Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree Read Free

people than the 103 boys and 98 girls with whom she spent her school days. But their behavior was often irrational. And as a result, their lives were messy. Emma-Jean disliked disorder of any kind, and had thus made it her habit to keep herself separate, to observe from afar.
    Colleen looked at herself in the mirror and gasped. “Oh my gosh! Look at me! I look like a monster!”
    Emma-Jean leaned forward and inspected Colleen’s reflection. She saw nothing monstrous. Colleen’s eyes were merely red and swollen, which was to be expected of a person in a distressed emotional state. Emma-Jean went to the paper towel dispenser and pulled out a length of the scratchy brown paper. She wet it, folded it into a perfect rectangle, and held it out to Colleen.
    “Put this on your eyes,” Emma-Jean said. “It will minimize the redness and swelling.”
    This treatment had always worked well for Emma-Jean’s mother, who cried for several hours every July 2 and for several more every November 3.
    July 2 was the birthday of Eugene Lazarus, Emma-Jean’s father. November 3 was the anniversary of his death. He died two years, three months, and fourteen days ago, when Emma-Jean was ten, in a car accident on I-95. He had been on his way home from a math conference, where he had submitted his award-winning paper on the legendary French mathematician Jules Henri Poincaré.
    Colleen accepted the wet towel and held it against her eyes. To promote an atmosphere of calm, Emma-Jean stood very still with her hands folded in front of her pressed khakis. All was silent except for the slow drip of the right-hand sink.
    “It’s all Laura’s fault,” Colleen whispered. “Laura Gilroy.”
    Emma-Jean nodded, for she too often found Laura Gilroy to be disturbing. She was bossy and loud and slammed her locker. Every day at recess, Laura led a group of seventh-grade girls, including Colleen, through a series of dance routines. If someone stumbled or did the wrong move (often it was Colleen who tripped or missed a choreographed kick or turn), Laura would laugh and call them unkind names, such as klutz or spaz. When Laura grew tired of dancing, she would run to the basketball court and snatch the ball from Will Keeler and his friends. Then she would gallop around the blacktop screaming, “Try to get me! Try to get me!”
    Emma-Jean wasn’t the least bit surprised that Laura Gilroy could cause Colleen Pomerantz to cry.
    “The thing is,” Colleen said, pressing the paper towels against her eyes, “Laura is trying to steal Kaitlin from me.”
    Kaitlin was Kaitlin Vogel.
    “Kaitlin’s my best friend, did you know that?”
    Of course Emma-Jean knew. She knew just about everything about her fellow seventh graders.
    “And every single February, the last weekend, I go with Kaitlin and her parents up to ski in Vermont. But Laura got it in her head that she should go this year. Instead of me. And Laura can be so . . . powerful that somehow she got Kaitlin to invite her.”
    Colleen shivered, though the girls’ room was stuffy and warm.
    “The thing is,” she continued, “I’m the one who loves to ski! I’m the one who loves Kaitlin! And I’m the one who Kaitlin really wants to be with!”
    “That is obvious,” Emma-Jean said.
    Colleen removed the paper towel from her eyes and regarded Emma-Jean with keen interest. “You think so?”
    “Of course,” Emma-Jean said. “She always saves you a chair in the cafeteria, and won’t let anyone else sit there, even when you are late.”
    “That’s true,” Colleen said. “She did that today.”
    “Kaitlin has great affection for you,” Emma-Jean said. “I am certain.”
    Colleen threw the used paper towel into the trash receptacle. She took a deep breath and exhaled a cloud of bubble-gum-scented breath that made Emma-Jean blink. “Thanks, Emma-Jean,” she said with a tremulous smile. “You’re really nice to say all that.”
    The bell rang, signaling the beginning of last period. Emma-Jean