Loving Emily

by Anne Pfeffer

  “I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.” Her voice strokes the words.

  By now, we are facing each other, and Emily’s leaning against my chest. Right here is one form of going to heaven, holding Emily in a full frontal body press. But I am having a male problem. I’m growing a boner, and it’s probably my biggest ever. I mean, I could hit a home run with this boner or whack a hockey puck the entire length of an ice rink. I am making small, but relevant body adjustments, hoping Emily will not notice there are now three of us in our little huddle.

  Leaning her body against mine, she says, “I can feel your heart.” After recovering from the shock of what I thought she was going to say, I think to myself, no wonder. My heart’s beating like a jungle drum. Damn. I’ve been trying to maintain my aura of coolness, yet now my heart has betrayed me, with its wild, passionate pounding for Emily.

  She suddenly straightens up and moves away from me. There we go. She has finally become aware of my trusty appendage. Caught, I give Emily a guilty look.

  “I’m a guy. I can’t help it.” Given the crowds around us and the bulge in my pants, I’m glad we’ve turned toward the railing again. I am a ship, with my mast facing out to sea.

  “I’m sorry,” she says. “I was being a tease, wasn’t I? I’ll stand two feet away from now on.”

  “No, be a tease! I’d rather get a little action than none.”

  Emily’s giggling. “Ryan, do you ever, you know, screen your words before you speak?”

  I think about it. “Not really. It’s unfortunate.” I pause. “And now, I’ve got to walk to the car like this.”

  “Walk behind me,” she says, and that’s what I do.

  • • •

  That night I dream I am riding on the Ferris wheel, but somehow it’s really a roller coaster. I am jammed into a little car with Michael and Chrissie. Michael is trying to hold this baby and come on to Chrissie at the same time. But the baby keeps making weird noises. My whole family—Mom, Dad, and the girls—are in cars behind me, and I want to crawl back to them, but I’m too scared. So instead I move forward on the roller coaster, and it turns out my new seat partner’s Mr. Randall, my eighth grade math teacher, who gave out detentions like they were sticks of gum.

  Then, Mr. Randall grabs my arm, with this creepy expression he always got when doling out punishment, and says “Soldier Rock!”

  I wake up with a tight feeling in my chest, gasping for air.

  It’s so unfair that Michael will never see the ocean again, will never kiss another girl.

  “Soldier Rock,” he had said in the stairwell that night. I’m the only person in the world who he would have said that to, who would have known what he meant.

  I tell myself that wherever Michael is now, he can kiss as many girls as he wants. But I don’t believe it. I know he’s just rotting in the ground.

  I lie in bed and stare at my shutters until finally the night is over and cracks of daylight are filling up the room.

  Chapter 25

  Chrissie lives in a crummy walk-up apartment in this armpit of a neighborhood in the Valley. I pull up at ten o’clock the next morning in my impossible-to-miss red sports car and look out on the dead grass and peeling paint of her apartment building. So much for traveling under the radar. Chrissie’s probably already spotted my car and is making her escape out a back window at this very moment.

  The building’s designed like a truck-stop motel, with each apartment door visible and facing the street. To get to the second and third floor apartments, you climb stairs and use exterior walkways that run along the face of the building. I reach Apartment 206 and see that the door has a peephole, which I try to look through. But it’s made only for looking out, not in. I ring the bell and wait.

  No answer. I ring the bell again, leaning on it a little, while the hairs rise up on the back of my neck. I have the strangest feeling I’m being watched. But there’s total silence on the other side of the door.

  “May I help you?” Two guys holding full grocery bags have just walked up. They’re older, like maybe in their early twenties. Their eyes are raking me over from head to foot.

  “Do you live in this building?” I ask.

  “Yeah. What do you need?” The guy talking has a goatee and small wire-rimmed glasses. His friend’s wearing a pink button-down shirt.

  “I’m looking for a girl named Chrissie. I know her from the Palisades Tennis Club.”

  The goatee guy is still looking me over. “She moved out of the building.”

  I freak. “Moved out! When?”

  “Just recently.” He shifts the grocery bag in the crook of his arm.

  “That’s right,” the second guy says. “She moved out really recently!”

  “Do you have a forwarding address for her?” I move my shoulders around as nervous tension floods my body.

  “No. She left in a hurry.”

  Why? What is she so afraid of? “What about a phone number?”

  “Sorry.” With an annoyed expression, the goatee guy glances down at the bags in his arms, full of cans and wine bottles.

  Flipping out, I find a piece of paper and scribble my name and phone number on it. “If she calls you, or if you get any information, would you let me know? It’s really important.”

  “No problem.”

  I follow the walkway to the stairs, go down to the ground floor, then look up over my shoulder, to see them continuing along the second floor walkway with their grocery bags. I hop into my car and sit there, wanting to smack my head against the steering wheel.

  I can’t believe this. That one conversation with me drove her into hiding? My car peels out of its parking space with a squeal of tires. The whole way home, my mind turns this way and that, but keeps hitting dead ends. I don’t know anyone else who knows her. She’s from the South, but where? She never said.

  Then I have an idea. She’s an actress. Maybe she’s a member of SAG or AFTRA, one of the acting unions. She would probably send them any new address or phone number she had.

  Hah! I’m on it. I’ll track her down. I’ll make sure of it.

  • • •

  As I walk down the hall at school with Jonathan, we run into Derek Masters. He is striding along with a couple of other guys from the basketball team. They’re shouting and high fiving each other, putting on a masculine display for all of the females lucky enough to be in the area.

  When he sees us, Derek stops. “Takahara! I’ve gotta get with you about that history project.”

  “I know—I’ll call you,” Jonathan says.

  We walk on. “You have history with him?” I ask, getting a sinking feeling. That would be Hellman’s European History. The one Emily’s in.

  “Yeah, he’s in all those classes.”

  “You mean the AP classes?” I ask, although I know that’s exactly what he means. English, math and history. “He’s in there with you and Emily?”

  Jonathan nods.

  I can’t stop myself from asking, “Does he talk to Emily a lot?”

  He nods again. “Affirmative.”

  “Do you think he’s after her?”

  Jonathan hesitates. “Affirmative.”

  I knew it. I knew Derek was on the prowl for Emily. But I didn’t know that he was a star student sharing numerous AP classes with the Girl I Love.

  “But you and Emily are just friends, right?” Jonathan looks at me sideways.

  “Well, I guess we’re more than just friends now.” I stare at the floor tiles, noticing a couple of cracks beginning. Things are going great with Emily, but how great? Does she love me?

  We arrive at the door to my Spanish class.

  “Very interesting.” Jonathan puts his hand on the doorframe, leaning on it. He gives me a knowing look.

  “You can take Masters down.”

  “You think?”

  He points at me. “But not if you wimp around. You have to go for it.” Having delivered his opinion, he leaves.

  I wonder what Jonathan
would know about winning over women. All he ever does is surf and blow things up in home chemistry experiments. Still, he has a point.

  I go into Spanish and sit there thinking about Emily, about how beautiful and smart and amazing she is. More than anything, I want to tell her that I love her. I want to tell her that I love her eyes and her smile and her gorgeous ass, and I love the way she makes me feel, that there’s hope for me, that I will make my mistakes up to Michael, and that maybe, despite all my screw-ups, I’m still entitled to have some kind of a life. I love Emily absolutely and without end. I want to tell her all of that.

  But I need to know she’ll love me back. To win out in the long run against a guy like Masters, I have to be smart, successful, accomplished. I have to make a plan. I pull out a piece of paper and start to write.

  “Mr. Mills?”

  My head jerks up.

  My ancient Spanish teacher Mrs. Witherspoon points to a sentence written on the whiteboard. Her eyes are like little pieces of hard, black flint. They gleam at me.

  Ellos ________________ que yo soy adicto al chocolate.

  “Which verb correctly fills in the blank: saben or conocen?”

  Easy. “Conocen.”

  The eyes brighten as she realizes she’s found a victim. “Mr. Mills, did you do last night’s assignment?”

  I squirm and glance at my watch. “Most of it.” I think.

  “Class! Why is Mr. Mills’ answer incorrect ?”

  Hands shoot up, while I slump down in my seat and wait for the bell to ring.

  • • •

  That night in my room, I throw darts and brood about Derek. I’ve hung the dartboard so I can hit it from anywhere in the bedroom. I lie on my bed and aim for the bullseye.

  I must outmaneuver Derek with my suaveness and expertise. I need a plan to make Emily fall in love with me.

  I sink one dart right in the center then, overconfident, send the next one into the wall. It glances off and falls to the floor.

  In Phase One of the plan, I decide, I have to impress her. I have to show Emily—and myself—that I deserve her. This means I have to kick ass in my semester finals, which are only a week away, just before the winter holiday break.

  As another dart hits the target, I decide to start right away. I locate all my textbooks without too much trouble, but reading them is another matter. My history book is like a force field of gray text, impossible to penetrate. I sit at my desk and stare at it blindly, trying to concentrate, but I find myself worrying instead about where Chrissie’s gone. Throwing down my book, I google her and try to find a website for her, but there’s nothing.

  I go back to reading, but I can’t get worked up about the Louisiana Purchase. Ace the class—what was I thinking? Between Michael’s death and meeting Emily, I’ve done even less work this semester than usual. Right now I’m headed for a C.

  I look at my watch. It’s 8 o’clock, too soon to go to bed. As I stare at the history book, I notice bits of bold print floating around in the sea of gray.

  Cool. The bold print’s the most important stuff, the material I need to know. I spend the rest of the evening jotting down all the bold sections on color coded flash cards. I’ll learn the flash cards cold and pray that’s enough.

  The next day I move from studying history to Spanish, but I can’t concentrate. I find myself calling SAG and AFTRA, only to learn that Chrissie’s not a member of either. I eventually learn my vocabulary by making lists and getting Ro and my sisters to quiz me.

  I meet with Calvin and Jonathan. Using my bold print approach, I’ve produced my section of the study guide for physics. Calvin looks it over and says “You got the main ideas, but none of the fine points.”

  “I’ll do it over,” I try to say, but they shake their heads. Ashamed, I swear to myself I’ll do better in the spring.

  Why doesn’t Chrissie call me back? Two days before exams, when I should be jamming on my books, I drive up to her apartment building again and try to talk to the manager. He’s not there, so I leave him a message, which he doesn’t answer.

  Taking my finals, I think I did okay, but I’m not sure I got the A’s I wanted. I’ll have to wait for my grades.

  As I leave school for the holidays, my mind runs over what I have to do next. Chrissie’s building manager must have a forwarding address for her. I’ll go up there tomorrow morning and look for him. But this afternoon, it’s time for Phase Two of my plan to win Emily.

  I drive to the bank and plunder my savings account. It holds money I’ve been given over the years, for birthdays and graduations, which I’ve never spent. Pockets stuffed with hundred dollar bills, I take a deep breath and drive into Beverly Hills.

  I am a man, fighting for what I want. Derek Masters may have good grades, but I bet he doesn’t know how to show a woman she’s special. It’s time for me to sweep Emily off her feet.

  Chapter 26

  Tiffany’s is on this fancy pedestrian-only shopping street they’ve constructed off of Rodeo Drive. The first thing I notice as I walk into the store is the walls are red. This throws me, as I don’t remember red walls from the one time I came here with Dad. It must be a holiday thing. They have pine branches and gold and silver Christmas decorations all around – as if Tiffany’s doesn’t have enough gold and silver in it already.

  I walk in with my jeans and high-top sneakers, wondering if I should have dressed up a little.

  A human mountain in a guard uniform moves toward me. “May I assist you?”

  I’m thinking he may soon assist me out into the street, where he decides I belong.

  “I need a present for a girl – a piece of jewelry.”

  He takes me over to a round-faced lady with scary fingernails. Her name is Stephanie.

  “What’s the occasion?” she asks.

  I’m already jumpy and irritated, a sure sign that I’ve entered a Place of Shopping.

  “It’s for…. well, she’s kind of my girlfriend. Starting to be, anyway. So, I want to… give her something.” Ten minutes, I think, ought to be enough to find something nice.

  Stephanie eyes my old t-shirt and my backpack, where Emily has made these cool doodles with Sharpie markers. “How much were you thinking to spend?”

  I have no idea. I plunge my hand into my right jeans pocket and unearth a roll of C-notes, which I drop on the counter.

  “Oh!” She counts them. “I think we can help you!”

  “Wait—I’m not done.” I produce another wad of bills from my left jeans pocket.

  Giving me a warm smile, she counts those, too. “I can show you a number of things in your price range.” One at a time, she pulls things from cases, laying them out on a black display tray. “For a sixteen year old girl,” she says, “I think either a short necklace or a bracelet.”

  All I know is that I want something simple and classy. Stephanie has just gotten started showing me all my choices when I see it—a plain, but interesting-looking chain with a heart.

  “Is this silver?” I ask.

  “White gold. And the stone in the center of the heart’s an aquamarine.” The stone is this perfect blue, kind of an Emily blue. The heart’s very simple, but it looks elegant to me.

  “This looks like Emily,” I say. “I’ll take it.”

  “That’s it? So fast?” She almost sounds disappointed.

  “That’s it.” I wonder to myself if I’m nuts to do this, to spend this kind of money on a girl I’ve only known a few months. Don’t wimp around. Just go for it.

  After handing over my fat roll of cash, I wait for whatever piddling change Stephanie can throw my way. She packs the necklace up for me in an aqua box and slips it into an aqua bag.

  “One suggestion,” she says. “Give her a card along with the necklace, and write something romantic on it. Win her with words.”

  “I will. Thanks a lot.” And Ryan-as-Sir Lancelot rides off into battle.

  Following instructions, I buy a heavy plain white card. In my neatest block printing, I
write:

  Dear Emily,

  I studied hard for exams this time. I think I did well. I think you are a good influence on me.

  I love you. A lot.

  Ryan

  I read the message over. I sound like a moron. But I only have one card; I didn’t think to buy a back-up. I seal it into its envelope and drop the card into the aqua bag.

  Now, I just need to set up the perfect moment to give it to her.

  • • •

  Arriving home from Tiffany’s, I garage my car and head for the house, thinking about what I’m going to do at Chrissie’s building tomorrow. If I can’t run down the manager, maybe I can find those two guys again and ask some more questions.

  Our gardener Alberto is trimming a hedge. He has brought Hector and even put him to work watering pots. Hector stands with his short legs apart, holding a hose with both hands, his mouth all scrunched up like he’s really concentrating. He checks a pot and asks, “Enough water, Papa?” He’s barely tall enough to look over the edge of those huge pots and has to stand on his toes to see.

  My brain flashes back to when I would hang around my dad’s movie sets, watching him work. I always asked a million questions, and dad would take the time to answer them. “Hey, Hector. So you helping your dad? Way to go, man.”

  He’s focused on getting the stream of water into the pot just right. “Thanks, dude,” he manages to say.

  For the millionth time, I think about Michael’s kid. I want to know him. But to do that, I have to find him.

  Losing him would feel like losing Michael all over again.

  • • •

  The next morning, I pull up in front of Chrissie’s building and sit for a minute, studying it. It’s easy to pick out her door, Apartment 206, on the second floor, six over from the left.

  Walking up to the staircase, I notice the mailboxes for the first time. The name on mailbox 206 is Fellars. Funny that whoever moved in after her didn’t change the mailbox name. Maybe the place is still empty.

  Nobody answers my knock at Apartment 206. Same thing at Apartment 101, where the manager lives. I decide to stake out the building, private detective style, and go back to wait in my car.