What Would Emma Do? (4 page)

“I know things can be complicated at your age. Sometimes we make mistakes.”

“Just because you made a bunch of mistakes doesn’t mean I will, and maybe I don’t need someone to watch out for me.”

As soon as the words shot out of my mouth, I wanted to pull them back in and swallow them down. My mom’s face went pale, and she sat back as if she didn’t want to be too close to me.

My mom and I never talk about my dad. I know the basics. He wasn’t what you would call a “stand-up guy.” He and my mom got married as soon as she found out she was pregnant, but settling down didn’t agree with him, and after a couple of years, they split up. Apparently, my terrible twos must have been pretty terrible. He was never the kind of guy to show up on weekends and try to spoil me by giving me too much fast food and sugar. He didn’t show up at all. When I was really little, he used to send presents at Christmas and on my birthdays, but that stopped around the time I outgrew Barbie’s dream castle. He dropped off the face of the earth, and neither my mom nor I could be bothered to find him. It’s hard to miss something you never had.

“Well, since you know it all, I’ll spare you my advice.” She clicked on the TV and crossed her arms over her chest.

I jumped up and ran to my room, slamming my door behind me. It didn’t make me feel any better, but it felt like the thing to do. Yep, that’s right. Just some quality family time here at Chez Proctor.

6

God, according to our religion there is no such thing as reincarnation, and yet I have the sense that I must have done something in a previous life that really ticked you off…like killing missionaries or Bible burning. It’s the only thing that makes sense for why you seem to have it out for me. If I promise to be better in my next life, will you lay off in this one?

The problem with running off to my room to make a statement is there’s nothing to do once I get there. There’s only so long I can lie dramatically across my bed. If my mother didn’t force me to live in the Dark Ages, I would have a computer and my own phone line in here. Forget about cell phones. My mom believes it is “absurd” for anyone to need a phone they can carry around. She says no one needs that much immediate gratification. Our computer has to sit in the living room so that my mom can keep an eye on things and ensure I’m not trolling porn sites or chatting up creepy guys. My room is like something out of
Little House on the Prairie
. I suppose I should consider myself lucky that she lets me have electric light. I lay looking up at the ceiling where I’d pinned up a picture of Johnny Depp. There are worse things in life than waking up to Johnny. However, he wasn’t much of a conversationalist. I rolled over and looked at my clock. Eight thirty p.m. No way in hell I was going back out there to sit on the sofa with my mom and act like a happy dysfunctional family.

I wandered around my room, kicking some laundry out of my way, and surveyed the options. I could spend my Friday night organizing my closet or work on some homework, thus cementing the fact that I have absolutely no life. I ran my finger along my bookshelf, but I’ve read everything on it at least once. I pulled the college applications out from under my mattress. I’d missed the application deadlines for everything except the extension campus in Fort Wayne. There was no turning back now. I tore the applications into tiny confetti-sized pieces and buried them deep in my trash can. I flopped onto the floor and did a few stretches and looked at the clock again—8:38.

I stood and pressed my ear against the door. I could hear the theme music for one of Mom’s cooking shows drifting down the hall. Even though she almost never cooks, she has an obsession with watching other people cook. She watches the Food Network nonstop. I think she might have a thing for Jamie Oliver. The doorknob was cool in my hand, and I twisted it slowly, making sure the click was nearly silent. I slunk down the hall and grabbed the phone off the charger in the kitchen and slipped back into my room. I lay pressed against the door as if I had returned successfully from a spy mission.

I waited until my heart slowed down and then I called Joann. The phone rang only once and then their machine picked up.

“You’ve reached the Delaneys! Tom, Kathy, Scott, Joann, and Heidi. We can’t take your call, but leave a message.”

Each member of the Delaney family said their own name for the message in a perky
Sound of Music
Von Trapp family voice. Mr. Delaney is really into doing things as a family. Every year at Christmas they take a family picture with everyone wearing matching sweaters. If I were a sheep, I would protest this use of wool. Their family always has Sunday dinner together. Always. And never in front of the TV. They sit at the dining room table and hold hands while they say grace. Their family is frighteningly functional. It doesn’t strike me as normal. I knew they were home, no doubt playing another round of Candyland, but they weren’t going to pick up and interrupt their valuable family bonding time.

I clicked off the phone and sat on the floor next to the bed, pulling Mr. Muffles into my lap. Mr. Muffles is a stuffed dog that I’ve had since I was a kid. He used to be white with black ears and tail, but he hasn’t aged well. He’s a sort of gray color all over now. No Botox or eye lift for Mr. Muffles. One ear is flat and worn down. Apparently I used to suck on it as a kid. You couldn’t pay me to put that ear in my mouth now, but when things are really stressing me out, I admit to rubbing it back and forth on my cheek. It is strangely soothing. Who am I to argue with what works? Maybe it’s juvenile to keep Mr. Muffles now that I’m grown up, but what am I supposed to do, just throw him away? I don’t think so. Despite recent events, that isn’t how I treat friends. Problem is, my friend isn’t answering the phone. It isn’t that I don’t have other friends; I hang out with a few of the other girls from track, but we’re not the call-each-other-up-to-do-things kind of friends.

I tapped the phone on my knee as I thought over my options. Joann didn’t want me to go to the Barn, but that was because she was still freaking out over the whole Colin thing, which was a total one-time-only accident. If she would answer the phone, I would go over there, but apparently she was engrossed in the great Candyland Olympics, which didn’t leave me a whole lot of things to choose from. I tapped out Colin’s cell number and waited for it to ring.

“Where are you?” I asked when he picked up.

“Em?” Colin sounded shocked to hear me. Fair enough, I hadn’t called him without Joann around since the great Christmas kiss incident three months ago.

“Can you come get me?” My voice came out wavy as my throat tightened.

“On my way. Meet me at the corner.” Colin clicked off.

That was one of my favorite things about Colin. He didn’t waste time asking a bunch of stupid questions like, “Are you okay?” when it was crystal clear I wasn’t. I yanked on a pair of jeans and pulled on my I
NY sweatshirt. Not that I had ever been to New York, but with the wonders of the Internet you can order anything. I stuffed my bed with some of my laundry so it looked like I was curled up, sound asleep, and clicked off the lights.

I stood on my desk and slid open my window. One of the benefits of ground-floor living is the easy emergency access, and this was totally an emergency. I paused, waiting to see if I heard anything coming from the living room. Just Jamie Oliver blathering on about the wonders of olive oil. I swung one leg out and then the other. Once I was outside, I slid the window almost all the way closed and crouched to scurry down the driveway. I could see the lights in the living room and the outline of my mom sitting on the sofa. With any luck she would be too pissed to check on me.

The lights from Colin’s truck swung around the corner. He coasted to a stop, and I ran up. I grabbed the handle and looked in at him through the window. His hair hung in his eyes. I had the sudden feeling that this was a mistake, and I paused. He looked at me, waiting. Well, this wouldn’t be the first mistake I’d made.

I jumped into the truck cab.

7

God, here are the things I would do if you would let me develop real breasts. Real being defined as breasts having any size or dimension. We’re not talking Pam Anderson here—I would happily settle for a nice B cup.

• Feed the homeless on all major holidays
  
• Learn to sing and join the church choir
  
• Never show them off in a lewd manner
  
• Say a prayer of thanks on a nightly basis
  

Please, God, do not let me continue to be the only girl in my class to be completely breast deprived. You are not supposed to give us any trials that we are not strong enough to endure, and trust me, I am not strong enough for this one.

I told Colin about the fight with my mom as we drove out to the Barn.

“It’s like she won’t be happy unless I’m unhappy,” I said.

“She can’t understand why you don’t want to stay here,” said Colin. He gestured outside the truck with a wave of his hand. “How could you leave all this behind?”

We were passing through downtown Wheaton. Downtown consists of all of one stoplight (which blinks after seven p.m.), the Hitching Post, the Veterans’ Hall, Sheer Wonder hair salon, the bank, the Stop & Shop (which has the post office counter inside), and the Get Away (the fine dining experience in Wheaton—provided your definition of fine dining includes paper napkins and chicken-fried steak). After eight p.m. the town shuts down. It looks like a ghost town from an old Western. It was like the city was dead and just waiting for the rest of us to catch on.

“I hate this place,” I muttered, pulling my sweatshirt neck up over my mouth, turtlelike.

“Don’t blame you.” Colin turned on his blinker for the dirt road that led down to the Barn. Even though there was no car to be seen and we hadn’t passed another car since we left, Colin still stopped and looked both ways slowly. Someone must have gotten an A in driver’s ed.

“I’m being serious.”

“I wasn’t doubting you.” He looked over at me, his face tinged slightly pink from the red dashboard lights. “What? I’m not yanking your chain.”

“But you don’t hate it here,” I accused him.

“Why does it matter what I think?”

“Forget it.” I looked out the window.

Colin pulled his truck off to the side of the road, the tires bouncing over the ruts left in the hardened mud from the last storm. Up ahead was the Barn. The Barn belongs to the McMurty family, but most of them moved away years ago. (Smart people, those McMurtys.) The widow McMurty, who judging by her appearance is approximately 259 years old, still lives in a house up near the highway, but no one has farmed the land for years. It was never clear to me why they hadn’t just sold the place. Since she seems to be a zombie who never dies, things have stayed the way they were. My mom says that even when she was in high school, kids used to hang out at the Barn.

It’s always referred to that way, the Barn, with a capital B. A stash of flashlights and lanterns is kept there, and people bring out coolers filled with ice and drinks. Almost always someone will have a portable radio that can be hooked up. Tonight the musical choice was a best of
American Idol
mix CD, which indicated that Darci Evers was somewhere on the premises. The Barn itself must have been built when things were designed to last. There are a few holes in some of the walls, and if you leaned against the stall dividers you would crash right through, but the floors are still solid, and if you don’t have a fear of heights, the ladder to the hayloft will hold your weight. There’s no heating, so hanging out at the Barn is a fair-weather activity, and this was the first weekend anyone had been out there.

Colin and I sat in the truck. The engine made ticking noises as it cooled down.

“Doesn’t look like too many people are out here,” I said, stating the obvious. There were only two other cars parked.

“It’s cold. I suspect a bunch of people decided to skip it.”

I gave an annoyed sigh. The whole night was a waste.

“Why are you pissed at me?” Colin asked.

“I’m not pissed.” I uncrossed my arms and looked out the window. I could see a flashlight beam bouncing around inside.

“My parents own the farm. They expect me to live in Wheaton and take over.”

“And that’s what you want? To run a dairy farm?”

“Yeah.” Colin shrugged.

“What about being an architect?”

“What are you talking about?”

“When we were kids you used to draw floor plans all the time of places you were going to build.”

“I used to put on a cape and pretend I was Batman, too, but I wasn’t considering that as a serious career move.”

“You say you want to be a farmer because your dad is a farmer and his dad was a farmer. You’ll marry someone from here and have tiny farmer children.” I spit the last bit out as if his future children would be deformed freaks.

“Why do you care what I do?”