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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 5, 2007 11:12:39 GMT -5
This is the title/author's disclaimer page for my ASOUE fic, "The Terrible Truth". I'm really hesitent to post the actual story due to subject matter and that I am incredibly worried about upsetting anyone. But if I get responses and they are positive, then I will post my fic.
Title: The Terrible Truth [Esmé/Jerome; Carmelita/Nero; Violet/Quigley; Klaus/Fiona] Cast: Emma Salinger; Esmé Squalor; Carmelita Spats; Vice Principal Nero; Jerome Squalor; Beatrice Baudelaire; Cork St. Clair; Walter Dali; Violet Baudelaire; Klaus Baudelaire; Sunny Baudelaire; Quigley Quagmire; Isadora Quagmire; Duncan Quagmire; Fiona Widdershins; Fernald Widdershins. Author’s Disclaimer: I do not own any of the A Series of Unfortunate Events characters. They belong to Lemony Snicket a.k.a. Daniel Handler. The only characters I own the rights to in this story are Emma Salinger and Walter Dali, two original character who I, Kat Garcia, have created especially for the ASOUE universe, and Cork St. Clair, who is loosely based on the character Corky St. Clair from the film Waiting for Guffman. I do not mind if you use Emma, Walter, or Cork in any artwork or writings, just please contact me before you publish them to the Interweb and credit me if you do. That is all I ask and feel that is a pretty fair deal. Wouldn’t you agree? Rating: PG-13 (for attempted suicide and language). Genre: Drama/Mystery Story-Type: Multiple Chapters Status: Complete Summery: Twelve-year-old Emma Salinger has always had trouble fitting in. Everywhere she goes her unusual single eyebrow draws a lot of unwanted attention from several of her peers and causes her to get into a lot of fights. But after her mother is involved in a terrible accident (or so it seems), Emma begins to unravel the mysteries of her past— a past that might just prove to have been better left undiscovered.
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Post by Jenny on Aug 5, 2007 11:33:44 GMT -5
It'll be fine! Honestly, subject matter around here, as long as proper warnings are on the text, shouldn't be a problem. Carmelita/Nero is certainly an interesting part of that summary...
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 5, 2007 13:37:46 GMT -5
Okay. Heh, I just don't think I would be able to forgive myself if someone went away crying after reading this. ^^;; Going to post chapters 1-3 now...
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Post by Jenny on Aug 5, 2007 13:40:16 GMT -5
No. Hopefully they won't!
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 5, 2007 13:49:23 GMT -5
Chapter 1 The Revelation of Carmelita Spats Emma Salinger was a little girl who experienced one particularly terrible truth in her life, although she was no stranger to unpleasantness. She was a very kind and exceptionally pretty child, blessed with her mother’s soft dark hair and keen sense of style with a passion for the performing arts. However, it was Emma’s most noticeable feature that separated her from the crowd, and that was her unusual single eyebrow. The doctor had called it a “birth defect” while her mother, being the one person to see Emma as perfect and accept her for who she was, referred to her daughter’s unusual characteristic as “unique”. “Don’t worry so much about what others think, Emma,” Esmé had told her the first time the little girl had come to her in tears after a disastrous first day in kindergarten. “They’re just jealous, that’s all. Because unique is what’s ‘in’.” Then Esmé had dried Emma’s tears, kissed her on both cheeks and given her an extra big hug. But things were different now. Esmé no longer concerned herself with what was ‘in’ and what was ‘out’. This was apparent to Emma who, by looking through the photo albums her mother kept around their classy, upscale apartment just how despondent she had become over the years since Emma’s birth. The newer the pictures, the sadder Esmé appeared. At one time she had donned colorful, elegant and (at times) bizarre clothing, but now the only clothing in her closet was simple black gowns. Once Emma had asked her mother why she never wore any other color, to which Esmé’s response had been “Because I am mourning for the love of a man who betrayed me.” Sensing that the subject was a sensitive one, Emma accepted her mother’s explanation and made an effort not to bring up the matter again, despite how difficult it would soon prove to be. Such as when she found herself having to explain to her friends when they asked why her mother wore black all the time, to which Emma found herself replying more than once, “Because black is her favorite color.” Deciding that the mother of the little girl with the single eyebrow was equally strange, the other girls soon deserted Emma altogether, leaving her alone while they went off to do the things that all little girls with normal lives and ordinary parents get to do, such as go to the movies and out for ice cream. While this type of rejection would have devastated any other child, Emma chose to remain resilient, throwing herself into what she adored most. Performing. Emma was one of the most talented performers at the city’s top acting school, and her teacher was always telling her that if she kept it up there was a good chance she would be awarded a scholarship to study anywhere in the world she chose. Of course, her dream was to attend the Moonstone University of the Performing Arts, a very famous and prestigious school for aspiring actors and actresses. It was also the same school where her favorite actor, Al Funcoot, had studied when he was first starting out his career. However, such a dream would be doomed to remain only that just as long as a certain little girl, despite how talented she was, believed that the only way to deal with insults was to become violent, as she often hit or wrestled those who made them to the ground. This was the reason, of course, why she found herself sitting in the office of the vice principal nearly every other day. “Now, Emma,” Vice Principal Nero said one day after Emma had stuck out her foot and tripped a little boy named Davey Foxworth when she had overheard him and his friends whispering and snickering about her. “Your dream to become a world famous actress will be doomed to remain only that, despite how talented you may be, when you believe that the only way to deal with insults is to become violent, as you often hit or wrestle those who make them to the ground.” “But Vice Principal Nero, Davey is the one who—” Emma began. “Started it? Yes, I know, and although he is also to blame, that still doesn’t excuse you from what you did, either.” “Well, Davey Foxworth is clumsy. How can you be sure he didn’t just trip over his own two stupid feet?” Vice Principal Nero folded his hands together, set them down on the desk and searched Emma’s eyes to see if she was telling him the truth or not, which he clearly knew she wasn’t. “Emma, you’re a very bright girl,” he replied. “Do you honestly believe that explanation?” She shook her head. “No, sir,” she admitted. “I hate to punish you,” Nero went on. “And I’m not just saying that because your older sister is my fiancée, and will surely have my head on a plate instead of in her lap tonight if I send you to detention. Honestly, do you think I would be the gifted violin player I am today if I had allowed bullies to get the better of me?” He didn’t wait for Emma to answer, nor did he answer the question himself. “You’re a very good student and I happen to like you very much,” he said. “But frankly your inability to get along with other children concerns me. If you continue to behave this way I will have no choice but to expel you from Woodcreek Willows Prep.” Emma’s big blue eyes grew even wider at the suggestion. “Ec— expelled?” she asked weakly. “I am doing all I can to get the bully situation under control, but in the meantime I will also need you to get that temper of yours under control. Carmelita was also somewhat unruly as a child— worse, in fact —but as she grew so did her respect and consideration for other people, as well as herself.” Nero sighed dreamily. “I suppose that’s when I first fell in love with her…” “Vice Principal Nero,” Emma said, exasperated that he had changed the subject, and so suddenly at that. “Yes?” “Nothing. We were discussing you taking care of the bully situation and then you started talking about Carmelita.” “Did I?” Vice Principal Nero said, looking surprised and a little embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I guess I do have a tendency to mix business with pleasure.” His face took on the exact same color as his nose, which was the same shape and color as a cherry tomato, the instant the last word fell from his lips. “I mean life. Anyway,” he added quickly, “you’re free to return to class. However, I’m afraid I’ll still have to discipline you. Your punishment will be to buy me a large bag of candy and watch me eat it. However, you will be pleased to know that Davey Foxworth will be receiving the exact same punishment.” Emma nodded her reply before slipping quietly out the door of Nero’s office. ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~. “Really, Emma,” Carmelita scolded. “You get into trouble for fighting on a daily basis. Nero’s candy bill alone is costing me an arm and a leg. If he doesn’t fit into his tuxedo the day of our wedding, it’ll be all your fault.” Even as Carmelita said this, Emma could see from the expression on her sister’s pretty face that she was smiling. Carmelita Spats owned, managed, and worked the duties of twenty waiters and waitresses at Café Salmonella, which at one time had been the city’s most popular (or, as Emma’s mother had once referred to it, ‘innest’) restaurants. Unfortunately for Carmelita, salmon was no longer as ‘in’ as it once had been, and for that reason all of its former costumers, as well as the employees, now dined in and worked at the more popular restaurants in the area. When Emma had asked why she didn’t apply for a position at one of those, Carmelita explained that owning a restaurant had been a dream of hers since childhood. “Not only that,” she had clarified, “but I was inspired by someone who taught me that ambition is very important, and if you try your best then there’s always a chance you will reach your goals.” Ambition is a word that means the desire a person has when it comes to doing something, such as the ambition you have to finish your homework so you will have time to go outside and play before your mother calls you home for dinner. After that, Emma had never questioned Carmelita’s dream of managing a restaurant— or her determination —again. And besides, didn’t Emma possess that same ambition when it came to her acting classes? Every day after school— and on the days she didn’t have acting class —Emma would go and help her sister at Café Salmonella with the responsibilities that came with managing a restaurant all alone. She wasn’t able to do much in the area of cooking, but when it came to washing dishes in the blink of an eye without breaking a single one, Emma Salinger was nothing short of spectacular. “How’s Esmé these days?” Carmelita asked just as she had finished drying a desert plate, which was the last of the dishes. Then she set it aside with the others so as to have easy access to it when the time came to set the tables for dinner. “No better, no worse,” replied Emma as she dried her hands on the salmon-colored apron she was wearing. “I apologize for not stopping by the apartment lately,” Carmelita said. “But I’ve been so busy keeping up the café and preparing for the wedding. My schedule doesn’t leave me time for anything else other than sleep, and goodness knows that’s a luxury I can hardly afford anymore.” “Carmelita, have you ever thought about preparing food other than salmon— or fish, for that matter? Maybe having a variety of choices would help to draw more customers.” Carmelita nodded, the curls of her fiery red ponytail shifting in the process. “Sure I’ve thought about it,” she replied, “but salmon is the only thing I know how to prepare. If only I could find a chef who knows about variety, then maybe things around here wouldn’t seem so overwhelming. But how can I expect to do that when all of the chefs in the city have taken jobs at other restaurants?” She leaned against the countertop on her elbows and threw her head back, staring in despair up at the ceiling. Emma reached over and put a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Carm,” she said, rather ashamed. “I didn’t mean to make you feel worse.” Carmelita rested her hand on Emma’s and turned to her, smiling. “You didn’t,” Carmelita assured her. “In fact, you did just the opposite. I love it when you come down to Café Salmonella after school and keep me company. To tell you the truth, it gets lonely around this place with no one to talk to besides the fish heads.” She forced a chuckle, although it was easy to see from the poignant tears in her azure eyes that chuckling was the last thing she felt like doing at the moment. “Maybe I could work as a chef at Café Salmonella,” Emma said. “I could quit school and work here full-time.” “That’s very nice of you to offer,” Carmelita said. “However, there are two holes in your plan. First of all, you don’t know the first thing about cooking, and second, I don’t think your mother would be pleased to learn that you had quit school, no matter how much you dislike it.” “Everyone at that horrid school is a cakesniffer!” Emma cried, but was quick to add, “Except for Vice Principal Nero. And it’s all because of this.” She lifted up her bangs, which she had deliberately let grow too long, and pointed to the single eyebrow there. “If I didn’t look like such a freak, then no one would tease me!” “You aren’t a freak, Emma. And you shouldn’t go around calling everyone you dislike a cakesniffer,” Carmelita replied calmly. “Why not? Isn’t that what you used to call people you didn’t like?” “Yes, but I was wrong to do it.” “Then why did you?” Emma demanded. “Come with me into the dining hall and I’ll tell you,” said Carmelita. “You can sit at the counter and I’ll fix you a soda.” A moment later Emma was sitting on the stool at the bar, watching Carmelita as she opened the door of the refrigerator. “Let me guess,” Carmelita said as she studied the second shelf where she stocked a variety of sodas, “You want parsley.” “That’s right,” Emma replied with a grin. “You certainly are your mother’s daughter.” Carmelita reached in and grabbed a parsley-flavored soda that she placed on the countertop. After popping the top open with a bottle opener, she added a straw and slid the soda over to Emma. “There you go.” “Thank you.” She sipped her soda and waited for her sister to speak. “What I am about to tell you is something I’ve never told another living soul,” Carmelita began. “Not even your mother knows about it. The only person who does know is Nero, but not because I told him.” Emma held her breath as she waited to hear what Carmelita’s revelation was, and then— “I’m an orphan,” she said, and Emma felt her lungs relax just before a silent gasp escaped her throat. “My parents were archeologists and were always too busy to spend any time with me. My aunt and uncle would have taken me in, but they already had six children of their own and I would have been just another mouth to feed.” “Where did you go?” Emma asked. “I was sent to an orphanage,” Carmelita replied, “where I was referred to as a ‘cakesniffer’ and ridiculed for my red hair and freckles on a daily basis. Then one day we were told that a couple who was looking for a child to adopt was be coming by the orphanage. They took one look at me and decided that I was exactly what they were looking for. This made the other children exceptionally jealous, and I must admit that this pleased me very much. They had teased and ridiculed me for so long that they deserved to be passed over while I was chosen. The couple who adopted me was very wealthy and lived in an upscale neighborhood. I was given my own room that had a wide window with an ocean view. I was sent to the city’s most expensive and prestigious academy to study, Prufrock Preparatory School. For the first time since my parents had given me up, I was starting to remember what it felt like to be happy. Then the unthinkable happened. “My adoptive mother became pregnant, and she and my adoptive father decided they didn’t want me anymore. Since Prufrock Prep had its own dormitory, my adoptive parents signed a permission slip so I would have a place to live until the time came for me to graduate. I assume the vice principal—” “Vice Principal Nero!” Emma exclaimed. “Yes,” Carmelita said. “Anyway, I assume he felt sorry for me, because when I came to him and literally begged him not to tell any of the teachers or other children that I was an orphan, he readily agreed. He didn’t even make me buy him a large bag of candy and watch him eat it.” She suddenly looked thoughtful. “I suppose that’s when I first fell in love with him…” “You knew you loved him even at so young of an age?” Carmelita blushed. “Well, maybe it wasn’t the same as the love I feel for him now,” she admitted. “But it was something.” “How romantic,” Emma said. Then she rested her face in her palms and gazed down at the remnants of her soda through the hole in the bottle. “Do you think I’ll be fortunate enough to meet the person I’m destined to be with when I turn thirteen?” “That’s hard to say,” Carmelita replied. Then she noticed the troubled expression on her younger sister’s face and added, “But you can never tell for sure unless the opportunity shows itself.” Emma glanced up at the clock on the wall that was shaped like a salmon and said, “It’s getting late. I’d better be getting home. Oh…” She hesitated. “And I’m— I’m sorry about what happened with your parents. I know I complain a lot about not having gotten the chance to meet my father, but being orphaned like that as a child is just so horrible.” “We’re very much alike, you and I,” Carmelita said. “Why do you think I told you my story in the first place?” Emma nodded. “Say hello to your mother for me, alright?” “Sure,” Emma said. As Carmelita watched the little girl who she thought of as the younger sister she never had disappear through the front doors of Café Salmonella, she sensed a strong feeling of remorse— a word which here means “guilt for keeping a secret from Emma for so many years concerning her past”.
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Post by Jenny on Aug 5, 2007 13:57:41 GMT -5
Aww, that's really very good! I like that Carmelita's not a spoilt brat anymore, too.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 5, 2007 14:00:12 GMT -5
Chapter 2 Resurrecting Al Funcoot “I’m home,” Emma declared as she pushed open the door of the penthouse apartment where she lived with her mother at 667 Dark Avenue and stepped inside. Emma closed the door behind her and went into the parlor. As usual the television set was blaring while Esmé sat staring at it through the thin black veil that covered her beautiful yet pale face. Emma scowled in response to the soap opera airing on television as she flopped down on the sofa and was practically swallowed up by the incredibly soft cushions. Yes, the Salingers were wealthy, and they certainly had more rooms and possessions than they knew what to do with, but were they even happy? That was a question that Emma had been asking herself for years. She was miserable at school and her relationship with her mother could have been better— for all Esmé did was sit in her Barcalounger all day long and watch soap operas. And yet Emma truly felt free for an hour every Tuesday and Thursday and for two hours on Saturdays when she attended her acting classes. But if it wasn’t for all the money in their lives— money which was supplied to them by a very generous man named Jerome Squalor —then where would that tiny bit of happiness find itself? Not in the lives of the Salingers, that was for sure. Another thing Emma believed was that money does have the ability to buy a little bit of happiness. If it wasn’t for money, she would be unable to attend her acting classes, and then where would she be? Performing in the streets for change, that’s where, she had concluded. “How was school, darling?” Esmé asked. She switched off the television for the first time all day and turned to her daughter. Emma felt a lump in her throat as she struggled to tell her mother of the situation concerning Davey Foxworth or to simply keep it under wraps, a phrase which here means “to keep it a secret unless she did get expelled from school, at which point she would be forced to tell her mother the truth”. “It was fine,” Emma replied, and leaned over to begin unlacing her boots. “I stopped by Café Salmonella afterward to see Carmelita. She wanted me to tell you ‘hi’.” “How kind,” Esmé said. “You be sure and tell her the same for me the next time you see her.” “Why don’t you tell her yourself, Mother? Goodness knows you never leave the apartment, and Carmelita is down at Café Salmonella working day and night with no one to talk to. I don’t get out of school until three-thirty, and Tuesdays, Thursdays and Saturdays are my acting classes that Mr. Squalor pays for. If I miss even just one class—” “Enough, Emma,” Esmé said, her voice firmer than she had intended. “I hate it when you lecture me like that! I swear, sometimes you remind me so much of your father I—” Realizing what she had just said, Esmé threw her hands over her mouth. For one awkward moment Emma stared at her mother in bewilderment, struggling to fathom the importance of what Esmé had just said. From the time she was very small, Emma had known there was someone out there who had fathered her, although she had yet to uncover the identity of that person. And now, as she sat staring back into her mother’s eyes, which were the same shape and color as her own, she wondered for the first time what other similarities she shared with the father she had never known. “How am I like him?” Emma asked and rose from the sofa. “Please, Mother…” She repositioned herself at Esmé’s feet and folded her hands together in her mother’s lap. “Tell me everything you know about my father.” “No,” Esmé said. “I’m sorry, Emma, but such a request is out of the question.” Emma’s eyes pleaded with Esmé’s. “How can you say that? If you want to tell me, then tell me! I’m almost thirteen and I don’t know anything about my father— not his name, his occupation, or even if he had an eyebrow like mine.” Emma lifted up her bangs and pointed defiantly to the one thing she always made such an effort to conceal, yet every time the need arose she revealed it willingly. “I know this isn’t a birth defect like the doctor said it was,” she went on, “or a unique feature as you claimed it to be. Nobody else in our family is an actor or an actress, and none of them has an eyebrow like mine, or if they do they obviously do a clever job of fixing it so it looks like two instead of one. Was I adopted, Mother? Is that why you refuse to tell me who my father is? Because you don’t know?” “Emma, stop it!” Esmé practically screamed, and threw her hands over her ears. “From the moment you walked in the door you’ve done nothing but attack me with question after question! Please! Enough is enough!” “I just want the truth!” Emma shouted back. “Well, you can’t handle the truth!” Esmé was right to say this, although she really had no way of knowing for sure whether or not her daughter would be able to handle the truth when she told her about the man her father was, or of all the evils he had committed in his lifetime. Esmé was simply concerned for her daughter and her reaction was the same as that of any caring, loving parent who had their child’s best interests at heart. “You are unbelievable, Mother!” Emma said. Then she stormed out of the parlor, passed a number of rooms including living rooms, dining rooms, breakfast rooms, snack rooms, sitting rooms, standing rooms, ballrooms, bathrooms, kitchens, and seventy other bedrooms not counting her own spacious one. When she arrived she slammed the door and dove onto the bed, burying her face in the pillow as she let loose with a mass of tears. ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~. The next day was Thursday, which meant that Emma had to go directly from the bus-stop after school and walk six blocks to the studio where her acting classes were held. She had spent a boring but painless afternoon watching Vice Principal Nero devour a large bag of candy, but was able to rest assured knowing that Davey Foxworth would find himself in the exact same situation soon enough. Now that he was, it was with an enormous smile on her face that Emma entered Cork St. Clair’s Acting Studio for Gifted and Aspiring Performers that afternoon. “Well, Miss Salinger, I must say you look exceptionally lovely when you make an effort to smile now and again,” her acting teacher, Cork St. Clair, said. Mr. Cork St. Clair had started his career as a producer for Broadway before suffering a nervous breakdown. Right before what was intended to be the show of the year, Cork had presented his performers with a carrot and raisin salad he had made, unaware that the raisins he had mixed in were tainted. Ten minutes after everyone had eaten the salad, the performance took place, and I am sorry to say that the events of that night were anything but memorable. Cork had retired from Broadway immediately and went on to become an instructor for children who one day hoped to become famous actors and actresses themselves. Counting Emma there were fifteen students in Cork St. Clair’s acting class. He was able to tell from a mile away who had the gift for the stage and who did, and although he was considerate enough never to say it out loud, he knew that only a handful of these children would make it to the top. It wasn’t because they weren’t talented, oh no, for they were. It was simply a matter of their enthusiasm and how much time and energy they were willing to sacrifice for a crack at the top. Emma Salinger was one who would have that chance. Cork could see it in her eyes— brilliant blue eyes that shined much like the eyes of someone he had known long ago, someone who had shared Emma’s passion and admiration for the stage. Someone Cork had met during his days as a member of V.F.D. and who had encouraged him to return to the stage, even if it was doing something less exciting than producing Broadway shows. Cork longed to see the person who had literally snatched his dream up from the gutters of despair so he could properly thank them for having such a positive impact on his life. Once all of the students had arrived and were settled comfortably in their seats, Cork took his usual position at the front of the room, clapped his hands together for attention, and announced, “Children, I do believe I’ve stumbled upon the perfect idea for this year’s annual performance!” Emma, who was seated in the front row, leaned forward with interest. “Before I reveal the title of what I hope will be our newest production,” Cork said, “has anyone ever heard of the famous playwright, Al Funcoot?” Emma’s hand was above her head before anyone could do so much as utter the word “Who?” Cork smiled in her direction, for he was obviously unsurprised by her rapid response. “Yes.” He pointed in her direction, indicating for her to continue. “Miss Salinger.” “I have, Mr. St. Clair,” said Emma. “Have you really?” Cork said, his tone somewhat disbelieving. After all, it was rare that someone so young would have heard of an actor whose career stretched back three decades. Then again, there was that unusual single eyebrow they shared. That, most likely, had much to do with Emma’s knowledge of the infamous Al Funcoot. But just how much she did know about him, well, Cork St. Clair had yet to discover. “Why not tell us a few of the plays Al Funcoot has written?” Cork suggested. “Of course,” Emma replied. Then she rose from her seat and recited confidently a long list— so long I’m afraid it would take me several pages to list them all —of plays written by her favorite playwright, Al Funcoot. “…his real name is ‘Count Olaf’,” she finished. “And ‘Al Funcoot’ is an anagram of that name.” She glanced around the room at all the tired faces, including the one of her teacher, for it had taken her quite a bit of time to list every single play written by Al Funcoot. Emma was just sliding back down into her chair when a thought struck her, and she leaped to her feet again. “Oh! He also played Young Rölf in Gustav Sebald’s Zombies in the Snow.” “Thank you, Emma,” Cork said, massaging his sleepy eyes, “for that rather detailed account on the works of Al Funcoot a.k.a. Count Olaf. You can take your seat.” Cork looked around the room. “Now, is anyone still interested in hearing the name of the play I’ve chosen to perform, or shall I wait until Saturday?” “No,” someone in the back replied. “Tell us now.” “Yes,” agreed another. “Don’t make us wait until Saturday. It’s not our fault Emma turned our acting class into the Al Funcoot Fan Club.” Emma suddenly felt all of the eyes in the room focused on her, and lowered her own eyes to the floor in embarrassment. Had she really taken that long to describe the career of Al Funcoot like everyone was insisting? To her it seemed that no more than five minutes had gone by. Since when had the world (for to her acting class was the world) become so impatient? “Very well,” Cork said, and gave Emma an apologetic look before continuing. “The title of this year’s presentation will be The Marvelous Marriage, which we’ll be performing for a live audience at the Ned H. Rirger Theater this spring.” Emma lifted her head in interest, and while everyone around her started talking at once, the only thing she could think of was how honored she was to be performing in a play written by Al Funcoot, who was not only a brilliant playwright, but a brilliant actor to boot. She couldn’t wait for the next class so they could get started. “We’ll begin casting first thing on Saturday morning,” Cork said. “Be here by ten o’ clock sharp. I’ll be providing a list of parts so you write your name next to the one you want to try out for.” Emma personally didn’t care which part she ended up with, even when Cork took her aside and whispered in a voice that only she could hear, “I really shouldn’t be telling you this as it wouldn’t be fair to the other performers, but if you sign up for the part of Emily Winthorne, the young woman who marries the Omar McCloud, I’ll make sure you get the part, no questions asked. That’s how talented I think”— he cleared his throat “—I know you are. Think about it.” Emma was so excited that as soon as acting class ended for the day she rushed home, eager to tell her mother the wonderful news. ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~. “Guess what?” Emma exclaimed as she burst through the front door and fled straight into the parlor. “Oh, Mother, the most smashing thing has just happened! So smashing you’ll never be able to guess what it is!” Still harboring the guilt left over from the harsh words she had exchanged with her daughter the night before, Esmé forced a smile and turned to Emma, who was still gasping after having run the three blocks home without stopping. Seeing the excitement displayed on that pretty little face suddenly took Esmé back to the days when happiness had been so easy to obtain. All it took was one phone call to inform Esmé of what was ‘in’ and what was ‘out’ and she would be thrilled to pieces. But those days were long gone— ever since the man she had loved and who she thought had loved her had abandoned both her and Carmelita in a burning hotel. This feeling of déjà vu swept over Esmé so suddenly that she didn’t realize that an honest frown had replaced her false smile until Emma pointed it out. “Mother, is something wrong?” she asked. “You look troubled.” “What?” Esmé asked. “No. Of course not! Go on, Emma, and tell me your wonderful news.” Emma brightened up and flung herself down onto the sofa. “Starting this Saturday Mr. St. Clair will be holding auditions for Al Funcoot’s The Marvelous Marriage,” she said, “which we’ll be performing at the Ned H. Rirger Theater this spring. Mr. St. Clair thinks I’d be perfect for the part of Emily Winthorne and—” Emma paused, taking notice of the distraught look on Esmé’s face. “Mother, what’s wrong? Why do you look so sad?” “It’s nothing,” Esmé said, although Emma knew it was more than nothing, because it was something. “I’m happy for you, darling. Really, I am. You’re so talented. It’s time the rest of the world recognized you for your talents as well as your style.” She reached into her pocket and retrieved a handkerchief which was, like the rest of her outfits, also black. She lifted it to her face and slipped it beneath the veil where she dabbed gently at her damp eyes. “Mother, why do you always cry and look so sad?” Emma leaned closer toward Esmé. “Don’t you love me anymore?” “Such a question,” replied Esmé. She smiled again, and this time Emma could see just how difficult it was for her mother to express something she did not feel inside. “Of course I love you, my darling.” Esmé reached over and brushed the bangs back from her daughter’s forehead, revealing the single solitary eyebrow. “You and Carmelita are the two most important people in the world to me. You’re all I’ve got.” Emma flung herself into her mother’s arms just then, pressing her cheek against the ample bosom as she closed her eyes. “I’m so sorry about the other night,” Esmé went on, stroking her daughter’s soft dark hair. “You know I’d never say or do anything to hurt you deliberately.” “I know you wouldn’t,” Emma said, and wiped a few of the tears away from her own eyes before her mother could notice. The argument now forgotten, the Salinger household remained quiet for the rest of the afternoon, the remainder of the evening and all throughout the night. The next morning before Emma left for school, she stopped by Esmé’s room. Very carefully so she wouldn’t awaken her, Emma lifted the veil away from her mother’s beautiful face and planted a gentle kiss on her softly curved cheek. Afterward, Emma hurried out of the apartment and took the elevator down to the first floor to catch the school bus.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 5, 2007 14:05:31 GMT -5
Chapter 3 New Friends “Eyebrow, Eyebrow, Eyebrow,” Davey Foxworth chanted nastily as he and two of his friends who were just as nasty as he was trailed quickly after Emma. “Hey, Salinger, didn’t you hear me? Or are you deaf as well as stupid?” It was during gym class at Woodcreek Willows Preparatory School, and the students were being instructed to participate in a game of dodge ball. While Emma didn’t care much for the game, or any kind of sport for that matter, she did enjoy spending time outdoors, although she would have enjoyed it more if it wasn’t for Davey Foxworth and his friends taunting her continuously. Remembering what Vice Principal Nero had told Emma what would happen if she didn’t learn to control her temper, she decided that the only way to keep from being expelled was to learn to ignore Davey altogether. She was just starting to feel she could stand his teasing no longer when a voice rose loudly above his cruel taunts: “Davey Foxworth, the only stupid person I see here is you. If she hasn’t responded to you by now, then what makes you think she ever will?” “Mind your own business, Four-Eyes,” Davey shot back. Emma whirled around to see a girl around her own age, with blue eyes residing behind a pair of movie star-shaped glasses whose blond hair was cut into a bob. “Well,” continued the girl, her eyes still focused on Davey’s mean face, “when you spend all your time tormenting someone who hasn’t done a thing to deserve it, then it becomes my business. If I were you, I’d think before I acted. And besides, aren’t your parents already in enough debt considering all those bags of candy they’ve bought you to give to Vice Principal Nero?” This accusation appeared to have registered to Davey, who suddenly turned and stalked across the field with his friends. “Thanks,” Emma said to the girl. “It’s a good thing you came along or else I’m pretty sure I would owe Vice Principal Nero another bag of candy myself by now.” “You’re welcome,” the girl replied. “By the way, I’m Beatrice Baudelaire.” She held out her hand and the two girls shook. “I’m Emma Salinger,” Emma said. “It’s very nice to meet you.” “Likewise,” Beatrice said. “I’ve seen you around school, but to be honest I was always a little hesitant about approaching you. You always seemed so…” “Violent?” Emma asked. “I was going to say ‘temperamental’. I’m sorry, but until now I hadn’t realized you were actually fighting back.” “I suppose I do have somewhat of a questionable reputation,” Emma admitted. “But it’s only because of people like Davey Foxworth and his friends.” “Personally,” Beatrice said, “there’s not one thing about you I can see that gives them a reason to treat you the way they do. You seem like a perfectly nice girl to me.” Emma shrugged. “What is it?” Beatrice asked. Now it was Emma’s turn to be hesitant. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Never mind.” “Come on.” Beatrice reached out and put a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “You can tell me.” Emma shook her head. “No,” she disagreed. “I think it would be better if I showed you instead.” She put her hand to her forehead and lifted back the dark bangs. Beatrice, who was taller than Emma by an inch, lowered her head and peered at the single eyebrow residing there. “I keep it hidden as often as possible,” explained Emma, “but sometimes it’s hard.” Beatrice nodded thoughtfully. “You shouldn’t concern yourself so much with what others think,” she said. “That’s what my sister is always telling me, and my mother, too.” “You have a sister? Does she attend Woodcreek Willows?” “No,” said Emma. “She graduated several years ago from a boarding school called Prufrock Prep. We aren’t blood relatives, but I’ve known her since I can remember and we’ve always thought of one another as sisters.” “It’s the same with my family and me,” said Beatrice. “I was adopted by three siblings named Violet, Klaus and Sunny Baudelaire. Sunny is one grade above me. Do you know her?” Emma shook her head. “Actually,” she confessed, “I don’t have any friends outside of my acting classes. I guess Vice Principal Nero and Carmelita are right— I am too violent and tend to call everyone I don’t like a ‘cakesniffer’.” “Well, I can fix that.” “How?” “By being your friend, of course,” Beatrice replied. “That is, if you want me to.” “I certainly wouldn’t mind it,” Emma said, being careful not to sound too eager. “Stick with me, Emma Salinger, and you’ll see that not everyone in the world is a cakesniffer.” ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~. Gym class ended right around noon, and so Emma and Beatrice accompanied one another to the cafeteria. As they made their way across the freshly cut lawn, they talked more about their families and how it felt not having the privilege to know one or, in Beatrice’s case, both parents. Beatrice told Emma more about the three siblings who had adopted her. For example, Beatrice had been born on an island where she and the Baudelaires had lived during the first year of her life before making their way across the ocean to the outside world. The two eldest Baudelaires, Violet and Klaus, along with Violet’s husband, Quigley Quagmire and his two siblings, Duncan and Isadora, owned and operated Quagmire-Baudelaire Incorporated, which was the city’s most successful printing business. Klaus’s wife, Fiona, was an expert mycologist who had her own laboratory in the basement of their spacious home. Sunny, who was not yet old enough to be working a fulltime job, was an excellent cook and hoped to become a famous chef one day. “What a coincidence,” Emma said as the two girls sat eating lunch in the cafeteria. “My sister is the manager of Café Salmonella, a restaurant here in the city, and has been looking for someone with expert cooking skills. It’s too bad Sunny isn’t of age or she would be qualified to work as a chef.” “Well, she has expressed an interest in owning her own restaurant some day,” Beatrice said. “Perhaps we can come by Café Salmonella one of these days and she can meet your sister.” “That’s definitely doable,” Emma said. “I’ve got an idea. Why don’t you and Sunny meet me in front of the building after school? That way, we can take the bus and afterward head straight to Café Salmonella.” ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~. After the final bell rang signaling the end of another school day at Woodcreek Willows Prep, Emma kept her word and waited outside the building for Beatrice and Sunny. Emma soon caught sight of Beatrice, who was accompanied by a girl slightly older than themselves. The girl had almond-colored eyes and long, dark brown hair that hung over her shoulders and flowed down her back in thick waves. “Hi, Emma,” Beatrice greeted her new friend cheerfully. “I’d like you to meet my sister, Sunny.” “Hello, Emma,” Sunny said with a smile. “Beatrice has told me a lot about you. It’s so nice to finally meet you.” “Hello, Sunny,” Emma replied, and smiled back. A few minutes later the three girls boarded the bus that took them back to Dark Avenue. When the bus arrived and they stepped off, a strange feeling of déjà vu swept over Sunny Baudelaire, as if she had been here once before but couldn’t remember what she had done and how many years it had been. However, the hardest blow of all was yet to come as Emma led them through the front doors of Café Salmonella. “Carmelita,” Emma called as she led her two new friends over to the counter where they climbed up onto the stools. “Come out here a minute, will you? There are some people I want you to meet.” “Hi, Emma,” came the voice of Carmelita Spats from inside the kitchen. “I’ll be right out.” While the three children waited, Emma turned to Sunny and said, “Carmelita is my sister and owns and manages this restaurant all by herself.” “You mean there aren’t any cooks or waiters at all?” Sunny asked incredulously. “So, who did you bring with you?” Carmelita asked, wiping her wet hands on her apron as she emerged from the kitchen. “Oh! You’ve brought some friends, I see.” “Yes,” Emma explained. “This is Beatrice and Sunny Baudelaire. They’re sisters.” “I’m very pleased to meet you both,” Carmelita said. “My name is Carmelita Spats. You three look thirsty. Would you like a soda?” Sunny had to clutch the sides of the counter to keep from falling off her stool. Carmelita Spats? Why did that name sound so familiar? And why did Sunny suddenly feel like leaping over the counter and tackling Carmelita to the floor when so far she seemed to be nothing but respectful, pleasant, and hygienic? “Please excuse me for saying so,” Sunny said, shifting her eyes towards Carmelita, “but have we met somewhere before? You seem awfully familiar.” “Come to think of it,” Carmelita said as she turned briefly to retrieve three sodas from the refrigerator behind her, “I thought I recognized your face from somewhere.” She set the sodas down on the counter. “You didn’t attend a school going by the name of Prufrock Preparatory School about twelve years ago, did you?” She twisted off the caps with a bottle opener and after sticking a straw into each soda she served them to the children. “No,” she corrected herself, “that can’t be right. That would make you only—” “Thirteen,” Sunny finished. “Right,” Carmelita said. “Which would have made you no more than one at the time you attended Prufrock Prep, and everyone knows that a baby doesn’t belong in a boarding school, or any kind of school for that matter, except nursery school.” “My siblings and I had a… a very complicated childhood,” Sunny said. “I’m very sorry to hear that.” Carmelita folded her hands together and rested her arms on the counter. Then she leaned over and gazed into Sunny’s eyes, and as she did Sunny could see that Carmelita was sorry to hear that the childhood of the three Baudelaire siblings had been less than pleasant. “I do know you,” Carmelita said. “I’m sure of it. Do you have a… a brother and a sister?” “Yes,” said Sunny, “Violet and Klaus. How did you know?” Carmelita shrugged. How could she tell Sunny Baudelaire, who gazed questionably back at her, the truth of how she, Carmelita Spats, was the same rude, violent, filthy little girl who had gone out of her way to make the lives of Sunny and her siblings, as well as that of their friends, the Quagmires, no less joyful? “I don’t,” Carmelita said, and pulled back. “I suppose I was mistaken after all. I’m sorry.” Anxious to leave the conversation at that, she turned to go back into the kitchen only to have Sunny’s next question draw her back to the counter. “Emma tells me this is your restaurant,” Sunny said, “and that you’re in need of an experienced chef. I do a lot of cooking at home and have skills in a number of dishes. Maybe I can come in a few times a week and on the weekends to help you out.” “That would be wonderful,” Carmelita exclaimed, “although you would have to get permission from your parents first, of course.” Sunny lowered her eyes sadly to the ground, and Emma followed soon after. “Actually,” Sunny began in a small voice, “we don’t have parents. We live with my siblings and their spouses.” “Oh.” The words lodged in Carmelita’s throat as she struggled for something comforting to say. “I’m so sorry, Sunny, Beatrice, I… I didn’t know.” Carmelita looked at Emma, who gave her sister a look similar to that of Sunny and Beatrice. “It’s alright,” Sunny said. “There’s no way you could have known.” “Yes,” agreed Beatrice. “And we appreciate your sympathies.” “Your brother or sister could sign a permission slip or something, couldn’t they?” Emma asked Sunny. “So you’d be able to work here a few hours every week.” Sunny and Beatrice turned to Carmelita for an answer. “Of course they could,” she said. Sunny brightened up a little after that. “I’m sure they wouldn’t mind,” she said. “Violet and Klaus are always encouraging me to take my talents to new heights. Even Quigley and Fiona say so.” “Don’t forget about Duncan and Isadora,” Beatrice reminded her sister. “Oh, no, of course not,” Sunny said, and added, “Them, too.” The three girls finished their sodas and talked some more before Sunny and Beatrice informed Carmelita and Emma that they had promised to be home before dark and that they should be leaving. “We live right over in the next neighborhood,” Beatrice said. “It isn’t far at all, just over ten minutes by foot. You should come and visit us sometime.” Emma nodded. Together she and Carmelita showed their new friends to the front doors of Café Salmonella where they bid farewell. “We’ll see you at school on Monday,” Sunny said as she and Beatrice waved goodbye. Emma waved back, and even after she saw the heads of the two sisters disappear over a hump in the road she felt content with the feeling that she had, at last, not one but two friends.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 5, 2007 14:09:29 GMT -5
(Aww, thank you, Jenny. *hug* Yeah, I figured Carmie had to have done some serious growing up.)
Well, here are the first 3 chapters of my fic. Sorry it took so long... I had to keep going back to modify, and my Internet connection is the worst connection ever, so I had to keep clicking the back button.
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Post by Jenny on Aug 5, 2007 14:34:39 GMT -5
(It's ok! *hugs back*)
Yeah, I know how you feel about internet connections. Mine's like...a snail on a treadmill. I don't know why I had to put the treadmill in there...
Anyway, these are three really good chapters. I liked Carmelita's hesitation to tell Sunny about her knowing them before. Well done!
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 5, 2007 14:53:52 GMT -5
(*laughs at 'the snail on a treadmill' joke. That was great!)
I'm so glad you liked the first 3 chapters. I will be posting up to 3 per day (the whole story is 14 chapters, so it shouldn't be too long until I get them all up here).
Also, quick question: do you have AIM? I was wondering 'cause I noticed you like to rp and so do I. And I really really want to do a Jerome/Esme or a Nero/Carmelita rp with someone. It could be about anything. Do you want to do one with me sometime on AIM? I am usually really busy during the day but am free at night around 9:00.
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Post by Jenny on Aug 5, 2007 14:59:25 GMT -5
Unfortunately I don't actually have any AIM or MSN or anything. I know. Boring.
I'm sure we could sort something out, though--but which time zone are you talking about? I'm British so...9pm in America or somewhere else would be difficult for me.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 5, 2007 17:14:02 GMT -5
It's okay. I'm in New York (it's 6:10 PM right now). Maybe we can start something in the RPG section.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 6, 2007 10:01:12 GMT -5
Chapter 4 An Unusual Accident It was ten o’ clock on the Saturday morning following Thursday’s acting class, and Mr. Cork St. Clair was in the process of casting the players for the upcoming production of Al Funcoot’s The Marvelous Marriage. “All right, children,” Cork announced from where he was seated in the front row clutching a clipboard with some papers fastened to it. “Now that everyone is here, it is time to begin the casting process. Now”— he glanced down at the clipboard —“first we will be casting the part of Emily Winthorne.” He shifted his eyes around the room. “How about you, Emma?” he asked. “Would you like to go first?” “Sure,” she said. Clutching her paperback copy of The Marvelous Marriage that she had brought from home, she rose from the chair and climbed up onto the stage. “Start from act one scene two,” Cork instructed, “from where Omar has just asked Emily to marry him.” Emma nodded and began to read. As usual, her passion and intensity with which she delivered each line was equivalent to that of the character she took on, and by the time she was finished Cork knew he had his star player. Although he did give the other girls who had signed up for the part an equal opportunity, at the end of class he announced that Emma would be playing the part of young Emily Winthorne. There were a few moans and groans of disappointment from the other girls, but they all congratulated Emma just the same. Even the boys were impressed, for they all liked and respected her (much unlike the brats she was forced to attend school with). “And, I am equally pleased to announce,” Cork said with the same big smile he had acquired when announcing the part of Emily to Emma, “that the part of Omar Dickens will be played by Walter Dali.” Everyone— including Emma —turned to stare at the boy Cork had been referring to. Like Emma, Walter was also endowed with an eccentricity of his own, which in this case referred to Walter’s rather obvious obsession with clocks. He wore a sweatshirt with a picture of a clock on it and every book he owned had to do with clocks in one way or another. The two-story house where he lived with his parents was filled with clocks all set to strike the hour at the same time, as was the clock shop Mr. and Mrs. Dali owned and operated that was located in the city. Walter was very pale and had dark brown hair that hung over his right eye so that there was only a single green one looking back at you, which made him all the more eerie to look at. But despite these eccentricities, Emma found Walter to be a very nice boy and was perfectly willing to perform alongside him in the play. Aside from the clock business, she didn’t know anything else about him other than he attended an all-boy’s school in another part of the city, which made her wonder if he received any teasing similar to the kind she received at Woodcreek Willows Prep. “You gave a wonderful performance up there today,” Emma said when she cornered Walter outside after class. “Thank you,” he replied. “So did you.” “It should be fun working together.” “I’m sure it will be.” “Are you busy this afternoon?” Emma ventured to ask. “I promised my parents I’d go directly to the shop after acting class,” Walter said. “They’re supposedly getting a new shipment in today and need me there so we can set each clock to the exact same time so they’ll strike simultaneously.” “Oh.” Disappointed, Emma lowered her eyes to the ground. She had planned to ask if he would like to stop by Café Salmonella with her for a soda. “Why?” asked Walter. “Oh,” Emma told him, “no reason.” Walter nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. ‘Bye,” he said, and scampered off. “‘Bye,” she replied. Then she turned and began heading in the direction of 667 Dark Avenue. ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~. Emma returned to 667 Dark Avenue and took the elevator up to the top floor where the penthouse apartment was located. When the doors slid open and she stepped out, she was surprised to see Jerome Squalor, a friend of the Salingers who, out of the goodness of his heart, had provided them with all of the desires and necessities in their lives. It wasn’t that Emma wasn’t happy to see Jerome— it was just that she wasn’t expecting him to be there when the elevator doors slid open. Jerome Squalor was around the same age as Vice Principal Nero (which in Jerome’s case was forty-four years old) and always wore a big smile on his face. However, on this particular day, his smile had been replaced by a troubled frown. He was somewhat passive, a word which here means “didn’t particularly enjoy getting into arguments and so tended to keep his opinions to himself”. Jerome lived on the floor directly below Esmé and Emma, and came by once a month to drop off a check for ten-thousand dollars. Aside from this, however, it was rare to see Esmé and Jerome in the same room together. Emma thought it rather strange for someone like him, who gave so much, not to be invited to the Salingers’ home for tea and cookies once in a while. On matters like this Emma had obviously took after Jerome and chose to be especially passive rather than outspoken. “Hello, Jerome,” Emma said as the doors of the elevator closed behind her. “What are you doing here?” “Your mother’s been taken to the hospital,” Jerome told her. “She had an accident and asked me to stay here and wait for you.” A frightened expression materialized on Emma’s face. “What happened?” she asked in a voice that was just below a scream. “She tripped and took quite a tumble down the stairs,” explained Jerome, motioning with his head towards the very long, curved staircase leading up to the apartments. “She’s quite lucky, actually. Usually a fall like that would cause a person to suffer a lot more damage than a single broken leg.” “I don’t understand,” Emma said. “Why would she take the stairs when there’s a perfectly decent working elevator she could have used?” Jerome looked uneasy. “I think that’s something you should ask her yourself,” he replied. “Come on, I’ll drive you downtown to the hospital.” ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~. When Jerome and Emma arrived at the hospital, he was unable to stop her from bursting through the two front doors. Tears streaked her cheeks as she dashed down the hallways, the heels of her boots clicking noisily against the ceramic tiled floor. In an attempt to comfort the little girl, Jerome reached out and tried to pull Emma into his arms, only to have her beat her small fists against him in protest. Somewhat hurt but not completely surprised, he let her go and followed the clickety-clack sounds of Emma’s boots to the room where the doctor had told them Esmé was. “Mother!” Emma exclaimed as she burst into the room and saw her mother sitting upright in bed with her left leg wrapped in a cast and being supported by a sling connected to a chain that was attached to the ceiling. “Are you all right? What happened?” Fresh tears spilling from her eyes, Emma fled from the doorway and over to Esmé’s side. Jerome, who had arrived just a moment after Emma, simply chose to stand by the doorway and observe the scene playing out before him. “Jerome said you fell down the stairs,” Emma went on as she clung tightly to Esmé’s arm. “Why didn’t you take the elevator, Mother? It works fine. I took it all the way up to the penthouse apartment—” The words trailed off as she lost control of her sobs and buried her face in Esmé’s shoulder. Esmé reached over and gently took hold of her daughter’s arm. “Look at me, darling,” she said softly. Emma lifted her head and wasn’t surprised to see tears that glistened in a pair of blue eyes identical to hers. “I’m so sorry to have given you such a scare,” Esmé went on. “I didn’t want you coming home to an empty house, so I asked Jerome to stay behind and explain things to you.” Emma nodded and turned briefly to Jerome Squalor, who still stood watching them from the doorway with a vacant expression on his face, as if seeing Esmé sitting in the hospital bed caused him to think of other unpleasant things. Emma turned back to Esmé and asked, “Mother, why didn’t you use the elevator?” Esmé glanced up at Jerome before returning her gaze to Emma. “Because I wanted to take the stairs,” replied Esmé. “But the elevator takes less time.” “Yes, but I wanted to take the stairs.” “Why?” “Emma,” Jerome said, and Emma and Esmé both turned to look at him. He had been so quiet they had almost forgotten he was there in the room with them. “Wait outside a minute, will you? I want to have a word with your mother.” “Can’t I stay?” Emma asked. “Do as Jerome says, darling,” Esmé told her daughter. “Yes, Mother.” Emma left the room obediently. She sat outside the room in what she swore was the most hideous chair she had ever seen. It was bright orange with purple hearts sewn into it, and for such an unpleasant-looking pattern the chair was surprisingly comfortable. As she sat there swinging her feet back and forth at where they dangled several inches above the floor, she turned her head to the right just in time to see Carmelita and Vice Principal Nero as they approached the front desk. “Carmelita!” Emma called, and the striking redheaded woman turned in her direction. After saying something to Nero, Carmelita hurried over to Emma. “Emma,” she said, taking the second and only other available seat in an identical chair beside her sister, “here you are. I came by the apartment, but nobody was home. One of the tenants told me what happened. Are you all right? How’s Esmé?” Feeling her tears on the verge of returning, Emma shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. “Jerome said she fell down the stairs. When I asked her why she didn’t take the elevator, she said it was because she wanted to take the stairs.” Emma squeezed her eyes shut, feeling the tears drip down her cheeks. When she opened her eyes, she saw three small puddles on the floor where her tears had landed. “But Mother’s answer doesn’t make sense. The elevator isn’t out— and I don’t mean out as in ‘not working properly’. I took it upstairs to the first floor just before Jerome met me in the hallway and told me what happened.” “Don’t be upset, sweetheart,” Carmelita said and put her arms around Emma. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly logical explanation for everything. Just be patient.” “Then why did Mother and Jerome order me out of the room just a moment ago?” Emma demanded. Carmelita sighed. Not because she was irritated by Emma, but because she was unable to think of what to do or say in order to make the situation easier on her little sister. A moment later, Nero appeared before them clutching a bag of candy in one hand and two visitor’s passes in the other. Carmelita looked at the candy and immediately confronted him about it. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Nero,” she said hotly. “You’re actually going to stand there stuffing your face with sugar coated sweets when there’s a hysterical little girl sobbing in my arms and a woman with a broken leg in the other room who need us?” “Well, I’m hungry,” he said. “Well, I’m hungry,” Carmelita mimicked back. And what an unexpected turn of events that is, if I do say so myself! “Well, guess what? Right now we have much bigger problems than worrying about your fifty dollar a day candy habit. Emma.” Gently, Carmelita cupped Emma’s face in her hands and lifted it away from her lap. “I’m just going in to see your mother, and while I’m gone Nero is going to sit here and keep you company.” “But Mother and Jerome haven’t said I could go back in yet,” Emma said. “They might not like it if you go in, either.” “Don’t worry about me. I’m sure whatever it is they’re saying to each other they’ll have no problem saying it in front of me.” Carmelita rose from the chair and pushed open the door to Esmé’s room. After Carmelita had gone inside, Nero sat down in her place and offered his bag of candy to Emma. “Would you like a piece of candy?” he asked. She shook her head. “No, thank you.” “I figured you would say that. I just thought I’d try being polite for a change. Carmelita’s always insisting that I make more of an effort to be nicer to my students.” “You’ve always been nice to me,” Emma said. “That’s because you’ve never given me a reason to punish you,” Nero replied. “Aside, of course, from all the fighting you do with the other students.” “I’ll try harder. To control my temper, I mean.” “Your mother’s going to be all right,” Nero said. He shoved the bag of candy into his pocket and set a comforting hand on Emma’s shoulder. “I know,” she said, although she really didn’t. After all, how could someone who stayed indoors day in and day out, who dressed all in black and watched nothing but soap operas be referred to as ‘all right’? She knew that Nero meant well, as did Carmelita and Jerome, but they didn’t live in the penthouse apartment and so didn’t have a bird’s eye view of what went on behind closed doors. They hadn’t witnessed the argument between Emma and her mother just a few days before, or notice Esmé sleeping in later and later these days. Suddenly, the sound of the door opening caused both Emma and Nero to turn their heads to see Carmelita and Jerome as they stepped into the hallway. “How is Mother?” Emma asked. “May I go back in and see her now?” “Your mother’s sleeping right now,” Jerome said. “I’m going to swing by the apartment so I can pack a few things and then come back here. Your mother, Carmelita and I talked about it and think it’s best for you to spend some time with her and Nero while I stay here with your mother.” Emma knew better than to argue. She understood that the situation she now found herself in was very serious and that she should listen to what the adults were telling her. “I’ll drive you over to Mr. St. Clair’s studio tomorrow,” Carmelita offered, “so you don’t need to worry about missing your class.” “We have a couch that converts into a bed,” Nero said. “It’s quite comfortable. I think you’ll sleep well on it.” Emma turned to Jerome. “Come by after your dance class tomorrow,” he said. “Esmé should be rested up enough by then and will be able to enjoy your company a little more.” “Actually,” Emma said as politely as she could, “it’s an acting class.” “Oh. What did I say?” “You said ‘dance’.” “I did?” Jerome asked. “Forgive me.” He rubbed the back of his neck. He did so not because it was sore, but because he felt embarrassed. “But this day hasn’t been exactly pleasant,” he added. “No, it hasn’t,” Carmelita agreed. “Jerome, if you like, Nero and I would be happy to pack a suitcase for you and bring it back here. We have to stop off at 667 Dark Avenue anyway so Emma can retrieve some of her things. And you look absolutely exhausted, if you don’t mind my saying so.” “Yes, I am,” Jerome agreed. “And that’s very kind of you to offer. I’d appreciate it. Here, let me give you the key.” He reached into his coat pocket and retrieved the key to his apartment, which he placed in Carmelita’s hand. “My apartment is right below the Salingers’. Emma will show you the way.” “Get some rest,” Carmelita told him, “and we’ll be back soon.” “Would you like a piece of candy, Mr. Squalor?” Nero asked, holding out the bag of candy to him. Jerome shook his head. “No, thank you,” he replied, “though I appreciate your offer.” “Come on, Nero,” Carmelita said as she took her fiancée by the arm and led him towards the doors. Emma gave Jerome a small smile before she turned and went to catch up with Nero and Carmelita.
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Post by Emma “Emmz” Squalor on Aug 6, 2007 10:06:41 GMT -5
Chapter 5 Encounter on the Beach “Go ahead and pack whatever you think you’ll need for up to five days,” Carmelita said from the doorway of Emma’s bedroom. “That’s how long the doctor said your mother is likely to be in the hospital.” Emma nodded and flung the black leather suitcase onto the bed. The suitcase was part of an expensive and stylish set belonging to Esmé with her initials sewn into the lower right-hand corner. “Would you like any help?” Carmelita offered. “In the library,” Emma said, “there’s a leather-bound book containing all the works by Al Funcoot. Would you please go and get it for me?” “Of course,” said Carmelita. “I’m pretty sure I still remember where the library is.” Then she slipped out the door and headed in the direction of the library, hoping she would be able to find her way back to Emma’s room without getting lost. It had been almost a decade since Carmelita had lived as a resident of the penthouse apartment on 667 Dark Avenue, but she was fairly certain she still remembered her way around the place, despite its enormous size. As she strolled through the halls searching for the library, she began to remember when Jerome had first taken her and Esmé under his wing, a phrase which here means “shown them kindness and given them a place to live.” Back then, Esmé and Carmelita had been very different people compared to the ones they were now. In fact, some may have even turned their backs on the stylish woman and unpleasant child, but Jerome Squalor wasn’t one of them. He had done his best to be a friend to Esmé and a father figure to Carmelita, an act that eventually softened her and set her on the path to becoming a polite and respectable young lady. As for Esmé, it seemed that no matter how hard Jerome had tried to get her to smile his efforts proved fruitless. At last Carmelita reached the library, and after scanning the shelves for a minute or two she came across the book Emma had requested. Placing her fingers gently on the spine of The Complete Works of Al Funcoot, Carmelita slowly pulled the book forward and turned it over. Then she opened it up to reveal a photograph of someone she thought she would never see again. “Olaf,” Carmelita said, gazing in disgust down at the photograph of a man who shared her little sister’s same unusual single eyebrow. Suddenly, she was reminded of a conversation she had overheard years ago between Esmé and Jerome, shortly after Emma had been born. “‘Jerome,’” Esmé had said, “‘it is of terrible importance that you swear you will never, ever tell Emma who her real father is. If she ever comes to you requesting information and you feel you must say something, then tell her that her father died in a fire. It won’t be a full lie— no one has seen Olaf since the fire, so we really don’t know if he survived or not.’” Jerome had, of course, consented to Esmé’s wishes and assured her that he would never tell Emma of the person her father had been or possibly still was. Esmé and Jerome had had the same conversation with Carmelita soon after, and all three agreed that it would be better for Emma to live in ignorance, a phrase which here means “to live a happy, prosperous life and not be haunted by the evils that her father committed”. “Carmelita,” Emma’s voice wafted into the library just then and interrupted Carmelita’s thoughts. “Nero just arrived with Jerome’s suitcase and we’re ready to leave. Did you find the book?” “Yes,” Carmelita called back. Quickly, she slipped the photograph out of the book she was holding and into the inner pocket of her coat. ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~. After dropping Jerome’s suitcase off at the hospital with him, Nero and Carmelita drove with Emma to a quainter area of the city where the buildings were no where near as big and the sidewalks were cracked. “I apologize for the condition of the neighborhood,” Nero said, although he really didn’t have a reason to apologize. After all, Emma wasn’t particular when it came to the places where others chose to live. She may have been born rich, but she wasn’t the type of person who judged others solely on the way they lived. “But since so many people these days don’t know how to appreciate a genius such as myself, I am forced to make due with my job as a vice principal.” Emma only nodded before going back to looking out the window. She knew the ‘people’ Nero was referring to were the orchestras who had fired him after hearing how he played the violin, which was similar to the sound a cat makes when it is drowning, although she would never say so. From out of the corner of her eye, Emma watched Carmelita reach over and in a comforting gesture pat Nero on the hand. “I appreciate you,” Carmelita said. “It doesn’t matter if you’re a genius or not. I’ll always love you.” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. When she noticed Emma in the rearview mirror looking at them, Carmelita smiled and said, “Emma, did your mother ever tell you this is the same neighborhood where she grew up?” Emma shook her head. “No,” she replied. “Did she really?” “Yes.” Carmelita pointed to an old, somewhat worn-down house with a partially torn front gate and a cobblestone path leading up to the front door. “There’s her house right there. Do you see it?” Emma stared in wonderment at the place her sister was indicating. “Are you sure?” she asked. “I never pictured Mother living anywhere other than 667 Dark Avenue.” She paused. “Not that there’s anything wrong with this place. I just thought—” “We all have to start out somewhere, Emma,” Vice Principal Nero said sternly. “Oh, Nero,” Carmelita said. “Go easy on her. She was born and raised on 667 Dark Avenue. What did you expect her to say?” “I suppose you’re right,” replied Nero as he parked the car on the curb residing in front of one of the nicer apartment buildings in the neighborhood. “Well, here we are— home sweet home.” Emma stepped out of the car clutching The Complete Works of Al Funcoot securely in her arms as she fixed her eyes on the stone-gray building with its rotating glass doors and full-scale windows on either side. While Nero unloaded the suitcase from the trunk, Carmelita stood beside Emma and smiled down at her. “Don’t think that your reason for being here is because of what happened to your mother,” Carmelita said. “Instead think of it as a small vacation.” “Dearest,” Nero’s voice came from behind them as he lugged Emma’s suitcase up onto the steps, “didn’t you mention Emma having a few friends who live somewhere near by?” “Yes,” Carmelita replied. “Remember, Emma? Sunny and Beatrice mentioned the other day that they live just a few blocks from here. If you like we can invite them over for dinner tomorrow. I would have suggested we do it tonight, but I don’t have enough food in the apartment and it’s getting a little late in the day to start planning a meal.” “I had an administrative assistant named Sunny once,” said Nero. “Though I’m sorry to say she wasn’t a very good one.” “That’s because she was an infant,” Carmelita said as the three of them entered the building. “You can’t ask a baby to do a grownup’s job and expect immediate perfection.” “When I hired Carmelita as my administrative assistant, she was nothing less than perfect.” “That’s because I was eighteen when I started. Ah, here we are.” Carmelita stopped before the third door located on the first floor of the building and unlocked the door. “Don’t mind the mess,” she added, and flicked a nearby switch on the wall. A moment later the room flooded with light and revealed a simple but pleasant parlor setting with aqua walls and peppermint pink carpeting. Off to the side was a medium-sized kitchen with a refrigerator, stove, sink and countertop. Aside from a few empty bags of candy strewn across the coffee table in between the sofa and television set, Emma really couldn’t see anything messy about the apartment at all. “It’s very stylish,” Emma couldn’t help observing. “Now,” Carmelita said as she removed her coat and hung it on a rack by the door, “why am I not surprised to hear you say that? Here, give me your coat.” Emma did, and Carmelita hung it up beside hers. “You can use the hall closet to store your clothes in,” Carmelita went on as she and Emma watched Nero wheel the suitcase into a corner of the parlor. “And if you need extra hangers, we have plenty in the back bedroom you can use.” “Thank you very much,” Emma replied. “Well,” Nero said, “as long as you don’t need me for anything else, I’m going into the bedroom to practice the violin. If anyone calls for me—” “I’ll tell them you’re practicing and to leave a message,” Carmelita finished. “Don’t worry, Nero. After six years I’m pretty sure I’ve learned the routine by now.” Nero swept her into his arms and, remembering their young houseguest, kissed her briefly but fully on the lips before disappearing into the back bedroom. She watched him go and then turned back to Emma, who noticed instantly that her sister was blushing deeply. Before either of them could say a word, however, ‘the sound of someone who could not play the violin who insisted on doing so anyway’ pierced the air. While Emma did her best not to appear affected by the sound similar to that of someone strangling a cat, Carmelita grinned happily and replied with nothing short of honesty in her voice, “Aren’t I just the luckiest woman in the world to be marrying such a genius?” ~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~. While Vice Principal Nero chose to practice his violin within the privacy of his own home and while Carmelita’s ears chose to remain unaffected by its atrocity, Emma chose to familiarize herself with the neighborhood where she would be spending the next few days. She walked along, taking several twists and turns, until she came to the area of town known as Briny Beach. During the summertime the beach was overrun with tourists, most of whom had a high disregard for other people as it was nearly impossible to turn your head without coming into contact with another person’s nose. And, if you happened to be walking along and minding your own business, it wasn’t unusual to suddenly feel yourself being pushed roughly aside by some unruly child whose parents were too wrapped up in a conversation to tell them to behave. But it was on this particular day, which happened to be gray and cloudy, when Emma Salinger had a surprising burst of luck when she found the beach to be almost completely deserted. The only other person there was a man dressed in a long blue coat whose face Emma couldn’t see because it was hidden behind the upturned collar of his coat. Emma walked to the edge of the beach where the ocean breeze wisped through her dark hair and the tide brushed gently up against her toes. Holding The Complete Works of Al Funcoot protectively against her chest, she closed her eyes and breathed in the cool, crisp ocean air. When she opened her eyes again, she was surprised and a little frightened to see the man in the long blue coat standing beside her. In his pocket he carried a dark green notebook. “Hello,” the man said. Because he looked at her, she was now able to see his face, which she found to be particularly attractive with a prominent nose and high cheekbones. When she met his wide blue eyes a redness like the one in Carmelita’s cheeks when Nero had kissed her became suddenly visible in Emma’s. “H— hello,” Emma replied, struggling to keep her voice from shaking. “It’s a perfect afternoon for a stroll along the beach,” the man went on. “Y— yes.” “My name is Duncan Quagmire,” the man said. Quagmire, Emma thought. The name was familiar, but for the time being she was unable to put her finger on exactly where she had heard it last. She turned her face toward the man and smiled, noticing that he looked to be just a little bit older than Carmelita. Emma couldn’t help marveling at the way the man’s shoulder-length hair completely covered the right side of his face and gave him a look of mystery. “I’m Emma Salinger,” she said. “I see,” Duncan replied. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you, Emma. What book is that you’ve got there?” Proudly, Emma held out the book so Duncan could see the title. “The Complete Works of Al Funcoot,” Duncan read aloud. “How interesting, although I’ve never heard of this Al Funcoot person. Is he a poet?” Emma shook her head. “No,” she said, “a playwright, and my favorite, actually. My acting teacher is putting together a play written by Al Funcoot that I’ll be performing in called The Marvelous Marriage.” “Ah. That’s fabulous. I’m sure it will be nothing short of spectacular.” “I hope so. When my teacher asked us if we knew who Al Funcoot was, I was the only one to raise my hand.” “Well, it certainly proves you’ve done your homework,” Duncan said. “Do you live around here, Mr. Quagmire?” asked Emma. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Right over there.” Duncan pointed to a house located further up the mountain. “And please, call me Duncan.” Emma laughed. “You’re the second adult I know who insists I address them by their first name,” she explained. “My godfather, Jerome Squalor, made it clear as far back as I can remember that I am to address him by first name only.” “Is Jerome here with you?” Emma shook her head once more. “He’s at the hospital with my mother,” she said, and added quickly, “It’s a long story.” Instead of inquiring more about Emma’s circumstances, Duncan reached out and put his hand on hers, an act of comfort she would later learn he was famous for. “I understand,” he said, and left it at that. For a while the two of them stood there together at the edge of Briny Beach, watching the waves crash against some nearby rocks as the tide rolled in. “You know,” Duncan said, “to be honest I actually prefer gray and cloudy days to blue and sunny ones.” Emma looked up at him in confusion. “Why is that?” she asked. “Because on days when the sun is shining and warm breezes are blowing,” Duncan replied, “the beach is overrun with tourists and it is nearly impossible to find an empty spot to lay out your blanket. I don’t mind gray and cloudy skies if it means I’ll have the beach to myself for an entire afternoon.” Emma nodded thoughtfully before going back to gazing out at the ocean. “I don’t care much for people in general,” she said, and Duncan turned to look at her in surprise. “I— I mean…” Taking notice of his expression, she explained to him about the children at school who were always teasing her, particularly Davey Foxworth, and explained that the only ‘people’ she could ever really be herself around were adults and the other children in her acting class. Last of all, Emma lifted her hair and showed Duncan her one single eyebrow. “That isn’t so unusual,” he said, peering closely at it. “But you shouldn’t shut all people out just because some of them happen to be unpleasant. If I did that, my sister and I never would have met three of our dearest friends.” “I have friends,” Emma said, somewhat resentfully. “And they’re not grownups, either. They’re the same age as me, thank you very much.” She glared up at Duncan from beneath her excessive bangs. “I didn’t mean to imply anything negative,” he insisted, and once more reached over to take her hand. “But if I did then I sincerely apologize.” “What’s that?” asked Emma, pointing to the notebook in Duncan’s pocket. “This?” Duncan’s fingers brushed gently over the cover as he removed the notebook from his pocket. “This,” he said, “is a notebook I use to take down notes at my job. I’m a newspaper reporter. Perhaps you’ve heard of us? Quagmire-Baudelaire Incorporated.” Duncan’s words hit Emma like a ton of bricks as she was suddenly reminded of where she had heard the name ‘Quagmire’ before. “Now I remember where I heard the name ‘Quagmire’ before,” Emma exclaimed. “My friend at school, Sunny Baudelaire, has siblings who own a printing business called Quagmire-Baudelaire Incorporated.” “Yes!” exclaimed Duncan. “We print everything from books to newspapers to notebooks and everything in between. We came up with the idea when we were kids, during a time we were being forced to attend a horrible boarding school, but never did we actually believe our dream would become a reality. I guess it just goes to show that anything in the world is possible.” Emma looked thoughtful. “My dream is to become a famous actress,” she said. “My mother used to be one, but…” She trailed off, not wanting to go into detail about what Esmé used to be since it would require Emma to describe her mother’s current state. “But she’s not anymore,” she added quickly. “I hope to someday be as good as her, or maybe even Al Funcoot. My mother says I’m fantastic the way I am, but I think she says that only because she’s my mother and feels like she has to.” “Emma!” The sound of the familiar voice caused Emma to crane her neck over her shoulders toward the top of the beach where she saw a redheaded woman in a long green coat waving to her. “It’s time to come home,” the woman called. “Coming, Carmelita!” Emma called back. She turned to Duncan, who now held the oddest expression on his face. But Emma failed to notice, as it was hard to notice anything on a person’s face when it was halfway hidden by their hair. “That’s my sister. I need to go.” Duncan’s response was a single nod of the head and a rather strained smile. “Then I suppose you had better run along then,” he said. “Yes,” Emma agreed. “Well, it was very nice talking to you, Duncan. I hope to see you again soon.” She bestowed upon him one last smile before she turned and sprinted up the beach where Carmelita was waiting for her. “So that respectful, pleasant, hygienic child is the younger sister of Carmelita Spats,” Duncan mused to himself as he watched Emma go. “It’s rather strange that Emma doesn’t act or even look anything like her. Although stranger things have happened, and I suppose that lack of resemblance is a good thing, as far as behavior goes.” Placing his notebook back into the pocket of his coat, Duncan headed in the opposite direction of the beach where his own home resided. But just how strange things were about to get, Duncan Quagmire could have ever imagined, no matter how unusual things seemed to be at the moment.
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