Loving Emily

by Anne Pfeffer

  I put out my hand to Chase, who ignores it. Like the genius he is, he attempts to pull himself up using the tablecloth on top of him, thereby sending the other half of it sliding off the table and onto him, along with a load of plates and half eaten burritos.

  Emily rushes forward, sending out a dirty look that includes me. Or maybe it doesn’t. Maybe that’s just my paranoid imagination.

  “Get up,” she says.

  Chase rolls on the sand, his shirt riding up so that we are treated to the sight of his beefy belly. I would bet the two of them are on a lot more than just Jack Daniels. Michael’s pupils are the size of poker chips.

  “I said get up.” Emily’s tone of voice says Don’t mess with me.

  I finally peel Michael off my neck, but he wobbles and almost falls. I grab his arm, holding him up and trying to think how to show Emily I’m nothing like these two.

  Meanwhile, Chase looks up at her from the sand. “Nice ass.” He goes into more fits of laughter, and even Michael laughs a little.

  A thundercloud passes over Emily’s face. She grabs a pitcher of virgin margaritas from a nearby table and, with all the speed and fierceness of a good tennis serve, upends it over Chase’s head. People start to point and laugh as more and more sand sticks to the wet parts of him—which is most of him.

  This girl’s going higher and higher in my opinion, while I’m sure I’m falling like a rock in hers.

  “Hey!” Chase makes a weak grab for her legs, but he’s just trying to save face.

  She sidesteps him and picks up a bowl of salsa. “Leave. Now.”

  Two security guards suddenly appear and pull Chase to his feet. A man who I guess is Emily’s dad looms up beside her, then moves in on Chase and the two guys. He has this uptight, clenched-jaw look to him that makes me think I wouldn’t ever want to piss him off.

  Chase tries to take a step and falls down again, causing everyone to spin in his direction. I’m still holding Michael’s arm, but now I notice how green he is. “Emily!”

  She turns back to me.

  “I’m gonna get him out of here, okay? Before he hurls again.”

  “Thanks.” She gives me an uncertain smile and looks me up and down, like she’s trying to figure me out.

  Why did Michael have to be such an idiot tonight? I help him up the steps, get him inside the club, and look around for someplace private. Seeing a door marked “Stairs,” I pull him through it into a service stairwell.

  I half-carry him up a flight of stairs, then stand there with him, catching my breath. When he tilts sideways, I ease him onto the stairwell floor, then sit next to him. We are silent for a few minutes. Michael leans back against a wall, his eyes closed, while I think about Emily.

  If it weren’t my own party, I’d go with you. I can almost hear her voice.

  “Ryan?” Just saying my name seems like it’s hard work for him.

  “Yeah?” Memories of what happened three years ago come back to me: Michael lying cold and pale on the ground, my terror that he was going to die.

  “You know Chrissie? From the club?” He means the tennis club, where we play together twice a week. Michael gets out the words slowly.

  “What about her?” I ask. She’s maybe twenty. She cashiers at the Pro Shop and teaches lessons to the kids. Chrissie’s really hot, but kind of a ditz, I always thought.

  “I had sex with her.”

  Random thoughts roam my brain. Chrissie’s a grown-up. A drop-dead beautiful grown-up.

  “Once. In the Pro Shop. At the club.”

  Michael having sex is nothing new. He’s way ahead of me on that score. The word “sex” brings me right back to thoughts of Emily, to me with my arms around her, her gray-blue eyes looking up at me. Before I have time to say anything, Michael doubles over.

  “I’m gonna be sick.”

  Grabbing a metal trash can, I shove it at him just in time. Maybe I can go talk to her for a minute before we leave. Just to check in and make sure she’s not mad at me.

  When he’s done, I set the can in a nearby corner. It stinks, but we may need it again.

  “You’re not driving home,” I say. “I’ll take you.”

  But he’s got something more on his mind. “Hey, Ryan?” He’s still struggling to get the words out. “I gotta tell you …something … kinda bad.” He looks around, as if he thinks he’ll find someone in the stairwell with us, listening in. “Don’t tell… anyone else, okay?”

  He has more bad news for me after ruining Emily’s party? “What?” I only halfway hide my impatience.

  He groans, bending over, holding his stomach. “Man, I feel like crap.”

  “I’m taking you home,” I say, but then I look at my watch. The party’s almost over. For all I know, Emily thinks that I’m shooting up with Michael in the stairwell, or off trashing a bathroom with Chase. If I want to talk to her, it has to be now.

  “Listen, Michael, I need to go for a few minutes.”

  “Why?” He slurs out the word, looking confused.

  “Lemme go out and see what’s happening,” I tell him. I look at my watch again. “I’ll be back soon.” Michael can wait a couple of minutes. It’s the least he can do, after the way he screwed things up for me out there.

  “Nah, dude, I don’t … feel so great.” Michael does look pretty bad. “Can we just go?”

  “I wanna say good-bye to Emily.”

  “Stay here, man. Please. I’m not doing so hot.” He reaches out, and for a moment his grip tightens hard on my arm.

  I shake him off and start down the stairwell. “I’ll come back for you.”

  “Hey, Ryan!”

  “What?” One last time, I turn back.

  Using all his energy, Michael lifts his arm and gives me a salute. His eyes burn a hole in me. They are an intense green.

  “Soldier Rock!” he says.

  Instant flashback. I’m eleven years old again, standing on the top of Soldier Rock with Michael, looking down. You can do it, Ryan. You’re a beast.

  Fast forward to the present. I’m back in the stairwell with Michael, thinking of Emily. Whatever’s bothering him can wait.

  “Hang in there, man. I’ll be back soon.”

  He’s safe here. I’ll just be a few minutes.

  I run down the stairs and outside to the party area, where servers are carrying off tables and chairs, and the band packs its equipment. I finally find Emily in the middle of a knot of kids. It seems like every single member of the junior class has to discuss the Chase-Michael mess with her and say goodbye and thank her—all in slow motion, no less.

  “Ryan!” It’s my surfing buddy, Jonathan Takahara. Jonathan is this interesting combination of hard-core surfer dude and major Science Geek. He’s looking pretty rad in a white shirt, dark gray jacket, and thin red tie. “Man, what was up with Michael tonight? Who was that dude he was with?”

  I guess Jonathan hasn’t met Chase yet, since school only started two weeks ago.

  “It’s a new guy who got Michael back into drugs over the summer. He’s an asshole, if you ask me.” I glance Emily’s way. There are only about three kids left talking to her.

  “How did Michael meet him?”

  “Their dads know each other. Chase’s dad called Nat about investing in a film.”

  “How come he didn’t call your dad?” My father’s higher on the Hollywood food chain than Nat is.

  “I don’t know, but I wish he had.” Then Chase would have called me, and I would have kept Michael away from him.

  Finally, there’s an opening in the crowd around Emily. “Gotta go,” I say.

  “Later, man.”

  I beeline my way over there.

  “Ryan! Are you leaving?” Emily asks.

  “Soon. Hey, I’m really sorry about what happened. Those guys totally messed up.”

  “Yeah, they did,” she says in a level voice. She gives me that searching look again.

  “Michael’s not usually like that,” I tell her. “He was into drugs r
eally bad when we were in middle school, but then he cleaned up his act for, like three years. It’s just that—this summer—well, he kind of fell apart again.”

  She listens to me, her face serious. “He needs help. A lot of help.”

  “I guess he does. He’s waiting for me now. I’m gonna drive him home.”

  Now she almost looks admiring. Maybe it’s the light. “Smart. You’re a good friend to him—I can tell.”

  “Oh, I don’t know…” My face goes hot from the compliment.

  “My friend Chloe was telling me Michael’s usually really nice. She likes him.”

  “A lot of girls like him,” I say, then wish I hadn’t. “I mean, he’s pretty hot, and all.” Shut up Ryan.

  Emily shrugs. “He’s not my type.” Her eyes drop down, then up to meet mine, and her cheeks turn this watermelon pink. It looks good on her.

  “Really? So, who is your type?” I lean in toward her, while she blushes some more.

  She laughs and shakes her head. “I’ll tell you some other time.” The eyelashes flutter down and up again, making my breathing stop. “If you’re nice to me.”

  I want to ask, so is there going to be another time? But her father is waving to her to come. “Emily, step on it!”

  She looks over in his direction, then back at me. “I’d better go.”

  Not yet! “So I guess I’ll see you at school?”

  She nods. We make toe-curling eye contact for a second before I head off, my mind going over every word we said.

  I’ll tell you some other time. Does she mean she’d like there to be another time? If you’re nice to me. Should I call her?

  I return to the stairs and run up, stopping when I see the stairwell is empty. I check my watch, and my stomach drops into my ankles. I was gone half an hour.

  I am a total, gaping asshole.

  “Michael?” I call out, fear pumping through my belly. No sign of him. I start to run, grabbing in my pocket for my cell.

  I race down the stairs and through the entry area out the main doors to the valet station. Panting, I arrive and begin to punch in Michael’s number. “Did a guy come here – tall, blond – to pick up a black Mustang?” I ask one of the guys in a Breakers Club jacket. He wears a name tag that says “Jed,” and I’ve seen him around the club before. I hear Michael’s recorded voice, telling me to leave a message.

  “Yeah. Maybe ten minutes ago.”

  “How could you give him his car? He was wasted!”

  “Don’t look at me. I didn’t help him.” Jed turns away from me.

  I can’t believe I left Michael alone for all that time. I can’t believe they gave Michael his car.

  I hand in my valet ticket and wait until my car is brought around. I cringe as I drive down Pacific Coast Highway, expecting at any moment to see police lights and Michael’s Mustang crumpled in the road. But everything’s normal. I even take the most likely route to Michael’s house, to be sure he’s really okay. The house is dark and his car nowhere to be seen. He probably put it in the garage and went to bed.

  I’m practically weak with relief. Michael just dodged a bullet.

  I drive home thinking about Emily again. I wonder if I should call her tomorrow.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning, I wake up in a tangle of sheets. My mouth tastes like the floor of a city bus. Where’s Michael? Panic rises in my throat.

  Chill. You know he got home fine.

  I pull myself out of bed and walk to my bathroom, peeling off my underwear as I go. I fall into my glass enclosed shower and turn on the hot steam. Twenty minutes later, wet hair combed but already curling in weird directions, I’m dressed in my tennis whites. No matter what else is happening, Michael and I play tennis every Sunday at eleven.

  Should I call Emily? I think back to the awesomeness of talking to her last night. If it weren’t my own party, I’d go with you. I’ll tell you some other time. If you’re nice to me.

  I drag myself down to the kitchen to see my mother facing an army of caterers, all glitzy young Hollywood types in black jeans and white t-shirts. Every single one, I would bet, is an actor looking for his big break. I wonder if they realize whose house they are in.

  Mom sees me and sways over to me in her suspension-bridge shoes.

  “Honey, did you have a good time last night?” She tries to run a hand through my hair, but I dodge backwards, acting as if I’m really trying to let a mob of caterers pass by.

  “It was okay. What’s the party for?”

  ‘You remember,” Mom says. “It’s the mother-daughter tea party for Elsie Williams.”

  Yeah, I do remember now. It’s a fundraiser for The Elsie Williams School, where my sisters go. Molly and Madison are in the second grade there.

  “What time did you get in?” Mom asks. Then, without missing a beat: “Hello? Yes, this is Nadine Mills.” She’s talking into her headset. She taps her foot while she listens and mouths the word “Sorry” to me.

  “It’s okay,” I mouth back.

  “But I specifically ordered the linens in Fuchsia,” Mom is saying, squinting as if somehow that will help her hear. “No, I can’t hold. I need to speak to a supervisor.”

  A caterer is stirring the contents of a round copper pot on the stove. I hear the sizzle of butter and smell something incredible, something sweet and spicy. My stomach growls.

  “Morning,” I say to Ro.

  Rosario is standing at the gigantic center island, cutting strawberries. Our kitchen is so high-tech, I think you could use some of our appliances to orbit the globe. My mother sure doesn’t use them for cooking, although Ro does.

  “Good morning, Ryanito.” She’s wearing one of her long swirly skirts with lots of fabric. I used to hide in her skirts when I was little, while she pretended to look behind doors and in cabinets, saying “Where can Ryan be?” She has lived with our family since I was one month old.

  “Thank you for your help. It just takes talking to the right person, doesn’t it?” Mom ends her phone conversation and begins checking a clip board and firing off instructions, while her assistant, the hyper-efficient Brittany, scribbles notes. “The photographer and Cupcake Table begin at 11 sharp, the magician at 11:30. Lunch is at twelve fifteen, no make that twelve thirty.”

  My mother’s so thin a Chihuahua could pull her over. She’s worked hard to look that way. She’s in this pair of stiletto heels a lot like the ones she broke her ankle in two years ago.

  “I think heaven must be a place where you can wear flat shoes,” I heard her tell Dad one time when I was about ten. “My feet are killing me!”

  “Why can’t you wear flat shoes now?” I asked.

  “I just can’t.”

  Dad winked at me. “According to her, it’s not in her job description.”

  “But Mom doesn’t have a job.”

  “She’s married to me. That’s a job!” Dad said, laughing.

  Though Dad gets along great with Mom, I stopped talking to her years ago. Her body is here on earth, but her mind and soul live in a distant universe. Why should I tell her anything, I think, when a day later, it’ll be forgotten? She doesn’t listen, or maybe she doesn’t care.

  Hearing a buzz, Ro looks into a security monitor and punches a button, rolling open the wrought iron security gates at the bottom of the hill.

  A giant Rent-a-Party van grinds up the driveway. Mom teeters out to meet it, with me following behind. While I stand at the top of the front steps, she talks to these two bruisers in Rent-a-Party overalls, rapping out instructions, as the huge guys bob their heads up and down.

  I see my father in the driveway, preparing to flee. He’s pulled his Mercedes out of our five car garage and is loading his golf clubs into the trunk.

  “Hey, Dad.” I look down at him from the steps. “Who’re you playing with?” I played golf once or twice with my father back in the days when I spent time with him.

  Mom is making the Rent-a-Party guys move their van closer to a service path that
runs along the side of the house. No way will she let them carry folding chairs through the living room.

  “There you are,” Dad says. “I thought you’d be sleeping in.” He slams his trunk shut and steps around toward me as he answers my question. “I’m playing with Jared Abernathy. I want him for the lead in Mystery Moon.”

  Dad’s directing the film, which Michael’s dad, Nat Weston, is producing. They’ve worked together on a bunch of films. Dad used to talk to me a lot about the films he made, but not since the time of Michael’s overdose, three years ago, when I put both my parents and Michael’s in the Ryan Mills Parenting Hall of Shame.

  “How about you and I plan a game for next weekend?” Dad says.

  I shrug. “Yeah, sure, why not?” I say, but I don’t mean it.

  Dad gets in his car and rolls off down our long driveway for his morning of deal-making.

  Grabbing my cell, I head up to my bedroom. I punch in Michael’s home phone number and hang up when their voice mail kicks in. I try Michael’s cell. Same thing.

  Again, I think about calling Emily. I force myself to pull out the Pacific Prep student directory, which lists her home number. I punch in the first half of the number, then hit “off,” then doodle on a piece of paper and spend a few minutes throwing darts at my dartboard.

  C’mon, you wuss. This time I punch in her entire number and let it just start to ring before I hang up. I can’t do it. I never even talked to her before last night. I’ll look for her at school and casually go over… I hear the theme song from The Godfather. My ring tone.

  “Hello?” I say.

  It sounds like a kid, a boy maybe nine or ten. “Did you just call us?”

  Crap.

  Chapter 4

  “Is Emily there?” I immediately kick myself. Why didn’t I just say it was a wrong number?

  “Yeah. Who’s this?’

  “Ryan Mills, but I can…”

  “Emilyy! It’s Ryan Miills!”

  Well, there’s no backing out now, I think, since this kid has just notified all hearing creatures within our galaxy that I’m looking for his big sister. There’s a moment of jumbled up breathing and jostling noises, after which I hear her voice.