Emma-Jean Lazarus Fell Out of a Tree Read Free Page A

picked up Colleen’s backpack, which was bright pink like most of the items in Colleen’s wardrobe. Emma-Jean handed the backpack to Colleen and then picked up her own schoolbag, the leather briefcase that had belonged to her father. The leather was worn in places, but it was roomy enough to hold Emma-Jean’s meticulous notebooks and sketchbook, her favorite pen and two sharp pencils, and a metal thermos containing her lunch.
    Emma-Jean was turning toward the door when Colleen grabbed her by the hand.
    “Oh gosh, I can’t. I can’t go out there. I just can’t. Oh . . . Emma-Jean, please help me.”
    Emma-Jean froze, as startled by the warmth of Colleen’s hand as by her unexpected words.
    Help me.
    Colleen dropped Emma-Jean’s hand and rushed back to the sink. She turned her back on Emma-Jean and cried with renewed vigor. Emma-Jean was unsure how to proceed. She maintained a general policy of staying out of the messy lives of her fellow seventh graders. But never before had one of them directly appealed to her for assistance.
    Emma-Jean thought of Jules Henri Poincaré, her father’s hero. The legendary French mathematician believed that even the most complex problems could be solved through a process of creative thinking. It was true that Poincaré worked on chaos theory and celestial mechanics, not the interpersonal problems of seventh-grade girls. But what if a kind and cheerful seventh grader like Colleen Pomerantz had asked for his help? Emma-Jean believed Poincaré would have accepted the challenge.
    An unusual surge of energy came over Emma-Jean, very possibly a thrill, as she took a step toward Colleen. She had the feeling of walking through an invisible door, the door that had always seemed to separate her from her fellow seventh graders.
    Surprisingly, the door was wide open.

Chapter 2
    An alarm went off in Colleen Pomerantz’s brain, and it was way louder than the Hello Kitty alarm clock that had woken her up at 6:30 that morning, when everything seemed really perfect or pretty good or at least okay.
    Oh gosh! Colleen! Get a grip! You are sobbing in the bathroom and everyone is going to find out and they’re all going to think that you are crazy!
    Colleen held on to the sink. She took some more deep breaths, which were supposed to be relaxing but were not at all relaxing. A minute ago she thought she could pull herself together, that she could go out there and face the world.
    But now . . .
    Oh gosh, she felt sick.
    She could faint!
    Or throw up!
    In the girls’ room!
    People would laugh as she walked through the halls. They would stare at her and whisper things while she ate her turkey and nonfat cheese sandwich. They’d make up a horrible name for her, like Crazy Colleen, or Crazy Throw-up Colleen (Colleen was bad at thinking up nicknames, but some people were really good at it).
    Then a voice whispered in Colleen’s head:
    Emma-Jean Lazarus won’t tell anyone.
    Oh gosh.
    It was true.
    Emma-Jean Lazarus was probably the only person in the whole school who wouldn’t go around blabbing about Colleen’s breakdown in the bathroom.
    Colleen looked at Emma-Jean. Really looked. Right then Emma-Jean didn’t look weird. She looked kind and wise, a little like the statue of the Virgin Mary at Colleen’s church.
    And why hadn’t Colleen ever noticed how pretty Emma-Jean was? Her long brown hair was totally thick and shiny and had way more natural body than Colleen’s. Emma-Jean’s skin was perfectly smooth. And look at her eyes, how pretty, bright green with little sparkles of blue, like Kaitlin’s cat’s.
    Colleen studied Teen Beauty magazine each and every month, and right then she realized Emma-Jean would be totally perfect for their “Beauty Police” section, where the editors kidnap someone off the street and give her a total makeover. Emma-Jean had natural beauty but no style.
    Colleen might have even said this to Emma-Jean, right then and there, but Colleen was pretty sure Emma-Jean