Emily For Real (3 page)

I just stand there because that bit of information sounds like only the beginning.

Aunt Em sighs and stops looking at her hands. “She told me she and Dad had an affair for twenty-three years. A relationship, she called it.”

My brain just can't handle that information. Any of it. It's just too weird. Granddad and Cynthia Maxwell? Twenty-three years? Twenty-three!

“I agree,” says Aunt Em, even though I haven't said anything. She read my face.

“That's too weird,” is all I can manage to say. I don't like to think of my grandfather having sex so I'm blurring all the images that are trying to form in my mind. “And no one knew? What about Meredith?”

“We'll never know,” she says, and I guess that's true.

“But Mrs. Maxwell lives in Montreal.”

“Dad went to conferences all over the place. She went too.”

I still can't picture this. “So why's she telling us now?”

“I think she needed us to know, to finally say that she used to be an important part of his life too. Knowing Dad, he would have insisted that she keep their secret. Not that it matters anymore.”

Over my dead body,
I hear him say. Then I think about Mom leaving the room like that and it makes sense. Just one more thing Granddad did to make her dislike him even more. If Mom had known about that affair, there would have been a million turkey dinners he would never have been invited to at our house, that's for sure.

Then I think about how I might feel if Dad had an affair and I didn't know. “Are your feelings hurt?”

“Not really.” But she sighs again, and when she looks up at me her face is all wobbly. “Emily,” she says, “life isn't simple.”

If I hadn't come into the kitchen like that just when they were talking about Cynthia Maxwell's secret life with Granddad, I don't think I'd know any of this stuff. So I say, “Brian broke up with me.” I tell her this because I want her to know that I know life isn't simple.

Her face changes and I can see she's surprised. “When?”

“Last week. I can't believe he'd be that cold-hearted. He has a new girlfriend. She's French and goes to McGill and I guess she's in one of his classes.” I can't hold it in any longer and I start to cry.

Aunt Em gets up and gives me one of her hugs and smoothes my hair and says, “Emily, I'm sorry.”

That's when Dad comes back into the room.

The room sort of changes temperature, like it feels colder and quieter.

“I didn't tell her everything,” says Aunt Em softly. “Not about the accident.”

Dad sits down. His shoulders cave in and he tells me as much as he knows. “She drove over to Dad's office that morning and went up the outside back stairs to surprise him. She was bringing a picnic. She must've seen Dad and Cynthia Maxwell through the window. They found the picnic basket on the landing after Dad got the call that she wasn't home. Then the police came to say she died in the car accident.” He hasn't looked at me the whole time he's telling this. “She was upset. Distracted.”

“Gerry.” Aunt Em is standing behind Dad with her hands on his shoulders.

“Jesus,” he says.

“Twenty-three years,” says Aunt Em in a whisper.

I'm thinking about Cynthia Maxwell getting married and moving to Montreal and Meredith marrying Granddad and loving Dad and Aunt Em as much as any mother would love her own children. And all those conferences where Cynthia Maxwell and Granddad had their affair.

But I'm quiet because now Dad and Aunt Em are looking at each other with nothing to say.

Three

Mr. Canning's writing on the board and doesn't notice there's a guy outside the door. The guy's big. Big. He isn't smiling and his black eyebrows have this permanent scowl. He's definitely not happy to be standing out there and it doesn't look like he'll be happy when he comes in.

Cory obviously knows him. “Hey, Leo. What's up?”

Mr. Canning looks over and sees the guy standing there. “Good morning,” he says and walks to the door. “You must be Leo Mac. Welcome. Come in and find a seat. Perhaps—”

“He can sit here,” says Cory, which surprises me because he's not exactly the welcoming-committee type. And
here
happens to be at this table where I'm sitting too.

Mr. Canning seems relieved that someone in the class knows Leo. “Excellent,” he says. “Emily and Cory can familiarize you with the assignment we've just begun.” He goes back to writing on the board while almost everyone else in the class is still checking out the new guy.

He walks over and sits down without saying anything. Then he notices the book next to my elbow and says, “
Romeo and Juliet
. What crap.”

“It's not that bad.” I'm a bit defensive because I've actually been liking
Romeo and Juliet
. Separated lovers. Dead-end romance. Story of my life.

“They're idiots,” he says. “Do you know how old they are? She's twelve. Twelve! And Romeo's not much older. Shakespeare's a pervert.”

Cory's enjoying this. He's leaning way back in his chair and grinning like it's a contest between this guy Leo and me, and I'm not winning.

I'm thinking about the look Cory'd have on his face if his chair slipped and he crashed to the floor.

“So you've already studied
Romeo and Juliet
,” says Mr. Canning, who doesn't miss a thing even if his back is turned.

“Yeah. In grade five,” says Leo with a smirk, exaggerating grade five.

“Shakespeare's writing appeals to all ages,” says Mr. Canning. He puts down the chalk and comes to our table. “Since Nathaniel's absent this week, Cory and Emily could benefit from your help with their project, especially given your previous study of this Shakespearean tragedy.”

Leo doesn't look interested in helping anyone. “I'm not acting anything out.”

“You don't have to,” says Cory. “We're supposed to come up with a theme song for act one, like if it's a movie. Then we have to explain why we picked it.”

“Whoopee.”

Already I like Leo. He's funny, if you look for it. He knows he's funny too because the corner of his mouth gets this little bend in it when he holds back a smile. Comic relief.

Jenn's waiting for me in the cafeteria. As if she'd eat. She only goes there because that's where everyone hangs out. She says it isn't attractive to have food in your mouth when you're checking guys out. She does have a point, but I'm starving. And I'm definitely not checking guys out. Indefinitely.

Cory and Leo and I are still together because the two of them are trying to convince me to lip-sync in English class tomorrow. They both play guitar and now they're suddenly into this project because they've got this idea to play along with the song we picked while I lip-sync.

“No way.”

“Come on, Emily.”

“No.”

“What if we just do the last verse?” says Cory.

“That's the only one that's got anything to do with the stupid play, anyway,” says Leo.

I can't believe he's even remotely interested in this project.

“We should practice,” says Cory. “We could use our garage.”

“Practice what?” says Jenn. She's looking at Leo, checking him out. He is definitely not her type. Too tall. Too big. Too interesting, actually.

“Good idea,” says Leo. “What time?”

“I don't know. Seven? Eight?”

They both look at me.

“Count me out.”

“Seven-thirty,” says Leo. “See you later.” And he leaves the cafeteria.

“Don't let us down, Emily,” says Cory and he takes off too.

“Practice what?” says Jenn again.

“It's for English. And it's not gonna happen.”

“Who's the new guy?”

“Leo. Cory knows him.”

“Cory's cute.”

“He has a girlfriend. Stop trying to set me up, Jenn.”

“Don't blame me for Friday night.”

I roll my eyes and go stand in line to get an egg sandwich on whole wheat. They're always the freshest.

It's 7:20. Every five minutes I'm looking at the clock and thinking there's no way I'm going over to Cory's to practice in his garage. But I'm lying to myself.

“I have to work on a project with a couple of guys in my English class,” I say to Mom. “I'll just be over on Rosemead.”

“Call Dad to come for you if it gets too late.”

Mom's always picturing the worst-case scenario. She watches too much TV, like she's doing right now. She's happy watching TV, though. Soaps. Or shows where losers win. Or make-overs. Mom identifies with stuff like that. She wants to belong. I've actually never thought of it that way. I might be wrong.

It's cold out. My fingers feel frozen even with my hands stuffed in my pockets. There's bunches of leaves blowing around, scraping the sidewalk like fingernails on a chalkboard, which gives me major shivers. Even the streetlights make me think of ice.

I hear their guitars a few houses away from Cory's. They don't sound bad. But right now I feel like turning around and going back home.

I get to Cory's driveway and see the side door of the garage open, so I walk in before I can change my mind. The sound goes suddenly from blasting guitars to nothing.

“Told you she'd come,” says Leo.

Cory sets up a microphone. He's got an electric guitar and Leo's got a regular one. There's an amplifier and extension cords and a lawn mower and a snow blower and a workbench that looks identical to Dad's, all piled with tools and cans of paint, so there's really no space left to work on.

“If I'm just lip-syncing, what's this mic for?”

“We need a singer,” says Leo.

“I'm not a singer.”

“You don't have to be a singer, you just have to sing,” says Cory, handing me the lyrics. “You come in after this riff.” He plays something unrecognizable but excellent. “It's in A major. Try it.” He gives me the chord.

I do nothing. What am I doing here?

“Come on, Emily. It's easy.” He gives me the chord again.

When I do nothing again, he starts back at the riff and this time Leo plays along with him.

I stand in front of the microphone, facing the big garage doors and make myself try the first line. Disaster.

“Too low,” says Leo. “Let's try it in C.” He gives me the C chord and hums it.

I'm remembering how much I used to like singing in elementary school with Miss Taylor giving us the note on her little harmonica. I try again.

“Close,” says Cory.

“Let's just listen to the song all the way through,” says Leo.

Cory pushes in the CD and unplugs his guitar from the amplifier. He plays silently except for the soft, squealing sound of his fingers on the strings of his electric guitar.

“Okay, let's try again,” says Leo. “Ready?”

“Not really,” I say. But no one's listening.

“One, two. One, two, three.”

Their guitars start, one like an echo of the other. And then they're together. Precision. High notes like wind howling through telephone wires. Gusts and blasts of wind. Then quieter and Leo's large fingers move up the neck of his guitar and slide down. Cory brings in a few howls through the telephone wires. I hear the riff and get ready.

My voice through the microphone is like it isn't mine. It's bigger. And smoother. Then it wobbles and falls flat.

The guitars stop, with a note or two still floating up out of the amplifier before it's totally quiet.

“Don't think about your voice.” Leo's obviously read my mind. “Just think about what the song means.”

“And breathe,” says Cory.

“But don't suck in air in front of the mic.”

“One, two. One, two, three.”

By the eleventh or thirteenth try, I'm making it all the way through the song, mostly because Cory and Leo don't stop when I mess up. When the song works and my voice is with the guitars, I can really feel it. I sing at those garage doors like there's an audience there. Thousands of people.

Cory and Leo have this kind of wave going as we come into the last two lines. This feels amazing. Cory does the ending riff and I add in the last word of the last line again, only softer. Leo gives us a couple of tumbling notes and then a single final note.

“Yes!”

I face the garage doors and shout into the mic, “Thank you! Thank you! On guitars behind me—Cory Bell and Leo Mac. I'm Emily Sinclair. Thank you! Good night!”

We're all grinning.

“That rocked, man,” says Leo.

And I haven't even thought about Brian ... except for right this second.

***

Leo and I walk to the end of Cory's driveway and turn in the same direction, which is heading to where I live. I don't know where Leo lives. He's carrying his guitar in a canvas case that hangs off his shoulder. I don't really know what to say to him at first, so I go for the obvious. “Why'd you transfer to our school?”

“Had to.”

“How come?”

“They say I have anger issues,” says Leo flatly. “Some light bulb thinks changing schools'll change me. Stupid idiot.”

I'm not sure how to respond to that. I can't figure Leo out. Being next to him right now is like being next to a bear. A tame bear. He's so tall and big. But maybe he could forget the fact that he's tame.

Out of nowhere he says, “You need to know you're not my type.”

“What're you talking about?”

“Just what I said.”

“I know what you said, but I don't have a clue why you said it.” My cheeks are burning red. Who does this guy think he is? “You don't think I've got the hots for you, do you?”

“Not yet.”

“Oh, like you can see it coming and this is some kind of warning for me. Well, you're so wrong!”

“Okay then, I'm wrong.”

We keep walking without saying anything. I'm trying not to be mad, but this is a very touchy subject for me right now. Very. I can't help it. And no way am I explaining anything to Leo about me and Brian.

I picture Brian this very minute, walking down a street in Montreal with his French girlfriend. Maybe his arm is around her and she's very small and fits right up against him like a jigsaw puzzle.

I feel like I'm walking in deep water and a wave of sadness is crashing over me.

“My street's down this way,” I say.

“Right. When's English tomorrow?”

“Second class.”

“Okay. See ya.”

Leo crosses the street with his hands in his pockets and his shoulders hunched up and the guitar hanging on his back. Watching him gives me this lonely feeling.

When I get home, Dad's standing in the kitchen eating toast and drinking milk, meaning he's pretty sure he'll have a hard time getting to sleep. The TV in the living room's off so Mom's already in bed.

“Hungry?” Dad asks.

“Not really,” I say.

“How'd your school project go?”

“Okay.”

His face is all saggy and he's holding the piece of toast like it weighs a ton. Usually he has green eyes, pale green like mine, but right now they're gray. I know what he's thinking about, but I don't know what to say.

He takes a drink of milk. “I can see how confused and hurt our mother would've been if she saw Dad
with another woman
. She probably wanted to get out of there and just drive. Shake off those awful feelings before she had to face us kids.”

“It makes sense,” I say. With another woman. No one's said exactly what was going on when my grandmother looked in that window but it isn't impossible to figure out.

Dad just looks at me with his pale gray eyes and his saggy face.

What I'm wearing is so lame. This short black skirt and black boots and a tight white top and this wispy turquoise scarf tied around my waist. My hair is falling across my eye and you can only see one of my earrings dangling down. I look like a rock-star wannabe. Delusional.

And this morning I had to take the bus because Jenn has a dentist appointment.