Other Echoes

by Noe Dearden

  *****

  Emi’s encounter with Josh left her feeling strange. She couldn’t shake off a new curiosity about his life. He was definitely still a jerk, but now she had a new image in her mind: a guy who took care of his siblings and shared a dingy bedroom with his baby brother. Emi kept thinking about that saggy, old mattress and the peeling blue wallpaper. The image didn’t square with the golden, snobbish façade Josh projected at school.

  On Sunday, Emi went to Iris’s dance recital at the mall. Initially, she hadn’t seriously thought about going, but Iris had sounded so excited. The look on her face when she begged Emi to go had been earnest and eager; it was hard to brush-off. Besides, Emi remembered what it was like dancing for an audience the first time, back when she was a little kid herself. She figured there was no harm in stopping by to cheer Iris on.

  It was actually pretty fun watching all those little kids whispering in excitement and jumping around before the performance. That was the best part. The dancing itself was awful. All the kids botched the choreography, and nobody was moving in unison. Iris kept awkwardly hitching up her pants, which were so big on her she was practically swimming in them. Even so, she was the best one in the class. She had real stage presence.

  As Emi slipped out after the show, she spotted Josh in the front row of foldout chairs. She decided not to say hello. She didn’t want to creep him out too much.

  It was puzzling. She used to think Josh felt superior to everyone at Staley, but that didn’t seem quite right any more. What true jerk went to his little sister’s dance performance on a Sunday afternoon? And if Josh wasn’t a real jerk, then why did he isolate himself so much at school? It didn’t add up.

  Emi found it especially puzzling now that she knew first-hand what social rejection felt like. She couldn’t imagine anyone willingly choosing to be a loner. Kainoa’s group simply refused to acknowledge Emi’s presence at school and it drove her up the wall. It was especially irksome at lunchtime, when none of her old friends invited her to join their table. Ever since Charlotte volunteered to work in Mr. Kerrigan’s classroom during lunchtime to help make up for destroying his car, Emi usually wound up eating alone and reading a book.

  But the most horrible time of day by far was PE class. That was when the snubbing was at its worst.

  For whatever reason, a lot of the people she used to hang out with when Kainoa was her boyfriend were also taking racquetball first quarter. Needless to say, spending forty sweat-filled minutes trapped inside a tiny room with one of her ex-friends was a hellish experience.

  For Monday’s PE class, it was Ethan she had to play against. When they received their partner assignments, Ethan acted like he didn’t know her, even though he’d been at her birthday party last year. They’d gone surfing together countless times. She’d even visited his ranch on the Big Island twice.

  After they had fetched their racquets from Coach Rigo, she and Ethan walked into the enclosed court and the door shut ominously behind them with a loud bang.

  “Who’s serving?” Emi asked, her voice reverberating against the high walls.

  He had his back to her. “You.”

  She walked up to the service zone and swung through the hips, like Coach Rigo had taught them. Unfortunately, her racquet hit at a strange angle and the ball fell on the short line.

  “Fault serve,” he called.

  She grit her teeth together at Ethan’s clipped, impersonal tone of voice.

  She tried again. This time she put a little too much aggression into her swing, because the ball hit the front wall and rebounded to the ceiling.

  “Out,” he said.

  As he strode past to retrieve the ball, she saw him roll his eyes.

  “Excuse me!” she said angrily, snagging his shirtsleeve. “Do you have a problem, Ethan?”

  “What?” he said innocently.

  “I saw that face you made. What’s the matter with you?”

  “Nothing.” He was defiant.

  “Don’t say nothing.”

  “What are you getting so worked up about?” He began bouncing the ball expertly with his racquet in a rapid drumroll. She used her own racquet to bat the ball away from him and into her hand.

  “Come on, Ethan. What’s up?” she demanded.

  “I honestly don’t know what you’re referring to.”

  “We used to be friends, more or less. But now you’re treating me like a stranger,” Emi said, annoyed that she had to spell it out for him. “You and everyone else.”

  He looked at her like she was crazy.

  “Don’t pull me into your drama,” he said. “You were Kainoa’s girl. Now you’re not. I have nothing to do with that.”

  “What does the break-up have to do with our friendship?” she asked. “And I don’t only mean yours and mine. I’ve been getting the cold shoulder from Colby, Lance, Marina, Tori…”

  He looked at her impassively. “You haven’t been hanging out with us.”

  “I would, but everyone ignores me now.”

  “That’s your perception,” he said.

  Now it was Emi’s turn to roll her eyes. Guys were impossible to talk to. Ethan had about as much sensitivity as a teapot.

  “What are they saying about me?” she asked, crossing her arms.

  “Who?”

  “You know who.”

  “Don’t flatter yourself. They don’t talk about you.”

  “Really?”

  “Why would anyone talk about you?”

  “Did Kainoa say why we broke up?”

  “Yeah. Because he’s dating Natalie now,” Ethan said obtusely.

  “I know that. But…” Suddenly, Emi was exhausted by the conversation. There was no point beating a dead horse. She backed away.

  “You’re impossible,” she said. “Your serve.”

  She bounced the ball at him, and he had to scramble to fetch it.

  “The girls never liked you, if that’s what you mean,” Ethan said once he had recovered composure. “Tori and Marina. They call you names.”

  Emi narrowed her eyes. “Yeah?”

  “The Anorexorcist. Affirmative Action Figure…”

  “Affirmative Action Figure?” Emi interrupted. “Because I’m part Hawaiian?”

  “Marina calls you The E.M.I.,” Ethan said.

  “What’s that?”

  “Ego-Maniacal Ice-queen.”

  Emi looked at him blankly. “That would be E.M.IQ,” she said. “Emiq isn’t even a word.”

  Coach Rigo pounded on the windows that looked down on the courts. “You’re not here to stand around talking story,” she shouted down at them. “Get your rears into gear!”

  Emi wanted to say more, but she knew the conversation was over.

  “Your serve,” she said again, acid in her voice.

  She did not play well that day. Ethan trounced her, 15-2.

  Chapter 8