Loving Emily

by Anne Pfeffer

  Emily’s in San Francisco, performing with the Songbirds in the state Madrigal competition. I’ve told my parents that an actress friend of mine is coming instead of Emily. With everything that’s going on, though, they probably don’t remember.

  A black towncar that I arranged for Chrissie pulls up, as I stand waiting in front of my house.

  She steps out, wearing a fluffy little dress. It’s lime green. Even with her big belly, she’s hotter than I’ve ever seen her. Men are checking out her blond curls and pink rosebud mouth and cleavage and legs that look like they go on forever in her short dress.

  I told my folks she was expecting. They probably don’t remember that either. Well, they’ll know soon enough.

  She sees me and drifts in my direction. “Lord, get me into a chair.”

  I steer her up to the house, but at the door, Chrissie hangs back for a minute.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  “Pinch me,” she says. “This can’t be real.” Our massive art-filled entryway is packed with internationally known actors and film people. A few feet away, three Oscar-winning actors are laughing uproariously over something. After a minute, they stumble off to refill their drinks. Chrissie stares after them.

  “Oh, it’s real,” I say.

  She takes a deep breath, straightens her spine, and grips my arm as we move forward. Mom’s got one of her eclectic party music mixes going in the background. Trays of champagne flutes and appetizers show up beside us, carried by more of those Hollywood wannabes who hope to be discovered and leave the field of catering forever. Chrissie stays close beside me, while a path automatically opens up in front of us.

  I know everyone at the party, of course. Famous heads turn to stare at us. There are a lot of raised eyebrows and shocked looks, while a huge producer that Dad has never liked gives me a knowing leer and a thumbs up. I smile and look away.

  Crap. I should have known that people might get the wrong idea about me and Chrissie. As usual, she’s handling our situation better than I am. She’s smiling and nodding at people as we walk along.

  “How you doing?” I ask.

  “I need a nice, hard chair,” she drawls. “Either that, or a crane to get me up again.”

  “There’s a chair.” It’s perfect. It’s right next to good old Mitzi. Since Mitzi’s a top casting director, Chrissie needs to know her. The only problem is: someone’s sitting in that chair. In his black jeans and white t-shirt, he could pass for one of the caterers.

  “That’s Jared Abernathy…” I start to explain.

  “Jared Abernathy! My friend Raylene’ll kill me if I don’t get his autograph.” She starts to dig in her bag for a pen, but I stop her.

  “Seriously uncool. I’ll get you an autograph later.”

  “Thanks,” she says meekly, dropping the pen back into her bag.

  “You ready?”

  Chrissie’s head goes up. “Ready!”

  I’ve never seen her in a setting like this, where she’s really working it. She’s an actress, and she’s onstage. She almost begins to glow, like something inside of her is emitting light through her skin. She approaches Jared, with me trailing behind. He looks up, and his eyes widen as he takes in the fertile and fantastic Chrissie. She stops in front of him.

  Every part of Jared – his body, teeth, profile, and hair – is a product of the Hollywood Magic Machine. What the stylists, surgeons, and trainers can’t fix, the airbrush artists will. He has just made the “Ten Hottest Hollywood Bachelors” List, and his photo has been everywhere.

  Chrissie flashes him a dimple. “You look strong and healthy.”

  “Thank you,” Jared says, a smile beginning at one corner of his mouth.

  Chrissie’s Southern drawl does a slow molasses drip. “What I meant was, you look strong and healthy enough to get up and offer your chair to a lady in need.”

  Jared jumps to his feet, flashing Chrissie his famous devastating smile. He helps her sit down.

  “And is there anything else the lady needs?”

  She gives him an angelic face. “I’d love some o’ that bubbly water. I’d ask for a bourbon, but I’m tryin’ to preserve my son’s brain cells.” She points to her belly. She is batting her eyelashes shamelessly at him.

  As Jared takes off through the crowd, Chrissie waggles a couple of fingers at him.

  “I think he likes you,” I say.

  She shakes her head. “I know his type. That boy would make eyes at a fire hydrant.”

  I introduce Chrissie to Mitzi. “Chrissie’s an actress.” I see Mitzi’s eyes slide down to Chrissie’s waistline. Tonight Mitzi’s got these rhinestone eyeglasses on a stick. She brings them up to her face, squinting through them, looking from the belly to me, and back to the belly.

  “Well, haven’t you been busy?” Mitzi glares at me through the glasses. I’m standing by her chair, as there are no other seats.

  Chrissie announces cheerfully, “I’m the one who’s been busy. Don’t go lookin’ to Ryan on this one!”

  Mitzi gives a startled yelp of laughter as Jared returns.

  “Your water.” He shoots Chrissie a look that heats up the room by about twenty degrees. Beyond his perfect profile, an older former A-list actress grips the stem of her martini glass until I’m afraid she’s going to snap it in half.

  Chrissie accepts the water from him. “Thank you,” she says sweetly, putting it down without even taking a sip.

  Jared pulls up an ottoman next to Chrissie. When he sits on it, he’s looking up at her. “How do you know your baby’s a boy?” he asks, picking up from where they left off.

  Chrissie pulls the ultrasound photo from her bag and points to the evidence of little Michael’s manhood. I’ve seen Chrissie flirt before, of course, but it’s been with the busboys at Sal’s Diner, amateurs who she could paralyze with a single look. Now, up against Jared, she’s competing in the Flirting Olympics. She gives him a downward, sideways glance.

  “My boy’s a Taurus. Taurus men make great lovers.” She looks him over. “When’s your birthday?”

  “March 29.”

  “Aries,” Chrissie informs him. “You’re passionate, but selfish. What do you say to that?”

  “Me, selfish? I battled my way through a long drink line for you!” Jared makes it sound like he just swam the English Channel. “And I don’t even know your name.”

  “Chrissie Valentino.”

  “Jared Abernathy.”

  “Very well then, Jared Abernathy, I might buy the unselfish part. The passionate part you still have to prove to me.”

  “I’d be happy to prove it to you.” Jared looks like he’s ready to prove it right now.

  I notice that Mitzi has been watching the two of them. In fact, a lot of people are sneaking looks at the big-bellied and beautiful lime-green girl who has Hollywood’s It-Boy sitting obediently at her feet.

  “She’s really talented,” I say in a low voice to Mitzi. “She needs a break. Can you find her some work?”

  Before Mitzi can answer, I see my parents making their way through the crowd toward me at warp speed. Dad’s face is red, his mouth set in a thin line. Behind him, Mom sways along on her stilt shoes, trying to keep up with him. They pull in beside me and stop, Mom’s long earrings swinging like a pair of tether balls.

  “People keep giving us the good news,” my dad says.

  I stall. “What do you mean?”

  “We understand we have a grandchild on the way?” Mom and Dad both look at me as if to say, we’re waiting.

  I can’t resist. My evil twin takes over. I step back, so my folks can look across Mitzi, to where Chrissie is sitting. “That’s Chrissie,” I say. The two of them inspect her with expressions of horror.

  She looks about twenty months pregnant. She’s telling a story. Her hands move through the air, and her face changes from one expression to the next, while Jared leans back on the ottoman, looking at her in this lazy, admiring way. Then she takes Jared’s hand, palm up, and traces her
finger across his palm, apparently describing what she sees there. He throws his head back and laughs out loud.

  Dad’s head whips around in my direction. “Who is that?”

  “A friend of mine. I told you I was bringing her.”

  Mom, who is fuzzy on things under the best of circumstances, now looks like she’s moving into panic mode. “Where’s Emily? How long have you been seeing this other girl?” She cannot take her eyes off Chrissie’s belly.

  “Emily couldn’t come tonight. She…”

  “Who is this girl, Ryan?” Mom looks so upset that I step over and put my hand on her shoulder.

  “See, that’s what I’m trying to tell you…”

  Roman Brandeis walks up. He’s a talent agent who reps probably a quarter of the people in the room. “Doug!” Roman pumps Dad’s arm. “I hear congratulations are in order!” My mom looks like she’s going to faint.

  Seeing us, Chrissie somehow manages to stand up. “Mr. and Mrs. Mills, it’s a pleasure to meet you.” She is sweet and bubbly, the perfect young lady. She sends a shower of sparkly energy in the direction of my father. “Mr. Mills, now I see where Ryan gets his good looks!”

  Dad looks momentarily distracted, while Mom gives Chrissie the stink eye.

  Then, although I wouldn’t have thought it possible, the evening plunges even deeper into surrealism. Nat and Yancy walk up. They’re looking back and forth from my parents to Chrissie.

  “You’re having a grandchild?” Yancy’s voice scales up into incredulity.

  No, you are, I think. But I can’t tell them. This is another thing I didn’t think of, that Nat and Yancy would be here tonight and would meet Chrissie.

  Mom is twisting her hands together. “I can’t believe you broke up with Emily!”

  “No, see….”

  “She was such a nice girl!”

  “Mom…”

  “I want an explanation,” my dad yells.

  “Well, I…”

  “Now!”

  “Dad…”

  “It’s not Ryan’s baby!” It’s Mitzi, who is looking disgusted. We all stare at her.

  “How the heck would you know?” Dad asks.

  “I’ve been paying attention!”

  “To what?” It’s the first time I’ve ever seen my dad look confused.

  “Just forget it. It’s not Ryan’s baby.”

  Mom and Dad visibly relax, but Mitzi has other things on her mind. “Now, listen to me!” She grabs Dad and Nat by the arm and whispers to them. They look at Chrissie and Jared like they’re totally checking them out. Nat’s nodding. Meanwhile, Chrissie turns a little pale and sits down suddenly, while Jared quickly hands her the water glass. He grabs a magazine from the coffee table and fans her.

  “It’s just the heat in the room,” she says.

  “I’ll take you out for some air.” Jared navigates her through the crowded living room, leaving a huge wake behind them. They disappear through some French doors out to the patio.

  “Where’d you find this girl?” Mitzi says in my ear.

  “The tennis club,” I tell her. “She can do any accent you ask for. She can do comedy. She’s hilarious.”

  “When’s she due?”

  “May 12.”

  Mitzi has already inspected Chrissie from top to toe. “All her size is in her belly. She should be thin again by September.”

  “Without question,” I tell Mitzi, even though I’d never given it a second thought until this moment. Then I ask, “What’s in September?”

  “That’s when we shoot the scenes with Roxanne in Mystery Moon.”

  “Roxanne?” I am trying to remember. They had talked about it at dinner one night.

  “The role I’ve been trying to cast, the girl in Mystery Moon.” Mitzi half-turns to include Dad and Nat in the rest of the conversation. “I want to audition Chrissie for Roxanne.”

  • • •

  The next morning, Emily calls me from San Francisco. “We won, Ryan! We won the state competition.”

  “You’re kidding! That’s terrific.” It’s Sunday morning, and I’m in bed, half awake. I sit up, running my hand through my hair and yawning.

  “We go to the Nationals in June! You’re still picking me up at the airport, right?”

  “Oh! Yeah, sure.” I confirm it’s three o’clock at LAX and hang up.

  That afternoon, I pull up to baggage claim curb at LAX to find Emily waiting. Her cheeks are really pink, and she starts right in talking as soon as she sees me.

  “It was so much fun! I wish you could have been there.” She tells me about it on the way home, while I listen, saying things like “Uh huh,” and “Sounds good.” I can’t focus right now. I’m trying to figure out how I’ll get my Spanish paper written and get Chrissie to her next check up on the same afternoon.

  “So how was your dad’s party?” she asks finally.

  “Good.”

  I can sense that she’s waiting for more. “That’s all? I mean, who was there? What happened?”

  I can’t make myself say that I brought Chrissie. So I tell her what I can, which isn’t much, thinking that I hate this. I hate keeping stuff from Emily. So don’t do it. Tell her, a voice inside me says. I finish with, “I’m sorry I couldn’t fly up to hear you sing. But, you know, my dad’s birthday…”

  “It’s okay. I’m sorry I couldn’t make the party.”

  There’s nothing more I can say after that, so I drop her at her house and drive home.

  Chapter 37

  Emily and I are in the guest house, studying after an hour of hot, heavy breathing sex. I’m in a pair of old sweat pants, and she’s wearing one of my t-shirts.

  “I like wearing your shirt. It makes me feel like I’m your girl,” she says.

  “You are.” I run my hand down her bare leg.

  Since we discovered the guest house, we’ve spent almost every afternoon holed up there—during the week anyway—alternating between doing our homework and fooling around.

  I think of those rockets that travel up into the sky, silently and almost invisible except for the tiniest trail of light, and then explode into giant sunflowers of color, with later explosions of different colors careening away in little squiggles, and deep reverberating booms. That’s what sex in the guest house is like.

  It’s the most fun I’ve ever had indoors.

  Lucky for us, both Wintraubs work, and my house is usually empty during the week. Weekends are different, but on weekdays, work, appointments and lessons keep my parents, Ro, and the girls away until close to six o’clock. I hang the baseball cap on the front door knob of the guest house to ward off the cleaning and maintenance staff.

  I’m studying, and Emily’s curled up in a corner of the sofa with her laptop. Outside, rain falls in heavy sheets. It pounds the roof over our heads. Emily loves the rain, but I think rain belongs in places like Michigan and the Amazon. I must have been born under a sun sign.

  “Ryan?” Emily says to me, “How come you’re so distant with your folks? I never see you act that way with anyone else—so, kind of, cool and withdrawn.”

  “Where did that come from?” It isn’t like we’d been talking about them, or anything.

  “I’ve noticed it. And, well, your parents asked me about it, too.”

  I jump to my feet and start pacing back and forth. “They did? When?” It doesn’t take much to get me going over Mom and Dad. Heat rushes to my forehead and temples.

  “The last time I was here for dinner.” Emily’s been over a few times now.

  I can’t believe they’ve been bugging her about this. Like, hello, I live right here in the same house with them. What about having a conversation with me? “Yeah, well I’m pissed off at them!”

  Emily is waiting, wearing her I’m listening expression.

  “First off, they totally shafted us three years ago, when Michael overdosed.” My finger stabs the air as I make each point. “Second of all, they’re freaking never home. It’s like they’re doing us
a favor to have dinner with us!”

  Emily has put aside her laptop, her expression sober.

  “You should tell them how you feel,” she says. “Because, your parents are two sad people.”

  “They oughta be. They oughta be two sorry people!” Anger is boiling up through my belly and chest and into my face. I feel myself flush red, and I take a few deep breaths.

  “You really should talk to them,” Emily says again. “Clear the air.”

  “I’ll think about it.” I sit down next to her, and we try to work. As usual, I’m diddling around with my easy homework from the regular classes, while Emily’s writing this intense essay for her AP English class and studying for another hard-core AP History exam.

  She yawns and stretches her arms toward the ceiling. Her hand goes through my hair, and a minute later she pulls me toward her and really plants one on me—a serious soul kiss that has me thinking it might be time for another study break. But a question bubbles up from some dark part of my subconscious.

  “Emily? Why do you love me?”

  She pulls away from me a little and gives me this teasing look. “You want to know the exact moment when I knew I loved you?”

  I nod my head. I definitely want to know that.

  “It was the time you made me laugh so hard that I fell off the couch.”

  I do make Emily laugh. A lot. And most of the time, it’s on purpose. And she did fall off the couch that one time, when I really got her going, but I didn’t think she would love me for it.

  “I need something better than that.”

  “Okay, let’s see. I love you because you’re fun. And because you’re good to me, and you’re always there for me.”

  She pauses. “And because you’re really, really hot.”

  I don’t know if I’m hot, I think, but Emily and I are definitely hot together.

  “And so now I have a question,” she says. She starts to put the cap on her pen, then fumbles and drops it.

  I wait for her to pick it up off the floor, cap the pen, put it away, and finally face me.