But after fifteen minutes, no one responded. I wasn’t surprised. They were probably busy doing all kinds of fun and exciting things while I was stuck here. With no one to talk to or laugh with.
Before lunch officially ended, I was already on my way back to class, hugging my books to my chest.
I was surprised to see Emerson already at the nursing home when I arrived.
Usually, I got there first, but when I walked in, he was already strolling toward the elder day care wing, several daisies in his hand.
I caught up to him in the main room of the wing. “What’s that?” I asked. I adored fresh flowers, and these looked hand-picked.
He took a second to answer. “I remembered some of the ladies saying they wished there were some flowers around here. So I brought some from my sister’s garden.”
Is that what he’d spent his extended lunch break doing? “You remembered that?” I asked with a wide smile. Ms. Ellie had requested fresh flowers to brighten up the place a few days ago, but Ms. Nancy had said it simply wasn’t in the budget.
He opened his mouth, like he wasn’t sure what to say. “My sister has a garden.”
Like that was all the explanation that was needed. For Emerson, it was.
I touched one of the daisies with my fingers. “They’re lovely. Ms. Ellie and the other ladies are going to love these.”
A minute later, the daisies were in a purple vase, carefully arranged by a very happy Ms. Ellie.
Just watching her circle that vase and move each flower this was or that was a treat. She stepped back and admired her work. “It’d be even better if we had some baby’s breath to accent them, but these daisies are exquisite, aren’t they?”
I admired her work too. “They really are. You did a great job, by the way.”
She clasped her hands together and beamed. “Just a little something I picked up over the years.” Her eyes scanned the room, and I saw where they landed. Emerson was at his usual table with Mr. Roberts. Today they were working on a crossword puzzle together, one in the paper. Emerson jotted letters down while Mr. Roberts took charge of guessing the correct words.
“He’s been wanting to do those crossword puzzles for ages, but his sight isn’t what it used to be. And he hates fiddling with reading glasses,” Ms. Ellie said.
I took in the sweet image of Emerson helping Mr. Roberts. “Emerson has a soft spot for him, doesn’t he?” I said, thinking out loud.
Ms. Ellie nodded. “Sure does. That Emerson appears rough around the edges, but I can tell he has a big heart. Especially if he brought over these flowers.” She winked at me. “A man who brings you flowers tends to be a keeper. Remember that, Harper.”
I pretended not to understand her sly comment. She took a seat at a nearby table with some other ladies and began chatting up a storm.
Mrs. Porter stepped out of her office and came right over. “These are some beautiful daisies. Did you bring them in?” she asked.
I shook my head. “Emerson did, actually.”
She glanced over at him, and I took note of the clearly surprised look on her face. “That was kind of him. I always wanted to do little things like this for our residents, maybe a fun little event, but our budget just won’t allow it.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. Ms. Nancy told me that the nursing home relied on donations to stay open. The families of the residents were charged according to income, and really, it was a miracle they were even still open, mainly thanks to local business donations. “Maybe we could do a fundraiser sometime,” I offered.
She gave me a tight-lipped smile. “Thank you, Harper. I wish we could, but we’re stretched as it is, both with time and money. I can’t ask Ms. Nancy to put in any more hours. A volunteer would have to do it.”
Before I could say anything else, the phone in her office rang, the shrill noise reaching us all the way across the room. She took off, and I joined Ms. Ellie and her friends.
My eyes slid back to Emerson and Mr. Roberts. Except this time, he glanced my way, and our gazes met for a split second.
I looked away quickly, my heart skipping a couple beats.
Then I wondered how many people had gotten to see this other side of Emerson Lopez besides me.
Eleven
Emerson and I stepped outside at the end of our shift at the nursing home.
Dark gray clouds crowded the sky for miles, and the wind blew my hair into my face. I tried and failed to get my long, blonde tresses under control. I must have looked ridiculous, but Emerson’s gaze was up instead of on me. “I think it’s going to start pouring any minute.”
We crossed the street together and headed toward the school. Just as we were a few dozen feet away from the front doors, a siren went off.
I jumped, sure it had be firefighters or an ambulance nearby. But it was really loud.
Emerson’s eyes met mine. “I think that’s the tornado siren.”
My mouth fell, but before I could say anything, a loud voice reached us. It was Ms. Moreau, waving us toward her from the front doors of the school building.
We jogged inside. She made sure the doors closed behind her and faced us. “Oh, I’m glad you two made it back just in time.”
The siren kept going off in the background, but it wasn’t nearly as loud as when we were outside.
We followed her to the girls’ bathrooms down the hall. “I have to go check the rest of the building. You two go in there with the rest of the students. I’ll be right back.”
I touched Ms. Moreau’s elbow. “Is there really a tornado?”
She exhaled. “I’m not sure. But everything’s okay. We just have to take precautions. Just go in and get into position, like the drill from a few weeks ago.”
With that, she was off, and Emerson led me into the girls’ bathroom.
There was a handful of students in there already, all sitting with their backs against the wall and textbooks in their laps. The P.E. teacher, who I knew was Ella’s boyfriend’s dad, stood against one of the sinks. He nodded at us and scribbled something on his clipboard.
Emerson and I sat down, and my thoughts immediately went to my mom. Then the residents at the nursing home. Were they okay? Surely that old restored building couldn’t stand up to a tornado.
With all sorts of scenarios in my head, I drew my knees up to my chest and wrapped my arms around them. I grabbed my phone out of my pocket and texted my mom.
The siren was still going strong, and with each crescendo of the blaring sound, my breathing got a little faster.
I bit my lip, trying to stay calm. When I didn’t get a reply back, I put my phone out of sight next to me.
Something brushed my fingers, and I realized it was Emerson’s hand. “Are you okay?” he whispered.
I nodded quickly, not wanting to turn toward him.
His low voice reached my ear, and he squeezed my hand. “Hey, it’s gonna be okay.”
A couple of deep breaths later, the sound of the siren disappeared. I looked up at the P.E. teacher, and he checked his phone. He tapped a message out and then looked at us. “All clear. Head to the library and wait for dismissal.”
Before he was even done with his last sentence, everyone was already up and heading toward the bathroom exit. Coach followed them, and Emerson and I trailed behind.
Back in the hallway, I shivered, glad that was over. My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I grabbed it. It was my mom.
Mom: I’m okay. Are you? Love you.
I tapped back a quick response, letting her know I was fine and still at school. Then I put my phone away.
Emerson hung back with me, and I found it impossible to look at him. “That was my mom,” I said. “She’s okay.”
I glanced at him for half a second before facing forward again.
“Good,” he said.
Trying to fill the silence, I said, “I guess it was just a false alarm.”
We reached the library, and Emerson opened the door for me. I gave him a small smile and my
eyes locked on his, hoping the awkward moment was over.
But the way he looked at me had me looking away again.
Maybe that siren had been a false alarm, but inside, my heart was still hammering, letting me know that what I felt for Emerson was far from false.
One of my favorite things about hanging out with older people was seeing how fun and rowdy they got around music.
Instead of arts and crafts, Ms. Nancy had done something special. She’d discovered Spotify and Pandora, and Ms. Ellie had convinced her to ditch arts and crafts for a dance session.
Most of the residents clapped and smiled and cheered from their tables, but a few of them got up and joined Ms. Ellie, moving to the top hits of the sixties and seventies. Two or three residents did what they did best: snore.
Ms. Ellie closed her eyes and swung her hips. “Oh, this song takes me back…”
She grabbed my hands, and I laughed, trying to copy her steps.
Emerson and Mr. Roberts smiled from their usual corner, and my cheeks burned. Mr. Roberts muttered something to Emerson, and Emerson chuckled, his smile wide and his eyes full of something I’d never really seen there before: joy.
Mr. Roberts stood up, and Emerson was there in a flash, making sure he was steady. Then Mr. Roberts made his way over to the dance floor, and I stopped to see what he was going to do. Maybe he was going to join in on the dancing.
But he went right over to Ms. Ellie, whose smile grew wider and wider the closer he got.
He stood in front of her, and my gaze met Emerson’s just a few feet away before we both turned our attention back to Ms. Ellie and Mr. Roberts.
He extended his hand. “May I have this dance?”
As if on cue, the music turned to something slow and romantic, and I spun around to find Ms. Nancy at her computer with a knowing grin on her face and a glimmer in her eye.
I laughed out loud and took Mr. Roberts’s seat so I could have a front-row view of the cutest thing I’d ever seen. Emerson sat down quietly next to me, but my eyes stayed glued to the old couple in front of us. I grabbed my phone and took a few pictures.
Mr. Roberts’ hands lay at Ms. Ellie’s waist, while her arms rested on his shoulders. They swayed slowly back and forth to the music, and Ms. Ellie closed her eyes. “It was about time,” I heard her say.
My heart faltered. “They are precious,” I said with a sigh.
“They are,” Emerson said. “You know, his wife died like twenty years ago.”
I frowned. “Ms. Ellie’s second husband died several years ago too.”
I couldn’t imagine being lonely, without a partner in crime, for so long. They must have lived most of their lives with their spouses, just to lose them from one moment to the next. The one person they’d slept next to, eaten with, laughed with…now gone forever.
Everyone deserved somebody to hold during a dance. But especially ever-smiling Ms. Ellie and kind and quiet Mr. Roberts.
Emerson cleared his throat, and I glanced at him. He reached his hand toward me. “Shall we?” he said, biting his lip.
Unable to utter a single word, I answered his question by placing my hand in his. He led me to the middle of the room, next to Ms. Ellie and Mr. Roberts, and another cacophony of laughter, clapping, and cheering reached us. But just now, it felt kind of far away, like we were inside our own bubble and time ran a little slower in here.
Emerson put his hands on my hips, and I tried not to hyperventilate. I put my hands on his shoulders, and I realized I’d never really done this before. It was new, and I didn’t know where to step or sway.
And it didn’t help that Emerson was right there, his face—his mouth—just a few inches away.
He smiled. “It’s okay. Just follow me. Listen to the music.”
I tried to do that, but I wondered if I was still doing it all wrong. “You’re good at this,” I said with a smile. “I…have no idea what I’m doing.”
Emerson’s eyes, his smile, reassured me. He held me a little closer. “Just hang on to me. Follow my steps.”
Glancing down at our feet, my strappy sandals and his royal blue sneakers, I did just that. I held onto Emerson, and we moved together to the sound of music. This way and that. He moved us in a slow circle around the room. I didn’t want it to end, but of course, songs only lasted so long.
Our moment was over. We stepped away from each other, each of us looking away. Another song started, this time loud and fast and upbeat.
My gaze met Emerson’s for a second. He shoved his hands in his pockets.
I found my voice. “Thanks for the dance.”
He nodded. We found Ms. Ellie and Mr. Roberts making their way back to their seats, Ms. Ellie’s arm in his.
When he sat down, she came over to me.
I beamed at her. “You were great! Where’d you learn to dance like that?”
She winked at me. “Ooh, I had a few different teachers. All handsome, of course.”
I laughed.
She glanced back at Mr. Roberts. “I always did have a weakness for a handsome soldier, though.”
We giggled like girls, and when the music stopped and Ms. Nancy called us to the movie room, we followed everyone else in.
Once I found my usual table, I got out my social studies homework, but it was impossible to concentrate, even as I tried to help Emerson.
It didn’t help that he was sitting so close, or that his lips called to me.
Then I noticed how his gaze stayed on me a little too long, and my heart responded by pounding even harder. And it definitely didn’t help that I couldn’t get the memory of his hands on my waist out of my mind.
Twelve
Emerson sat a few rows away in social studies, fidgeting with his pencil. He glanced my way and showed me his worksheet. Half the answers were missing.
I shook my head.
Help, he mouthed.
The bell would ring any minute. I finished writing the last sentence on my own worksheet and put my pencil down. The less homework I had tonight, the more time I’d have to chat with my friends and watch a movie. Maybe play with the new makeup I’d bought over Fourth of July weekend.
I tried to mouth something back to Emerson, but the bell rang.
He walked right over. “Remind me why I should care about this again.”
I stood up. “Because it’ll help you do well on the test and pass the class. So you can graduate.” And avoid juvenile detention. “Come on, we’ll work on it at the nursing home. It’s not that bad. I promise.”
He scoffed. “You promise?”
Emerson followed me out of class, and I ignored the pointed looks from Becca and her friends. Lately, Emerson and I had been talking more and more during class. Working together when the teacher allowed group work or saying hello in the mornings.
It must have been odd to everyone, seeing as how Emerson didn’t usually say hi to anyone.
And he was turning in most of his work, mostly because I wouldn’t stop nagging him—in a gentle way, of course—until he did. And studying. At the nursing home anyway. No one had been more surprised than Mr. Nguyen when Emerson had earned a B on the latest quiz.
Emerson had shown me his paper right away. “At this rate, I might actually pass.”
“I told you you could do it,” I said. “Showing up is 80 percent of getting a B.”
We made our way to the nursing home together. Up ahead, Ms. Moreau stepped out of her office. I liked the eighties vibe she had going on with the fanny pack she wore around her waist and the high-waisted jeans. Her pristine white sneakers and pastel-colored t-shirt finished off the look perfectly.
Her eyes met mine, and she smiled.
I smiled back.
“Emerson, Harper, I was hoping to catch you two. Can I see you for a minute?” she asked.
We followed her into her office, and she closed the door. We sat down in front of her desk, and she walked around to her own seat. “I won’t take up too much of your time. I know they must be waiting
for you back at the nursing home. But since I’m the student advisor for your elective, I wanted to take a few minutes to check in.” She rested her hands on her desk. “So how is everything going so far?”
Emerson and I glanced at each other.
I turned back to Ms. Moreau. “Really good. I’m having a lot of fun volunteering.”
Ms. Moreau directed her gaze at Emerson, who shrugged. “I like it.”
Ms. Moreau nodded. “Good. Mrs. Porter tells me you two are doing great with attendance, with the exception of a few absences.” She gave a discreet smile to Emerson who looked down. “But attendance has been pretty much perfect recently, which is excellent. I’m glad you two are enjoying your time there. I know they’ve been grateful for the help.”
She paused for a moment, and I wondered if that was it.
But she looked up at us again. “I also wanted to let you know that there will be a final for this elective. The majority of your grade will come from attendance and a general evaluation from Ms. Nancy. You two seem to be doing fine there. But to receive full credit for the class, you’ll also be required to turn in a final project within a month’s time.”
I sat up. “What kind of project?” I asked, ready to be handed a rubric of some sort. I could handle rubrics. But none came.
Ms. Moreau smiled. “You get to create your own project. Doesn’t that sound like fun?”
I glanced at Emerson again, whose expression didn’t really look like he was having fun. More like he was holding back a huge groan.
“You can work together or individually, it’s up to you. But I want you to think of some kind of project that will involve the community and involve the nursing home. Your proposal for this project is due in a week. After that, the project, your report of how it all went, and what you learned will be due at the end of the month. On your last day.”
She finally handed each off us a sheet of paper, outlining most of what she had just said.
#GoodGirlBadBoy Page 6