What Would Emma Do? (8 page)

“What is the matter with you? It’s like you’re taking their side.” Joann’s face was flushed. “The town is pulling together over this. Didn’t you hear Reverend Evers? We need to stand together. I know you don’t like Darci, but I wouldn’t think you were mean enough to want someone to hurt her.”

“No one hurt her. I’m not taking sides, because there isn’t a side.”

“Then what happened to them?”

“I don’t think anything happened to Darci.”

“And Kimberly? How do you explain what happened to her?”

I chewed on the inside of my lip, frustrated that I couldn’t say more.

“Look, you know Kimberly. Do you really think she’s the kind who wouldn’t take drugs? What about the time at the Barn last year when she had all those wine coolers and ended up passing out in the horse stall and no one could find her for, like, an hour? Or when she got it in her head that she’d take all those diet pills to lose weight and ended up throwing up in gym class? She spewed right through the volleyball net. She might convince her parents she’s an angel, but you know she’s not.”

“But she was at Darci’s that night. No way they would do anything like that at Reverend Evers’s house. Even Kimberly would never take that kind of chance. Getting wasted at his house. I don’t think so.”

“Maybe they weren’t there. They could sneak out. Darci’s bedroom is on the first floor,” I said. Joann raised one eyebrow in doubt. “What? You think it’s more likely that Al-Qaeda crawled in her window than that she crawled out?”

“Whatever.” Joann picked up the magazine and flipped through it, slapping the pages over more loudly than necessary.

I sat with my legs crossed, my leg bouncing up and down, watching her. She didn’t look at me, so I spun back around to the computer and jabbed the on button, then jammed it off again and turned back.

“Why are you so excited about the whole thing?” I asked her.

“What?”

“You and everyone else are all in a lather. It’s all anyone is talking about.”

“Uh, hello, it’s a huge deal.”

“No, it’s not. Everyone has made it into a big deal. There are things they could be worried about that matter. No one cares what happens twenty minutes outside of this town. People care more about corn prices than they do about the war, or the environment, or debt reduction in the Third World. It’s pathetic. There’s plenty of drama in the world without having to make up our own.”

“Oh, spare me your Bono imitation.” Joann stood and tossed the
Vogue
down on the sofa. She jammed her feet into her shoes. “You are so busy proving that you’re above us all that you don’t even care what happens right in front of you. Better polish up your saddle for your high horse before you gallop out of town.”

“High horse? What, because I want to do better than Wheaton?”

“No, because you imply that anyone who wants to stay here is a loser. That we’ve settled. How do you think that makes me feel?” Joann’s eyes filled with tears.

“Joann,” I said.

“You know what? Don’t start. Don’t even start. Whatever you say now doesn’t matter. You’ve made your point over and over. This town sucks. Anyone who lives here is stuck in a time warp, and anyone who likes it here must be a backward hick. So you know what? Fill out your applications, run your races, win yourself a fancy scholarship, and then you can move away and make friends with more interesting people.”

Joann stomped out of the room and slammed the front door on her way out. I sat there not moving for a minute, and then I attacked the
Vogue
magazine. I tore pages out, yanking them by the handful, shredding them and hurling them to the floor. I was crying, deep, choking wails, with snot smeared under my nose. Only when there was nothing more than colored confetti all over the floor did I stop. I picked up a piece and saw Keira Knightley staring back at me, and then I started crying all over again.

12

God, about the Bible…I know it’s supposed to be your word and a lot of it is pretty good (although there are a few parts where the pacing drags; between you and me, you could have cut some of those so-and-so begat so-and-so sections and just stuck those in the back in an appendix or something). What I’m wondering is if there isn’t a chance that a few of your scribes got some sections wrong? My mom can’t take a phone message without screwing it up, so I’m just saying you might want to take a look over a few of the sections and see if that’s what you really wanted to say. Plus, there are parts where you totally contradict yourself. For example, is it an eye for an eye or turn the other cheek? Not that a person can’t say two completely different things and mean both of them in the moment. I’m living proof, a walking contradiction—but I think we all expect more of you, being a deity and all.

Joann and I became best friends in first grade. Being that I was an only child, I was still in the process of learning the fine art of sharing. Joann had come to school with every possible school supply one could want. Her parents had outfitted her for elementary school with the kind of care and precision nations spend on military troops. There would be no occasion that would arise where Joann would be without the proper writing or art implement.

I sat at my desk with my sleeves pulled up over my hands. They washed the desks with some kind of oily cleanser. It smelled off, like yogurt pushed to the back of the fridge and forgotten. I didn’t mind if it got on my sweater, as I was hoping that I would have a chance to get a new one. We were supposed to be drawing pictures of our families. Maybe it was because I only had to draw my mom and me, or the fact that I had zero artistic talent, but I was done while everyone else still seemed to be busy.

Joann sat next to me. Her hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail; it was a wonder she could blink. Her school uniform was clearly brand-new; the pleats were razor sharp, and I swear you could have grated cheese on them. My mom had bought my uniforms at the school swap during the summer. The colors on my skirt were washed out, and the pleats, instead of firm, straight lines like those on my notebook paper, were limp waves. Joann’s crayons were new, each one with a sharp point. Everything about her looked clean, shiny, and new. I looked down at my crayons. We hadn’t bought a new box. My mom pointed out that I had plenty of crayons already and had gathered an odd assortment and put them in a Tupperware container. It seemed okay at the time, but it was clear now that it was anything but okay.

It was then that I got the idea to draw in a father. I was too young to know the term “artistic license,” but I understood the concept. This was my drawing, and if I wanted a father, I would simply make myself one. A friendly, Mr. Brady kind of dad. This would require brown. A nice, stable-looking brown. I looked down at my crayons; the brown was already worn down, the paper torn off. It seemed a shabby brown for such a noble man. I shot another glance over at Joann. On her desk there were no less than three shades of brown.

I wanted those crayons.

I needed those crayons.

That morning we had covered the Ten Commandments in class. Suddenly the meaning of number ten, about coveting your neighbor’s goods, was making a whole lot of sense. Given that I was already violating one of the commandments, it seemed like I might as well take on another. I was seriously considering breaking number seven (thou shalt not steal) and swiping one of her crayons.

I waited for just the right moment. Joann had the tip of her tongue poking out between her teeth as she colored. I leaned into the aisle, closer and closer. She didn’t notice. She pressed her crayon to the paper, making a sun to hang in the sky over her family. Right at that moment I slipped a crayon off the side of her desk into my pocket. She didn’t notice. I looked down carefully. I had managed to snatch burnt sienna. I stroked the smooth wax tube. I liked the place where the paper met the wax. That’s when Darci let out her wail.

“She stole a crayon!” Darci stood at her desk, pointing an accusatory finger in my direction. The class turned to face me.

“Emma? Have you taken something that doesn’t belong to you?” our teacher asked, her voice firm. Darci was nodding madly, a pint-size advocate of the death penalty. I didn’t know what they would do to me, but I knew I was in trouble. My first day and I had already blown it. My throat tightened, and I held the crayon in my fist, wishing it would disappear.

“She didn’t steal the crayon. I told her she could have it,” Joann said.

She went back to her drawing, and the rest of the class continued without another word on the subject. At recess I handed Joann the crayon shyly.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“I have lots of crayons.”

That was the end of the discussion and the beginning of our friendship. I always thought it was interesting that we knew the exact moment we became friends. I had never really thought about the end. I assumed we would be friends forever.

I wondered if the fact that we had been friends for so long would be enough to keep us friends when we had less in common. It was somehow different from my relationship with Colin. That was all about us being opposites. My friendship with Joann was about shared things. If we didn’t have those, then I wasn’t sure what would tie us together, but it didn’t mean I didn’t still want to have her in my life. Joann was wrong when she said I thought less of her for wanting to stay in Wheaton. I didn’t get why she’d want to, but I didn’t think less of her. It was important that we stay friends. Not having her in my life would be like cutting off everything that had happened. Having her around was proof.

I wove my way through the halls looking for Joann the morning after our fight. I’d called her last night, but her mother told me in a frosty voice, “As it’s after nine p.m., Joann will not be taking calls.” Sometimes reaching Joann is like trying to call the Queen of England.

Everyone was in tight clusters, discussing the three “poisonings” and talking in hushed voices about the terrorist threat. I avoided getting sucked into any of the conversations. I would find it impossible to avoid screaming, “BROWN PERSON” just so I could watch them drop to the floor in terror.

“Hey,” a voice called out.

I turned to see Todd Seaver.

“I heard the news,” he said.

“About Kelly? Yeah, me too.”

“Who cares about Kelly? Most likely she passed out because she’s on one of those water and banana diets. I was talking about you. I heard you took first in the race on Saturday.”

I stopped thinking about Joann and focused in on Todd. He shifted back and forth, like standing still was difficult for him. He cracked his knuckles and gave me a lazy smile.

“Where did you hear about my race?”

“I have spies,” he said, and my eyes must have widened a bit because he started to laugh. “Promise me you haven’t gone all conspiracy theory on me like the rest of this place.”

“No, I just was surprised. No one follows track.” I didn’t mention that even my friends couldn’t care less about my races. I looked away from his face. I hadn’t noticed that he had dimples before, or maybe he’d never smiled at me before.

“Coach Attley was posting the times on the board up front and I saw it. Looks like you’ve got a shot at state finals again.”

“I hope so. I’m up for a track scholarship.” How did he know I went to state finals last year? I shot a look to the side to see if anyone was paying attention to us. For most of high school the male population never knew I was alive, and now I seemed to have two guys who were paying attention to me, both of them wildly inappropriate, since one was my best friend’s guy and the other was the school pariah.

“You thinking of the Purdue regional campus in Fort Wayne?”

“Northwestern,” I said, already raising my chin in defense of the usual spiel people gave me.
Why would you want to go there? It’s so far away, and in the city. With crime. And brown people.

“My older brother goes there.”

“Really?” I had to fight the urge to grab his arm and cling to it. Here was proof positive that there were people who got out of Wheaton.

“Yeah, we lived in Chicago before here.”

“Why did you move to Wheaton?”

“My family is in the witness protection program.” He gave a laugh. “My dad’s job means we get transferred.”

“Still, what did you do wrong to end up at TES?”

“My parents liked the idea of ‘small-town living.’ My older brother went through this phase when he was in high school where he smoked a bit too much weed. ‘Too much’ being any weed, in my parents’ opinion. They figured I couldn’t get into any trouble if I went to school here.”

We both snorted with the absurdity of that idea. Sometimes parents had no clue. He opened his mouth to say something else when there was a scream from the girls’ bathroom. Everyone took a few steps back, and Mrs. Lamont, the home ec teacher, ran in. She popped out two seconds later.

“Call 911! We’ve got a girl down,” she yelled, and a few girls in the hall screamed or started crying. They held on to one another, the boys standing in front of them as if we were standing on the deck of the
Titanic
and they were willing to sacrifice themselves.

Suddenly I saw Joann. She was standing near a bank of lockers. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and she looked as if she might cry. She looked at me as if to say,
I told you so
and then slipped away in the crowd.

“Christ, they’re dropping like flies,” said Todd. “Have you noticed it seems to be all the popular girls who’re getting sick? It’s become the new ‘in’ thing.”

“Yeah, I noticed.”

“Couldn’t happen to a better group of girls, if you ask me. The only people I know whose conversational ability improves by being unconscious,” Todd muttered.

Mr. Reilly appeared out of nowhere and yanked Todd by his sleeve.

“Watch your mouth,” he grumbled, and then pointed us down the hall, where teachers were herding us all toward the cafeteria.

13

God, the traditional image of you with the long white beard and robes, a sort of Dumbledore type, makes you look serious. I have a feeling you’ve got a sense of humor. Granted, sometimes your humor seems a bit inappropriate, but it is funny. Especially when the joke isn’t on me.