Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree

by Lauren Tarshis

  “Oh, Vikram!” her mother said, standing up so abruptly that her napkin fell onto the floor. “Hello! How are you! We’ve been thinking of you!”

  Emma-Jean’s eyes followed her mother as she paced excitedly around their kitchen with the phone pressed to her ear. “Oh wonderful! Yes! Fantastic! I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that.” She smiled at Emma-Jean and nodded. “Yes! Yes! I got your e-mails. We miss you too. Yes . . .”

  She glanced at Emma-Jean and then walked out of the kitchen. Emma-Jean heard the front door squeak and her mother’s footsteps on the porch. Emma-Jean frowned. It was thirty-three degrees outside.

  It was several minutes before her mother returned to the table. Her cheeks were pink and her eyes sparkled as though her lashes had turned to tiny icicles.

  “Vikram’s mother is going to be fine!” she said.

  “That is very good,” Emma-Jean said.

  “I miss him. Don’t you? It feels a bit . . . I don’t know, lonely here without him. Don’t you think?”

  “I’m not lonely when you are here.”

  “Well of course I’m not lonely with you either, I’m just saying that it’s a little different, don’t you think?”

  Emma-Jean nodded, but she was already contemplating this unsettling problem. It was clear that Vikram’s absence had in no way loosened the bond between him and her mother.

  “Tomorrow night I think we should go out to dinner,” her mother said. “To that Indian restaurant. ” She got up and began clearing the dishes. “That’s exactly what we should do.” She hummed as they did the dishes and prepared a cup of Vikram’s favorite chai tea to take up to her room. Emma-Jean watched her closely, with growing alarm.

  After they’d said good night, Emma-Jean sat down at her computer, gripped by a grim sense of purpose. She missed her friend Vikram, but it was necessary that she take action to ensure that he stayed in India, away from her mother, who already had a love of her life. This was deeply regrettable, since Vikram was one of Emma-Jean’s closest friends. But there was no alternative.

  It was well past midnight when she finally settled on a strategy. It was a risky plan. But as Poincaré once wrote, delicate problems require creative solutions. With the Frenchman’s words in her mind, Emma-Jean turned on her computer and wrote the following letter.

  Dear Mrs. Adwani,

  I am writing to tell you that your son Vikram is in love with my mother, Elizabeth Lazarus. It is understandable that Vikram would be in love with my mother, since she is a highly intelligent and sensitive person. It is also understandable that Elizabeth Lazarus would feel affection toward your son, since he possesses a fine character, is a talented cook, and practices excellent personal hygiene. Under normal circumstances, he would make an excellent husband for Elizabeth Lazarus. However, Elizabeth Lazarus is already in love with another man. His name is Eugene Lazarus. He was a brilliant mathematics professor. Though he died over two years ago, he remains the love of Elizabeth Lazarus’s life. You can understand that it is not possible for her to be in love with another man.

  I felt it was necessary to inform you of this situation since it is your responsibility to find a suitable wife for your son. I suggest you expedite your efforts to find a woman who meets Vikram’s specifications. If you would like my ideas on this subject, you may contact me at any time.

  Congratulations on recovering from your heart attack. Now you must watch your diet carefully to prevent further arterial blockage. Also, exercise is an important part of your recovery program. I recommend a brisk thirty-minute walk each day. I understand from my reading that Mumbai is a crowded city with a serious traffic problem. I recommend that you find a safe place to conduct your daily walk.

  Sincerely,

  Emma-Jean Lazarus

  Emma-Jean addressed the envelope. For added credibility, she wrote her name and return address in Hindi lettering.

  Chapter 18

  Colleen was about to leave school at the end of the day when she felt a clawlike grip on her shoulder. day when she felt a clawlike grip on her shoulder.

  "Come,” said Laura Gilroy.

  Laura took Colleen’s arm and led her—dragged her, basically—through the empty halls of William Gladstone. They wound up at the girls’ locker room. Laura pushed the door open and gave Colleen a little shove.

  “Sit,” she said, pointing to the changing bench.

  Colleen sat.

  “It’s over,” Laura said. “For you and Emma-Jean Lazarus. I have proof.”

  Colleen opened her mouth to talk. No sound came out.

  “Emma-Jean Lazarus keeps files in her room. You should see. All these files about weird stuff like germs and trees. And she had this one file that was so interesting. You know what the file was called?” Laura opened her eyes wide and flashed her straight white teeth like a vampire. “Colleen Pomerantz!”

  Colleen looked at her sneakers, which looked very small and helpless, like kittens that had just been born.

  “You know what’s in the file? A copy of that bogus letter I got, about the basketball banquet. And you know what else? A note that you wrote, on your lame heart stationery, telling Emma-Jean you need to talk to her about . . . let me remember exactly . . . oh, right—Laura Gilroy and the ski trip. What do you think of that?”

  Colleen had no thoughts. Her brain had melted.

  “It all adds up,” Laura said. “And tomorrow morning, I’m going to take that file from my locker, and bring it straight to Tucci. And then . . . well, we’ll see what happens. But it won’t be good. For you or that freak Emma-Jean Lazarus. You’re pathetic, Colleen. You and Emma-Jean Lazarus. What a pair.”

  Laura made a gross snorting sound.

  “You’ve really done it, Colleen,” she said. “It’s all over.”

  She spun around and walked out of the locker room.

  Colleen had never in her life felt so alone.

  But she was not alone.

  There was a clang from the other end of the locker room, some footsteps, and the whoosh of a toilet flushing. A moment later Mr. Johannsen appeared, holding a bucket and plunger.

  “Sorry,” Mr. Johannsen said. “Toilet’s on the fritz again.”

  Colleen nodded and tried to smile, but her face was numb.

  Mr. Johannsen looked at her.

  “Anything I can do for you, missy?”

  Somehow, Colleen managed to stand up.

  “Thank you, but I’m really fine,” she said.

  Mr. Johannsen stared at her. Colleen knew she must look completely hideous, but she guessed Mr. Johannsen didn’t care about that.

  “Okay, missy. You don’t worry about it, then. You hear me?”

  Colleen managed a little nod.

  Mr. Johannsen left Colleen in the locker room.

  It’s hard to say how long it took for Colleen to make her way out of the locker room. Because Colleen wasn’t really Colleen anymore. She was no longer exactly a person. She was like a zombie. Zombie Colleen. The real Colleen, terrified and small, was hiding inside zombie Colleen, who was large and had no fear or any other feelings.

  Zombie Colleen carried real Colleen through the halls of William Gladstone Middle School and out the side door and all the way home. Her mom was waiting at the front door, looking furious.

  “What took you so long!” she scolded. “I’ve been worried sick!”

  “Mommy . . .”

  “What is it? You don’t look right!”

  Of course Colleen didn’t look right.

  “Are you ill?” She put a cold hand to Colleen’s forehead.

  Yes, sick, very, very ill.

  A zombie.

  Chapter 19

  Colleen Pomerantz was not in school the next day. Emma-Jean questioned Kaitlin Vogel about Colleen’s whereabouts. “I talked to her last night and she sounded real bad,” Kaitlin said. “Some stomach thing.”

  When Colleen still hadn’t returned to school the next day, or the next, Emma-Jean grew concerned. Perhaps Colleen
was not taking the proper palliative measures. For example, a person experiencing digestive problems should avoid all dairy products, which can cause irritation in the intestines and bowel. Emma-Jean believed it was prudent to personally communicate this information to both Colleen and her mother.

  After school, Emma-Jean walked directly to Colleen’s small brick house. In anticipation of the upcoming Easter holiday, the manicured evergreen bushes in front of the house were decorated with pink, yellow, and light-blue plastic eggs. Emma-Jean pressed the doorbell, which chimed loud and cheerful, as one would expect at Colleen’s house. Emma-Jean expected to hear quick footsteps, and then see a pale but nonetheless smiling face through the windowed door. But the house remained silent, and nobody appeared. She rang again, and again. Emma-Jean sat down on the stoop. She would wait.

  Fifteen minutes had passed when, sensing some movement behind her, Emma-Jean turned around and looked up at the house. There was Colleen, looking through a curtained upstairs window. Emma-Jean stood up and waved, but Colleen’s face disappeared.

  Emma-Jean went back to the door and pressed the bell, pleased this trip had not been in vain. Perhaps Colleen had been in the bathroom or shower when Emma-Jean had first rung the doorbell. Emma-Jean stood expectantly, certain that at any moment Colleen herself would open the door and invite her in.

  Minutes passed, and Colleen did not open the door. Emma-Jean put her ear against the door. No sound was audible from inside the house.

  This was most perplexing.

  Emma-Jean backed away from the door and looked up at the curtained window through which Colleen had been peering. There was no sign of Colleen. In fact, to the casual observer, the house would appear completely empty.

  However, Emma-Jean was not a casual observer. Colleen Pomerantz was in this house. And there was only one explanation for her failure to respond to the doorbell: She was too weak, perhaps in a state of collapse. Very likely, her mother had gone to the market or the drugstore, believing that Colleen’s condition was stable. Perhaps she was unaware of the capricious nature of viruses, how symptoms can subside only to flare suddenly and violently just hours later.

  Colleen could be helplessly writhing on the floor with agonizing cramps, delirious with fever. Ringing the doorbell wouldn’t do. Emma-Jean needed to gain entry into the house. Immediately.

  Emma-Jean pulled on the front door, which was locked. She ran to the garage doors, which were bolted closed. She ran all around the perimeter of the house, checking the side entrance and the rear sliding doors. All were locked.

  Emma-Jean stood breathless in the front of the house. She studied a mature magnolia tree next to the front stoop. Its limbs reached up past the roof of the house. Several large branches led directly to the upstairs window.

  It had been nearly two and a half years since Emma-Jean had climbed, but the motions came right back to her, as if they had been programmed into her limbs. She shimmied up the skinny trunk like her father had taught her, keeping her knees tight together. She grabbed the lowest branch, hoisting herself up in the manner of a gymnast mounting the uneven parallel bars. At several junctures, the branches formed sturdy V-shaped joints, providing footholds for Emma-Jean’s white Keds. She was mindful not to disturb the tiny buds that were forming, and kept her feet clear of the most delicate branches.

  Near the top, a thick branch led directly to the curtained window through which Emma-Jean had seen Colleen’s face. Emma-Jean straddled the branch and crossed her feet at the ankles for stability. She leaned forward and peered through the window. She was relieved to see that Colleen was not sprawled on the floor, senseless with pain. She was sitting on her bed. Her shoulders were slumped and her hair looked unclean. Other than that, she did not look physically impaired in any way.

  Emma-Jean rapped on the window until Colleen looked in her direction.

  Chapter 20

  Colleen had spent most of the past two days staring at her walls, which were painted a soft pastel pink. When Colleen had picked out the wall color last year, it had reminded her of everything she loved most in the world: candy hearts and strawberry ice cream and the cutest little piglets.

  Now the color made her feel like she was trapped inside an old dog’s ear. It made her sick, which is why she stared at it. She was glad to feel sick because then she didn’t have to lie to her mother. So far it was working. Her parents and the doctor believed she had some mysterious virus.

  “It’s just not like Colleen,” her mother had told the doctor. “She’s always so agreeable. Now we can’t get her out of her room.”

  “Is anything going on at school?” the doctor said, wrinkling her large forehead in concern. “Is something upsetting you, Colleen?”

  “No, of course not,” her mother said. “Colleen is a straight-A student with dozens of friends.”

  The doctor had looked at Colleen in a really sweet way, and Colleen wanted so much to tell her. But zombie Colleen didn’t go blabbing to nosy doctors.

  The doctor had checked her throat and her ears. She pressed all around her stomach. “Can you tell me how you’re feeling, Colleen?” she’d asked.

  “It hurts,” Colleen said. “Everywhere.”

  Colleen and her mother were sent to a lab, where a young man with a shaved head and soft rubber gloves had poked a needle into Colleen’s arm and taken three vials of blood. Colleen had stared as the blood rushed through the skinny plastic tube into the glass vials. She wished the man would take all of her blood. Then she’d never have to go back to school. She’d never have to face Laura Gilroy again.

  Colleen heard the knocking on her window and turned to see the pale face of Emma-Jean Lazarus staring at her from outside.

  Now, officially, things could not get weirder.

  Colleen had never hated anyone in her entire life. Not Laura Gilroy, who tried to steal her best friend. Not Brandon Mahoney, who had thrown a dead squirrel at her in kindergarten. And yet when she thought about Emma-Jean Lazarus, a sharp pain went through her stomach. She wasn’t sure if it was hate. But it was something dark and very bad, something that Father William might warn against in one of his sermons.

  Emma-Jean Lazarus had forged a letter on school stationery to Laura Gilroy.

  Emma-Jean Lazarus had let Laura Gilroy find out.

  Emma-Jean Lazarus had ruined Colleen’s life.

  But still, Colleen couldn’t bring herself to let Emma-Jean sit outside in the freezing cold high up on that tree.

  Slowly, Colleen rose from her bed. She padded across the flowered rug, unlocked her window, and yanked it up so it was wide open. Emma-Jean climbed through the window. She brushed off her pants and rubbed her hands together.

  “What are you doing here?” Colleen said in a raspy zombie voice.

  “I came over to tell you that you should be avoiding dairy products,” Emma-Jean said. “They are most irritating to the digestive tract and should be avoided by a person in your condition.”

  The normal Colleen would have smiled and nodded and pretended she knew exactly what Emma-Jean Lazarus was talking about. But Colleen wasn’t normal.

  “Look,” zombie Colleen said. “You got me into big trouble. Laura Gilroy knows everything. She even has the note that I wrote you. She said you had it in a file in your room.”

  “How could she know that?”

  “Has Laura Gilroy been to your room?”

  “Yes,” Emma-Jean said. “On Monday.”

  “Did you happen to notice if she stole something?”

  “I don’t think she would steal anything from my room,” Emma-Jean said. Surely even Laura Gilroy wouldn’t break the law.

  “Of course she would! You have no idea, Emma-Jean! She has no morals at all! Were you with her the whole time?”

  “She began to choke,” Emma-Jean said. “And she requested something to drink.”

  “And?”

  “I went downstairs to get her some grape juice.”

  “And she was alone in your room?”


  “Yes.”

  “For how long?”

  “Perhaps several minutes. I had no alternative. She was choking.”

  “No she wasn’t! She wanted you to leave, so she could find some proof! She went into your desk and stole the file with my name on it. Why would you keep a file with my name on it!”

  “I keep everything important in a file.”

  “I can’t believe you did this, Emma-Jean! Why did you have to butt in? I didn’t ask you to!”

  “Yes you did,” Emma-Jean said. “You said you wanted help.”

  “I didn’t mean it! Why would I want help from YOU? Why are you even here?”

  “I wanted to tell you to avoid dairy foods,” Emma-Jean said. “I wanted to help you—”

  “What are you talking about? Just go, Emma-Jean! ” she wailed. “Just go away.”

  Emma-Jean didn’t know what to do. Colleen was telling her to leave, and yet she was obviously in deep distress. Emma-Jean wanted to assist her, but Colleen didn’t seem to want her help.

  Colleen threw herself onto her bed with such force that the cat-shaped clock on her night table crashed to the floor, its eyes frozen open in a deathly stare.

  Colleen was crying loudly now, sobbing, sputtering, and gasping. The sound made Emma-Jean’s head ache. It was the worst sound Emma-Jean had ever heard. It was worse than slamming lockers or the screeching of car tires. This was the sound of misery. Of grief. Of things you couldn’t control. Emma-Jean had heard a sound like this once before in her life. When her father died, Emma-Jean herself had made this sound.

  Emma-Jean rushed toward the window, away from Colleen and her sobs.

  “Emma-Jean!” Colleen called.

  Emma-Jean stepped up to the windowsill and climbed out onto the magnolia tree.