Loving Emily
Authors: Anne Pfeffer
by
Anne Pfeffer
Contents
CHAPTERS
12
|
13
|
14
|
15
|
16
|
17
|
18
|
19
|
20
|
21
|
22
23
|
24
|
25
|
26
|
27
|
28
|
29
|
30
|
31
|
32
|
33
34
|
35
|
36
|
37
|
38
|
39
|
40
|
41
|
42
|
43
|
44
45
|
46
|
47
|
48
|
49
|
50
|
51
|
52
|
53
|
54
|
55
© 2011 by Anne Pfeffer
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author.
To my parents,
who read every version of this book
and cheered for me every step of the way
Love you, Mom and Dad
I couldn’t have written and published Loving Emily without the following people:
My fabulous writing teacher, Linzi Glass, whose ideas and advice improved every page of this book, and my talented fellow students: Adele Plotkin, Traude Gomez Rhine, Shelli Lether, Leba Haber, Sylva Kelegian, Jean Monte, and Linda Williamson
My writing buddy, Cortney Pearson, who’s been so generous with moral support and manuscript reads
Meredith Efken, who helped me give shape and structure to my book
Deborah Brodie and Eric Elfman, who gave encouragement and editorial help
My teen consultants: Brandon Touloujian, Leonardo Lawrence, and Carlos Villegas
The special fans on Inkpop.com, who stayed in touch and supported me all the way: Jake Smith, Andy Dennis Doiron, Dana Jacobs, Jesse de Angelo, Diane Stiffler, Lia Sunny, Maddy 11, Raven Paramour, and Peyton (Retroplaid). Also the many, many other Inkpoppers who read Loving Emily and gave such great and supportive comments
Christian LeGraand, who supplied spot-on tennis knowledge
My brother, Robert Tolone, who advised patiently and whenever I called on artistic matters
Gaelyn Larrick, who photographed and designed my beautiful cover, and my gorgeous cover models, Dash Fraser and Simona Mieger
A
ny other night, I’d be down for driving my best friend Michael to the party, but tonight is different. Tonight is the Sweet Sixteen birthday party for Emily Wintraub.
Who I think I’m in love with.
Not that I actually know her, by the way—I’ve never actually spoken to her. But all of that’s about to change.
I send Michael a text.
i want to get there early.
Michael never gets to parties early. His answer comes back to me.
why?
But then he remembers.
u gonna talk to her tonite?
yeah
awesum—go for it dude. I’ll meet u there
So I shower and wrestle with my hair to make it lie smooth, but it goes all wavy on me anyway, and put on a nice shirt and sports jacket and splash on some manly cologne. I take off in my prize possession—the hot, red BMW 3 series convertible that my folks gave me for my sixteenth birthday. I pull into the Malibu Breakers Club parking lot at exactly 8:05, thinking Sweet! I’m the first one here. I’ll have her all to myself.
Cool and self-confident, I saunter down the steps to an area of beach where they’ve put up this canopy over a dance floor and tables set for dinner. The sight of Emily nearly knocks me over. She looks amazing, with this flower or something in her hair and this little dress that goes in and out in all the right places and stops mid-thigh, so I can scope out her legs.
I can’t believe this.
Even this early, she’s surrounded. She’s standing with Derek Masters, the six-foot-two-inch captain of the school basketball team. He wears his hair gelled and spiked, but it actually looks decent on him. I’ve heard he can sink a basketball from mid-court blindfolded.
Derek’s got his hand on her back like he owns her or something. Not only that, but there’s a freaking mob of kids hanging around them, all wanting to talk to her.
This was not part of my plan.
I force myself to chill and wait for my chance to get her alone, spending the next forty-five minutes hanging with these guys I know while Masters and some other clowns monopolize her on the dance floor.
This party blows. If it weren’t for Emily, and the promise I’d made myself to talk to her, I’d get out of here and take a walk down by the water.
Now, Michael’s making his entrance, slouching his way toward me through the crowd. There are a lot of people here by now, since the Wintraubs invited our whole junior class from Pacific Prep Academy.
He’s still got his tan and sun-streaked hair, left over from the summer, and he’s wearing faded jeans and his favorite leather bomber jacket.
“Hi Michael!” A posse of girls in tight partywear waves to him, but he just lays one of his super-charming smiles on them and keeps moving.
He reaches me, slapping me on the back. “Yo, Ryan! Lead me to the drinks!”
We wade through the sand to the drink table and inspect the offerings.
“A piss poor selection!” Michael declares, viewing the sodas and other non-alcoholic choices. “You want a Coke?” He pours one for each of us. “For the real refreshments, we’ll have to wait until Chase gets here.”
“Chase?
He’s coming tonight?”
Chase Cavanaugh moved here to LA with his family about three months ago, in June, and started at Pacific Prep this fall.
“Yeah. He’s on his way. When he gets here, you wanna come with us to the parking lot? Do some serious partying?”
“Gee, lemme think a minute—no thanks.” I do a quick scan for Emily, checking out the dance floor and dining area, where guests are now chowing down fajitas and enchiladas.
“Aw, c’mon!”
I don’t see her anywhere. “Michael, that guy’s bad news.”
“No worries, dude,” he says, taking a drink from his cup and studying the ice sculpture on the drink table. He tilts his head sideways, squinting at it. It’s a man wearing a sombrero.
“Does this thing have tequila running through it?” Michael sounds hopeful.
“
No.”
Since he took up with Chase, it seems like all Michael thinks about is getting loaded. I look around again for Emily, but she’s nowhere in sight.
His eyes begin to sparkle. “Let’s take it.”
Maybe she’s off hooking up with one of those dudes from the dance floor. Someone who got to her before I did. My stomach does a few flip flops at the thought.
“What? The sculpture?” Already, I see the possibilities for humor. But not at Emily’s party. “No way.”
Maybe she’s hooking up with Masters. More flip flops—a lot of them now.
“Come on,” he says, “this thing’s a prank waiting to happen!”
“Forget it!” But the idea would be so excellent, under other circumstances, that I have to ask, “What do you mean, take it?”
“I dunno. Move it to a more appropriate location. Like maybe, the men’s locker room?”
Just then a girl walks up to Michael, Maura somebody. She’s skinny, with a pale, rabbity face and this habit of clearing her throat every ten seconds. She kind of sighs as she looks up at him.
Still no sign of Emily.
“Hi, Michael!”
This girl has no chance with him. None. A billy goat would have a better chance of winning the Kentucky Derby.
“Hey, Maura,” Michael says. “You keeping track of those polygons for me in Geometry?”
Maura nods. “If you want to come over and study some time…”
“You know me. I never study more than one day before a test. But can I ask you questions sometimes during class?”
“Sure!” Maura looks thrilled to be getting even that much attention from him.
Michael jokes around with her for a few minutes, then looking off into the distance, says “Jeez, Maura, I promised someone I’d meet him, and he’s here now.” He manages to sound genuinely sorry. “I’ll see you around school, okay?”
She leaves, glowing like she just won a cruise trip, while the two of us stare after her.
“I think you’ve found your woman,” I say. Speaking of which, by now I’m ready to lead a search party for Emily.
“
Right.”
He laughs a little, then shrugs. “She’s not so bad. She’s nice.”
That’s the thing about Michael. For all his craziness, I’ve never heard him say a mean word about anyone.
A stocky guy in a rumpled shirt wanders up and punches Michael in the arm.
“Hi, Chase,” I say, without enthusiasm.
His eyes are red-rimmed, and he hasn’t shaved in probably a week. From his dressing and grooming habits, you’d never know this guy’s dad is almost a billionaire. “You ready, dude?” he says.
“Ready!” Michael sways as he steps forward, and for the first time I realize he’s on something, or maybe he’s drunk. He had it under control, so I didn’t notice it until now.
Crap.
And he’s planning a visit to Chase’s car trunk.
“I’d better go with you,” I say. Or start to say, because a vision appears before me. She’s coming down the steps from the club with a couple of other girls, her dark hair swinging, her body curving in ways that I find endlessly fascinating. It’s Emily, and she’s headed my way.
T
he first time I noticed her was at afternoon car pool. It was last year, before I turned sixteen and got my Beemer.
In fact, it was not Emily that I saw first, but her dog, a golden lab who looked a whole lot like my own dog, Jasper, who had died. I was waiting on the curb in front of school for Rosario, our housekeeper, to come, when a white sedan showed up. A dog’s head rammed through the open back window, joyously spraying saliva. His whole body wiggled with dog love at the sight of a girl with skin like the pinky-white interior of a rose and shiny dark hair swinging past her shoulders.
I would trust a dog’s judgment. This girl had to be excellent.
“Hey, Toby!” She didn’t seem to mind when he lunged halfway out the window and planted his slobbery lips on her face. I was impressed. Not all girls could handle that. I didn’t know who I was more jealous of: the girl, for having the dog, or the dog, for getting to kiss her.
After that I started seeing her around campus all the time, walking with her friends or studying in the library. She had this smooth dark hair that I wanted to touch and this light in her eyes that just wouldn’t go out, as if she was never bored or mad or in doubt about anything. Me, I lived in a world of doubt. I wanted to meet her.
And now she’s walking in my direction.
“Go without me,” I tell Michael.
“You sure?” Then he catches sight of Emily and, raising an eyebrow at me, heads off with Chase for the parking lot.
Emily arrives at the drink table, and for the first time this evening, she’s alone. I move in on her.
“Happy birthday, Emily. I’m Ryan Mills.”
She gives me one of her fantastic smiles. “I know who you are. I’ve seen you at school.”
My heart does a kickflip, but I keep it together. She and I had exchanged a few accidental glances last year that jolted me down to the soles of my Converse high tops. I wonder if she remembers them, too.
I wish I were more of a chick magnet, like Michael. He has always been taller, tanner, blonder, and more buff than me. I’m stuck with medium brown hair and an average build, so I try to make up for it by projecting coolness whenever possible.
“I think you’re in my history class.” The school year has just started, and it’s the first thought that enters my mind. It’s a completely random thing for me to say. No way is she in my history class.
A cute crinkle appears between her eyebrows. “You’re not in Hellman’s European History, are you?” Hellman’s is the AP class for brains. Me, I’m in the regular class with all the boneheads.
“European History’s my favorite,” she says. “Especially English history.”
“Oh yeah?” I trot out the miniscule amount of knowledge in my possession. “Like Henry the Eighth, right? And all those wives?”