Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree

by Lauren Tarshis

  “Well, my dear, you’ve got a grade-A brain inside that head of yours.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Johannsen,” Emma-Jean said, turning off the flashlight and handing it back to him.

  “And a good heart there too,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Johannsen,” Emma-Jean said. “Will you please tell Mr. Petrowski that no student has been stealing his candy?”

  “Will do.”

  “Will you tell him in particular that Will Keeler has not been stealing his candy?”

  “I certainly will,” Mr. Johannsen said, clipping his flashlight back onto his belt. “And you’d better be heading home.”

  “Yes,” Emma-Jean agreed. “Good-bye, Mr. Johannsen.”

  “Good-bye, Emma-Jean,” he said. “Hey, kids aren’t causing you any trouble, now, are they?”

  “Of course not,” Emma-Jean replied, as usual. She didn’t understand why Mr. Johannsen often asked her this odd question. In what way might her fellow seventh graders be any trouble to her? They did not pester her to borrow money for lunch or for answers to the math homework. Occasionally they were loud and rambunctious, and some of the girls did not wash their hands after using the bathroom. But none of this was terribly troubling to Emma-Jean.

  “Good. You’ll let me know if anyone’s causing you trouble, because then they’ll have to contend with the likes of me.”

  Emma-Jean certainly admired Mr. Johannsen, though at times he said perplexing things.

  Chapter 8

  The following Monday was bright and sunny and many seventh graders rushed through their sandwiches and fish sticks so they could have extra time outside. Emma-Jean took only a few sips of her soup before packing up and seeking her favorite outdoor spot: a bench on the edge of the soccer field. This location placed her out of the range of errant basketballs and beneath the branches of her favorite oak tree. Emma-Jean admired the oak, which had thick twisting branches that reached up into the blue sky. Despite her grounding in modern scientific principles, it was not hard for Emma-Jean to understand how ancient peoples would regard such a creation as a benevolent beast, a guardian of souls.

  Emma-Jean saw Colleen Pomerantz on the blacktop. She was with Kaitlin Vogel and her other close friends: an intelligent and high-spirited brunette named Valerie Rosen, and Michele Peters, a tall girl who wore small round glasses and had a fine singing voice. These four girls spent much of their free time in one another’s company, and together made up the informal dance troupe led by Laura Gilroy. Emma-Jean was gratified to see that Colleen was smiling, and that her freckled skin had a healthy glow, no doubt a result of her weekend in the mountains.

  “Hey, Emma-Jean!” Colleen shouted, waving in her usual animated fashion. “Your hair looks so gorgeous today!”

  Emma-Jean nodded in agreement. Due to her well-balanced diet, her hair was thick and glossy and resembled the coat of a Labrador retriever.

  The four girls made halfhearted attempts to run through the dance routine they’d been practicing, collapsing into screeching giggles when one of them missed a step. Emma-Jean could not recall any such laughter when Laura was leading them. Usually Laura Gilroy forced them to warm up before dancing, ordering them to twist and stretch their bodies into positions that caused them to grimace and moan.

  “Where’s Laura?” Valerie asked, echoing Emma-Jean’s own thoughts. “She’ll kill us for starting without her.”

  “She wasn’t at lunch,” Michele said.

  “I think I saw her mom at the office,” Kaitlin said.

  Moments later, Laura appeared, storming across the asphalt.

  “I told you guys to wait for me!” she shouted. “You’re not supposed to start until I get here!”

  “Where were you?” Kaitlin said.

  Laura took her usual drill-sergeant stance, feet planted on the ground, hands on her hips.

  “You are NOT going to believe this,” she announced. “Somebody in this school must think I am a complete moron. They have no IDEA who they are dealing with! You know how I cancelled the ski trip? Well the reason was that I got this letter . . .”

  She reached into her back pocket and produced a piece of paper, which she unfolded and held out in front of her. The girls leaned in for a better look. Even from a distance Emma-Jean recognized that it was the letter she had created on falsified William Gladstone Middle School stationery.

  “That’s so cool!” Colleen said. “No wonder you couldn’t go skiing. That’s such an honor, to be recognized for your talent—”

  “Shut up!” Laura said. “It’s a total fake. There were no dancers at the banquet. This whole thing is a fake! I showed up at the rehearsal and you know who was there? That load Johannsen and his mop. The school was empty. So my mom got on the phone and called the basketball coach, and he knew NOTHING about this letter. He said it had to be a mistake. Well, my mom got completely POed. You know how she gets. So she called Tucci, AT HOME.”

  “Your mom called the principal! On the weekend? ” Valerie said.

  “Oh my God!” Michele said.

  “She wants answers,” Laura said. “And so do I. Tucci said it was a prank. That someone FORGED school stationery and wrote the note as a practical joke.”

  “Who would do that?” Kaitlin said.

  Emma-Jean sat perfectly motionless.

  Laura looked over her shoulder at the blacktop. “Take your pick,” she said. “There are so many pathetic people who have it out for me.”

  “Why?” Colleen said.

  “They’re jealous!” Laura said.

  The girls moaned in agreement.

  “What a dumb joke,” Colleen said.

  “It’s not a joke! You think this is FUNNY, Colleen? ” Laura said.

  “No!” Colleen said.

  “What if something had happened to me at school? What if I’d been attacked or something? And hello? I missed going skiing.”

  “That’s really horrible,” Colleen said.

  “Not for you,” Laura said. “You got to take my place, didn’t you? You’re one of my prime suspects. ”

  Laura narrowed her eyes at Colleen, whose head appeared to sink between her shoulders. “So was it you, Colleen? Did you write that letter? Come on, fess up.”

  Colleen smiled and made a noise that approximated a laugh, though Emma-Jean thought it sounded more like the whimper of a dog whose tail had been stepped on.

  “Colleen would never do that,” Kaitlin said.

  “No way,” said Michele, shaking her head gravely.

  “She would never!” said Valerie.

  Laura rolled her eyes and then smirked. “Actually I realized you couldn’t have because you’re a total airhead on the computer.”

  “I know! I know!” Colleen squeaked. “I totally am!”

  “My mother and I just met with Tucci,” Laura said. “He said he’d find out who did it.”

  “That’s good,” Colleen said.

  “No it’s not. He’s so lame. He won’t do anything. But don’t worry. You guys know me. I’ll figure this out. And you better believe heads are gonna roll.”

  Emma-Jean blinked and put her hand up to her neck. Just then the bell rang, signaling the end of lunch period. As the noisy crowd receded, Emma-Jean reflected on what she had just heard. Perhaps Laura had not rebounded quite as quickly from her anger as Emma-Jean had predicted. But she did not believe these recent events would significantly alter the positive outcome of the problem. Emma-Jean did not believe that Laura Gilroy possessed either the reasoning skills or intellectual focus to trace the letter back to its source.

  As for Laura’s threat to decapitate the responsible party, Emma-Jean was confident she was exaggerating.

  Chapter 9

  Emma-Jean considered herself fortunate to have so many friends. Her mother was her friend. Her father was her friend, though of course their communion was, by now, purely spiritual. Mr. Johannsen was her friend. Henri was a delightful companion. And there was Vikram, her newest friend, whose arrival six
months ago had caused some notable changes in the atmosphere of Stanton Drive.

  It had been Emma-Jean’s mother’s idea to convert the large third floor of their house into a separate apartment. Their house was a bit frayed around the edges, like Emma-Jean’s favorite cardigan sweaters. But its rooms were sunny, and unlike many hundred-year-old houses, it smelled good, even on rainy days. The house was just three blocks from the university. Emma-Jean’s mother believed, quite justifiably, that they could charge a good rent for the two large rooms and high-ceilinged bathroom on the third floor.

  Emma-Jean had written and designed a detailed advertisement, which her mother posted on the bulletin board in the university’s housing office. Vikram Adwani had been the first person to call. He had come over one rainy evening for an interview, which had lasted for more than two hours. He made an excellent impression on both Emma-Jean and her mother. He had a serene manner. Judging from his spotless clothing, well-polished boots, and clean fingernails, he practiced excellent hygiene. He maintained a busy schedule of classes and study, which made it unlikely that he would host late-night parties. He moved in three days after their meeting and very quickly assumed responsibility for preparing the evening meal for the entire household.

  Within a few weeks of Vikram’s arrival, Emma-Jean had moved some school supplies from her desk to the kitchen table, where she would do her homework. She liked being as close as possible to the wonderful aroma of curry spices and garlic and steaming rice, and to Vikram, who hummed in a soft and soothing manner as he chopped and stirred.

  Emma-Jean’s mother obviously enjoyed the aromas as well. She no longer seemed so exhausted when she returned from her job at the bank. “What are those heavenly smells?” she would say as she hung up her coat. “What delights do you have in store for us today, Vikram?”

  Her glasses would fog up as she peeked into the pots of dal or paneer or korma simmering on the stove. Their dinners often stretched for an hour or longer, as they lingered at the table to discuss their days. Vikram would share stories about his students, which sometimes made her mother laugh. The sound startled Emma-Jean at first, so long had it been since she had heard the carefree and tinkling sound of her mother’s merriment.

  Sometimes Vikram told about his childhood in the chaotic city of Mumbai, and his words would take Emma-Jean across two oceans to the shores of the Indian subcontinent. She could vividly imagine the Adwani family’s small gated house with the mango tree in the courtyard, the cement floors that cooled one’s feet on sultry days, and the sweet-scented jasmine vines that climbed up the walls. It all sounded most pleasant, and Emma-Jean hoped to visit one day.

  She also hoped to meet Vikram’s mother, who wrote to Vikram every week. Emma-Jean looked forward to finding Mrs. Adwani’s letters in the mailbox, the envelopes festooned with brightly colored postage stamps showing famous cricket players and Indian dignitaries wearing high-collared shirts and somber expressions. Emma-Jean was always curious to hear the interesting news of Vikram’s family.

  The most recent letter contained a picture of a young woman with light brown skin, large, long-lashed brown eyes, and a faint smile.

  “Who is this?” Emma-Jean asked.

  “This is Jayavanti Prakesh,” Vikram said.

  "Why did your mother send you her picture? Is she a relative?”

  “No,” Vikram said. “My mother believes she might be a suitable wife for me.”

  “Why does she think this?” Emma-Jean said.

  Vikram unfolded the letter and read what his mother had written, translating the Hindi into English. “. . . She is from a very good family. Her father is a pulmonary specialist and her mother is a second cousin of your first cousin Prayam’s wife, Raya. I had tea with the family and found this girl to be lively and bright, though not stubborn. I do not wish for you to marry a stubborn girl, nor do I wish for you to spend your life with someone who is too meek to express her views. This girl seems not meek and is quite level-headed and very outgoing and talkative. She wishes to be a research biologist, and expounded at great length on her work on cells. So you see you would have much in common.”

  Vikram handed the letter and picture to Emma-Jean, who studied the Hindi lettering. A few weeks after Vikram moved in, Emma-Jean had begun teaching herself the Hindi alphabet. She had ordered a book at the library and spent long hours studying. She now knew all of the letters and sounds, and could write them capably. She had even taught Henri the traditional Hindi greeting: Namaste.

  Emma-Jean examined the photograph of Jayavanti Prakesh.

  “Have you met this woman?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “If I express an interest, my mother will arrange a meeting when I return home for a visit.”

  “Do you have to marry her?”

  “No.”

  “Do you think she is suitable?”

  Vikram studied the picture. “I would need to consider the question over time.”

  Henri squawked, and Vikram offered him several grains of rice.

  “What kind of woman do you want to marry?” Emma-Jean asked.

  Vikram went to the refrigerator and took out a glass bowl containing chicken thighs coated in a thick cinnamon-colored marinade. “A strong woman,” Vikram said, setting the bowl on the counter. “Someone kind and intelligent and curious, yet also practical.

  “I would like to marry somebody I admire,” he added, pouring a cup of pearly rice into a pot of water and setting it on the stove. “Someone generous-hearted. Above all, I think, I would like to marry someone with whom I can talk about many things.”

  A comfortable silence settled over the kitchen and mixed with the sweet smell of simmering basmati rice. Vikram chopped some spinach and onions and set the oven to broil. Emma-Jean sat very still while he worked. It was a good ten minutes before she spoke.

  “This woman Jayavanti is not right for you. She would not make you happy.”

  “How is that?” Vikram asked, raising his thick eyebrows.

  “She is talkative and you like it quiet sometimes. ”

  “Yes, that’s true.”

  “And when you are interested in talking, you don’t want to talk about science. You like talking about books, or cooking, or India. This woman is a biologist, so she will want to talk to you about science. You will find that tiresome.”

  Vikram nodded. “Interesting,” he said.

  It occurred to Emma-Jean that since Vikram’s mother was across two oceans, he might need some additional assistance finding a suitable wife. And who better to assist than Emma-Jean, whose problem-solving skills had been honed by her work on behalf of Colleen Pomerantz and Mr. Petrowski? The problem of finding Vikram a suitable wife would not be difficult to solve. Many women would be interested in a man possessing such high intelligence, great cooking talents, and excellent personal hygiene habits.

  “Now that you have told me the kind of woman you are looking for, I will try to find you the person you should marry.”

  “Really?” Vikram said, raising his eyebrows even higher.

  “Yes,” Emma-Jean replied.

  "I look forward to your thoughts on the matter,” Vikram said.

  Chapter 10

  Did Emma-Jean Lazarus write the letter to Laura Gilroy?

  Colleen shook her head and tried to focus on her math quiz.

  Oh gosh. What if Emma-Jean wrote it?

  Colleen pressed down so hard with her pencil that the point broke and flew up over her shoulder. She fished another pencil out of her backpack and took a deep breath.

  No, of course Emma-Jean hadn’t written the letter. That would be just too weird.

  Colleen stared at the algebra equations. She had gotten all the practice questions right last night. But now the numbers seemed to be buzzing all around on the paper, like a swarm of wasps.

  Emma-Jean did it!

  No she didn’t.

  Colleen closed her eyes and ordered this idea to please leave her brain. But it kept sneaking in through some s
ecret door in Colleen’s skull.

  Finally Colleen realized she had to do something or her head would explode. Somehow she managed to finish the quiz. Then she wrote a note and snuck it into Emma-Jean’s locker while everyone was at lunch.

  Dear Emma-Jean,

  Hi! How are you? I hope the answer to that question is GREAT!

  Can / talk to you today? I have to talk to you about Laura Gilroy and the Ski trip. /f you are free, you can meet me on the benches on the far Side of the Soccer field. I’ll wait until 3:10. Don’t worry if you can’t make it. I have nothing to do after School anyway, So no Sweat!

  Have a great day! Colleen P.

  Colleen could see Emma-Jean coming across the soccer field. She reminded herself to be calm. She’d just ask Emma-Jean if she’d written the letter and Emma-Jean would say, “Of course not, silly!” or something Emma-Jean-ish that meant the same thing. Everything would be fine, Colleen told herself.

  “Hi, Emma-Jean!” Colleen said in a voice she wanted to sound normal but sounded totally desperate.

  Emma-Jean nodded and pointed at Colleen’s cheek.

  “What is that?”

  “What?” Colleen said, her hands flying to her face. Did she have a blob of lotion on her cheek or something even grosser?

  “That sparkling substance,” Emma-Jean said. “On your cheek. Does it cause your skin to itch?”

  “Oh!” Colleen had to smile. “Emma-Jean, it’s just makeup! You don’t even know it’s on! Hey . . .”

  Colleen reached into her backpack and pulled out her purple makeup pouch, which Valerie had brought her back from Disney World. Her little tub of sparkly powder was right on top. She opened it and held it out to Emma-Jean.

  “Try some,” Colleen said. “You’d look so pretty with some makeup—oh! No offense! I don’t mean that you’re not pretty now! Really, you’re gorgeous! But makeup can enhance your features.” Colleen’s mom didn’t like her wearing too much makeup, but Colleen would never go out without at least some lip gloss and a little blush.

  Emma-Jean shook her head. “I don’t care for that at all.”