle School. Hurt feelings, bruised egos, broken promises, betrayed confidences— the list of emotional injuries her fellow seventh graders inflicted on one another was dismayingly long.
Of course, Emma-Jean was fond of her peers. In fact, she believed that one was unlikely to find a finer group of young people than the 103 boys and 98 girls with whom she spent her school days. But their behavior was often irrational. And as a result, their lives were messy. Emma-Jean disliked disorder of any kind, and had thus made it her habit to keep herself separate, to observe from afar.
Colleen looked at herself in the mirror and gasped. “Oh my gosh! Look at me! I look like a monster!”
Emma-Jean leaned forward and inspected Colleen’s reflection. She saw nothing monstrous. Colleen’s eyes were merely red and swollen, which was to be expected of a person in a distressed emotional state. Emma-Jean went to the paper towel dispenser and pulled out a length of the scratchy brown paper. She wet it, folded it into a perfect rectangle, and held it out to Colleen.
“Put this on your eyes,” Emma-Jean said. “It will minimize the redness and swelling.”
This treatment had always worked well for Emma-Jean’s mother, who cried for several hours every July 2 and for several more every November 3.
July 2 was the birthday of Eugene Lazarus, Emma-Jean’s father. November 3 was the anniversary of his death. He died two years, three months, and fourteen days ago, when Emma-Jean was ten, in a car accident on I-95. He had been on his way home from a math conference, where he had submitted his award-winning paper on the legendary French mathematician Jules Henri Poincaré.
Colleen accepted the wet towel and held it against her eyes. To promote an atmosphere of calm, Emma-Jean stood very still with her hands folded in front of her pressed khakis. All was silent except for the slow drip of the right-hand sink.
“It’s all Laura’s fault,” Colleen whispered. “Laura Gilroy.”
Emma-Jean nodded, for she too often found Laura Gilroy to be disturbing. She was bossy and loud and slammed her locker. Every day at recess, Laura led a group of seventh-grade girls, including Colleen, through a series of dance routines. If someone stumbled or did the wrong move (often it was Colleen who tripped or missed a choreographed kick or turn), Laura would laugh and call them unkind names, such as klutz or spaz. When Laura grew tired of dancing, she would run to the basketball court and snatch the ball from Will Keeler and his friends. Then she would gallop around the blacktop screaming, “Try to get me! Try to get me!”
Emma-Jean wasn’t the least bit surprised that Laura Gilroy could cause Colleen Pomerantz to cry.
“The thing is,” Colleen said, pressing the paper towels against her eyes, “Laura is trying to steal Kaitlin from me.”
Kaitlin was Kaitlin Vogel.
“Kaitlin’s my best friend, did you know that?”
Of course Emma-Jean knew. She knew just about everything about her fellow seventh graders.
“And every single February, the last weekend, I go with Kaitlin and her parents up to ski in Vermont. But Laura got it in her head that she should go this year. Instead of me. And Laura can be so . . . powerful that somehow she got Kaitlin to invite her.”
Colleen shivered, though the girls’ room was stuffy and warm.
“The thing is,” she continued, “I’m the one who loves to ski! I’m the one who loves Kaitlin! And I’m the one who Kaitlin really wants to be with!”
“That is obvious,” Emma-Jean said.
Colleen removed the paper towel from her eyes and regarded Emma-Jean with keen interest. “You think so?”
“Of course,” Emma-Jean said. “She always saves you a chair in the cafeteria, and won’t let anyone else sit there, even when you are late.”
“That’s true,” Colleen said. “She did that today.”
“Kaitlin has great affection for you,” Emma-Jean said. “I am certain.”
Colleen threw the used paper towel into the trash receptacle. She took a deep breath and exhaled a cloud of bubble-gum-scented breath that made Emma-Jean blink. “Thanks, Emma-Jean,” she said with a tremulous smile. “You’re really nice to say all that.”
The bell rang, signaling the beginning of last period. Emma-Jean picked up Colleen’s backpack, which was bright pink like most of the items in Colleen’s wardrobe. Emma-Jean handed the backpack to Colleen and then picked up her own schoolbag, the leather briefcase that had belonged to her father. The leather was worn in places, but it was roomy enough to hold Emma-Jean’s meticulous notebooks and sketchbook, her favorite pen and two sharp pencils, and a metal thermos containing her lunch.
Emma-Jean was turning toward the door when Colleen grabbed her by the hand.
“Oh gosh, I can’t. I can’t go out there. I just can’t. Oh . . . Emma-Jean, please help me.”
Emma-Jean froze, as startled by the warmth of Colleen’s hand as by her unexpected words.
Help me.
Colleen dropped Emma-Jean’s hand and rushed back to the sink. She turned her back on Emma-Jean and cried with renewed vigor. Emma-Jean was unsure how to proceed. She maintained a general policy of staying out of the messy lives of her fellow seventh graders. But never before had one of them directly appealed to her for assistance.
Emma-Jean thought of Jules Henri Poincaré, her father’s hero. The legendary French mathematician believed that even the most complex problems could be solved through a process of creative thinking. It was true that Poincaré worked on chaos theory and celestial mechanics, not the interpersonal problems of seventh-grade girls. But what if a kind and cheerful seventh grader like Colleen Pomerantz had asked for his help? Emma-Jean believed Poincaré would have accepted the challenge.
An unusual surge of energy came over Emma-Jean, very possibly a thrill, as she took a step toward Colleen. She had the feeling of walking through an invisible door, the door that had always seemed to separate her from her fellow seventh graders.
Surprisingly, the door was wide open.
Chapter 2
An alarm went off in Colleen Pomerantz’s brain, and it was way louder than the Hello Kitty alarm clock that had woken her up at 6:30 that morning, when everything seemed really perfect or pretty good or at least okay.
Oh gosh! Colleen! Get a grip! You are sobbing in the bathroom and everyone is going to find out and they’re all going to think that you are crazy!
Colleen held on to the sink. She took some more deep breaths, which were supposed to be relaxing but were not at all relaxing. A minute ago she thought she could pull herself together, that she could go out there and face the world.
But now . . .
Oh gosh, she felt sick.
She could faint!
Or throw up!
In the girls’ room!
People would laugh as she walked through the halls. They would stare at her and whisper things while she ate her turkey and nonfat cheese sandwich. They’d make up a horrible name for her, like Crazy Colleen, or Crazy Throw-up Colleen (Colleen was bad at thinking up nicknames, but some people were really good at it).
Then a voice whispered in Colleen’s head:
Emma-Jean Lazarus won’t tell anyone.
Oh gosh.
It was true.
Emma-Jean Lazarus was probably the only person in the whole school who wouldn’t go around blabbing about Colleen’s breakdown in the bathroom.
Colleen looked at Emma-Jean. Really looked. Right then Emma-Jean didn’t look weird. She looked kind and wise, a little like the statue of the Virgin Mary at Colleen’s church.
And why hadn’t Colleen ever noticed how pretty Emma-Jean was? Her long brown hair was totally thick and shiny and had way more natural body than Colleen’s. Emma-Jean’s skin was perfectly smooth. And look at her eyes, how pretty, bright green with little sparkles of blue, like Kaitlin’s cat’s.
Colleen studied Teen Beauty magazine each and every month, and
right then she realized Emma-Jean would be totally perfect for their “Beauty Police” section, where the editors kidnap someone off the street and give her a total makeover. Emma-Jean had natural beauty but no style.
Colleen might have even said this to Emma-Jean, right then and there, but Colleen was pretty sure Emma-Jean didn’t care about things like makeup. And Colleen had to admit that a makeover probably wouldn’t make much difference anyway. There was something a little strange about Emma-Jean, something Colleen couldn’t put her finger on but also couldn’t really ignore, even if she tried. Like the way Emma-Jean was staring at her right now. The weird way she talked. She’d always been a little peculiar. For as long as Colleen could remember, kids had snickered about Emma-Jean behind her back.
But never Colleen!
Colleen would never make fun of someone, no matter how weird they acted. Colleen wasn’t the prettiest girl in the seventh grade, or the smartest. She wasn’t the best artist or the best violin player or the best dresser. But Colleen Pomerantz was nice. Really, really, really, really nice. Maybe even the nicest girl in the seventh grade, though she would never want to brag. Colleen had this idea—a faded, crumpled, smudged idea—that being nice counted for something, even in the seventh grade.
The truth was that Colleen admired Emma-Jean, and not because Emma-Jean was a total genius who got straight A’s.
Emma-Jean was amazing to Colleen because Emma-Jean didn’t seem to care what people thought of her. This not caring made Emma-Jean seem almost superhuman to Colleen. Truly, if Colleen could be a superhero with just one power, she wouldn’t want to fly or see through walls or lift cars with one finger. Colleen would want the power not to care. And her name would be . . . Super Not-Care Girl.
Oh, it would be so great to go through one day— one hour!—not worrying that someone was mad at her, or if a joke she told was completely lame. If only she could be more like Emma-Jean. If only Colleen hadn’t cried for three days when she wasn’t invited to Neil Messner’s bar mitzvah. Emma-Jean wasn’t invited (Kaitlin got the whole guest list, so Colleen knew this for sure). And yet Colleen was sure that Emma-Jean didn’t rush home every day praying she’d find a blue and silver envelope in the mailbox.
As far as Colleen knew, the only party that Emma-Jean had ever been invited to had been Colleen’s own fifth-grade Halloween party. Colleen had invited her whole class because unlike some of the girls, Colleen would never not invite someone just because that person was sort of strange and spent recess staring at trees.
Emma-Jean had come dressed as Albert Einstein, with a crazy gray wig and glasses and a T-shirt with some math writing on it, like E + 2 = 5. Emma-Jean’s dad had come with her, Colleen remembered. How could she forget? Mr. Lazarus wasn’t like the other parents, who’d dropped off their kids and then waved good-bye. He had come right in and joined the party. He had bobbed for apples alongside Emma-Jean. When Colleen had put on the song “Monster Mash,” Mr. Lazarus had held Emma-Jean’s hands and danced with her. Emma-Jean had laughed so hard, her Einstein wig had fallen off. At first, Mr. Lazarus had seemed a little, well, sort of odd. Like Emma-Jean. But it turned out he was really, really sweet, the way he’d helped Colleen’s mom cut the cake so that there were exactly twenty-four pieces, all perfect squares, and how he complimented Colleen on her hula girl costume, even though her mom had made her wear a T-shirt under it and she looked pretty dorky. When it was time to leave, Emma-Jean’s dad said good-bye to everyone and remembered every single kid’s name.
Oh gosh! Emma-Jean’s dad!
Colleen suddenly remembered that just a few days after the party, Mr. Lazarus had . . . He was . . .
Poor Emma-Jean!
Colleen actually felt a stab in her heart, like some mini angel was jabbing it, reminding her how selfish she was acting, obsessing over this stupid situation in front of Emma-Jean, who had lost her father! Colleen had to pull herself together!
“You’ve already helped me so much, Emma-Jean, just by listening to me,” Colleen said. “I’m really lucky you were here.”
“Yes,” Emma-Jean said. “It was a fortunate coincidence. ”
Just then, the door of the girls’ room opened and a blond frizzy head peeped inside.
Kaitlin!
“Colleen!” Kaitlin said. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“Oh . . .” Colleen wasn’t sure what to say. Should she tell Kaitlin how hurt she was? That she had almost fainted? Should she be mad at Kaitlin for being kind of a bad friend?
“Coll?” Kaitlin said, pushing her eyebrows together like she did when she was really worried. “Are you okay? Are you sick? What’s wrong?”
No, Colleen shouldn’t be mad. Kaitlin didn’t hurt Colleen on purpose, right? Kaitlin was under Laura’s wicked spell.
Colleen put on her sunniest smile.
“I’m fine!” she said. “Let’s go!”
Kaitlin held the door open for Colleen.
“See you later, Emma-Jean,” Colleen said, waving. “Thanks!”
“You can be confident that your problem will be resolved,” Emma-Jean said.
As the door was swishing shut behind them, Kaitlin leaned into Colleen and whispered, “What is wrong with Emma-Jean Lazarus?”
Chapter 3
Emma-Jean had excellent hearing and had heard Kaitlin Vogel’s whispered question. She’d also heard Colleen’s response. “Oh nothing,” Colleen had said. “Emma-Jean’s just a little . . . she’s just different.” Which was precisely what Emma-Jean would have said. For it was quite obvious that Emma-Jean was different from most people. She was more rational, less prone to be carried away by emotion or whim. Emma-Jean considered herself lucky to have been born with an exceptionally steady nature, though there were times when the differences between herself and her peers presented some challenges.
When she was much younger, spending time with other children often left her feeling confused, as though she were visiting with creatures of a different species. In kindergarten, she had spent each recess perched at the top of the monkey bars, watching her buzz-cut and pigtailed peers chasing each other around the playground. It was odd the way they screamed as though they were scared, yet smiled as if they were happy. A group of girls might yell to a boy, “Dylan!” but when Dylan walked over, the girls would run away shrieking and laughing. Emma-Jean would study Dylan, wondering what was frightening about him, or, alternatively, what was funny. Perhaps they suspected he had pinkeye. But then why call him over and risk infection? Or maybe he had been muttering an amusing rhyme that Emma-Jean couldn’t hear. Each new situation was like a puzzle that Emma-Jean had to solve.
Emma-Jean had observed her peers closely over the years. Her painstaking research had given her a much clearer understanding of their complex emotional lives and surprising sensitivities. With steady practice, and help from her father and mother,
Emma-Jean had learned how to interact with her schoolmates in a manner that minimized confusion on all sides.
But of course her peers were unpredictable—this was their nature. And even now, every so often, Emma-Jean would have an experience that pushed her to the limits of her understanding.
For example, there had been an incident that took place just a few weeks before, in the cafeteria. Emma-Jean had been eating her soup, alone as usual, when a boy named Brandon Mahoney approached her. He was holding a pear, which he held out for Emma-Jean. He was grinning so widely that Emma-Jean could see his many fillings. It was not surprising that Brandon Mahoney did not practice good dental hygiene, since his locker was filled with trash and his fingernails were dirty and ragged.
He looked back over his shoulder and said, “This is for you. It’s from Will Keeler.”
Emma-Jean appreciated the pear, which was large and unblemished and would, following a rigorous washing, make a tasty snack for her walk home.
It did strike her as unusual that Will Keeler would want to give the pear to her, since he had never spoken to her, even when they sat acros
s from each other in art class last quarter. Then again, perhaps he, like she, had observed what other students customarily ate for lunch, and thus knew that Emma-Jean always had at least one piece of fruit.
“You may tell Will that I appreciate the pear,” Emma-Jean said.
For some reason Brandon Mahoney seemed to find this statement amusing, since he began to laugh. Emma-Jean couldn’t imagine what was funny, and before she could ask Brandon, Will Keeler appeared. Brandon and Will were friends. But now Will didn’t look the least bit amiable. In fact, he was looking at Brandon with a most disapproving expression, his large blue eyes narrowed, his lips pressed tight together. Emma-Jean wondered if Will regretted that Brandon had given away his pear.
Emma-Jean picked up the pear and handed it to Will. “You may have this back, if you’re still hungry.”
Brandon was now laughing so hard that his entire face had turned the color of Emma-Jean’s tomato soup. “She . . . is . . . so . . . strange!” he gasped.
Will took a step toward Brandon. Will was taller than most of the seventh-grade boys, and he towered over Brandon. “You’re an idiot,” he said. He was gripping the pear so tightly that his knuckles were white. Emma-Jean feared the pear would become bruised.
“Whoa!” Brandon said, breaking into a sprint away from Will and Emma-Jean.
Will hesitated for just a moment before hurling the pear at Brandon. It shot through the air, a green blur. Brandon inopportunely turned and looked at Will at exactly the second of impact. The pear struck him, with tremendous force, squarely in the forehead. Brandon fell, crashing into several metal chairs on his way to the floor. Emma-Jean was so startled by the noise that she nearly knocked over her thermos. Seconds later, Mr. Petrowski appeared, pointing at Will and shouting, “I saw that! I saw the whole thing!” He escorted Will to the office, and Will was sent home for the remainder of the day.
Emma-Jean puzzled over this incident for much of the afternoon. She would have still been wondering about it, had it not been for the astute advice of her mother.
Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree Page 2
