Emma Jean Lazarus Fell in Love by Lauren Tarshis Page A

said.
    â€œColleen made those,” Will said.
    Brandon picked up another one.
    â€œI guess Brandon likes them,” Will said.
    â€œI guess so,” Colleen said.
    â€œYou know what your new name is?” Brandon said with frosting all over his teeth.
    Uh-oh.
    Brandon licked his fingers. “From now on, I’m gonna call you . . .”
    Colleen held her breath.
    â€œCollcakes,” Brandon said.
    Wait. Was that so bad?
    â€œKnow why?” Brandon said.
    â€œBecause she’s sweet?” Will said.
    â€œYep,” Brandon said.
    And Brandon laughed, and Colleen laughed, and Will laughed, and Colleen’s boy laughed too.
    La, la, la
    La, la, la
    La, la, la, la, la

Chapter 14
    A s usual, their evening with Ms. Wright continued long after they’d eaten the last of the chicken and rice. They debated the day’s headlines and critiqued their favorite films. Emma-Jean and Ms. Wright recited their favorite Mary Oliver poem, about gathering peonies in the early morning, and Vikram shared a most humorous story about his high school cricket team. A warm breeze blew through the open window, and Emma-Jean imagined a crowd of skunks and raccoons and woodchucks listening raptly just outside, laughing along.
    They were sipping tea when Vikram left the table to take a phone call. Emma-Jean’s mother refilled their teacups, and began describing the garden she and Emma-Jean were planning for the backyard. Henri was peacefully asleep on her mother’s shoulder, curled up against her glossy braid. Emma-Jean stifled a yawn. She too was extremely tired. Perhaps her crush on Will was sapping her energy.
    â€œWhy don’t you go to sleep, Emma-Jean?” her mother said. “It’s getting late.”
    Ms. Wright looked at her watch and gasped.
    â€œTen thirty! Where did the time go?”
    Emma-Jean’s mother looked around at the serving bowls and plates, scraped clean but for chicken bones and apricot pits. “I think we ate it,” she said, much to the amusement of both Ms. Wright and Emma-Jean.
    Emma-Jean stood up and said a reluctant good night. She did not like to leave such fine company, but she would need to be energized for tomorrow morning, when she would begin her investigation of the nine left-handed boys.
    She had just finished brushing her teeth when she realized that in her state of fatigue, she had forgotten Henri, who would be most perturbed if she went to sleep without wishing him sweet dreams. She went downstairs and was heading toward the dining room when Vikram’s voice caught her attention. Something in his tone caused her to pause just outside the kitchen doorway. He was facing away from Emma-Jean, his phone pressed tightly to his ear.
    â€œIt’s an incredible honor for me, Dr. Markt,” he was saying.
    Emma-Jean crept closer. Who was Dr. Markt? Emma-Jean had never heard Vikram mention this name before.
    â€œNo, I’ve never been to California, but I hear it is beautiful,” he continued.
    California? Who was inviting Vikram to California? “Teaching at Stanford has been a dream for me for as long as I can remember.”
    Stanford University?
    â€œ . . . no, I haven’t spread the news to anyone.” Emma-Jean suddenly felt chilled, though the house was very warm.
    â€œDr. Markt, thank you very much,” Vikram said.
    Emma-Jean crept away from the doorway and hurried back up to her room. Her fatigue had disappeared. She was now in a state of alarm, her eyes open wide, her breathing shallow and rapid.
    Vikram was leaving them?
    This question spun around her head, around and around until the words lost their meaning. Henri fluttered through the doorway. He sensed her distress and took up a position on her headboard. He stood up very straight and puffed out his chest.
    Emma-Jean took her quilt from the foot of her bed and wrapped it around her shoulders. Her father had sewn it for her when she was born, and there had been