[This next chapter ran a little too long, and so I am cutting into two posts. Also, I apologize for the lack of Olaf, but he will be showing up again in chapter 7, I promise!]
Chapter 6
On Monday morning, Esmé rose promptly at five-thirty, giving herself an hour and a half to get ready for yet another day at Mulctuary Money Management. Before heading to the bathroom, she took her eyeliner pen from its place on the nightstand and lifted up Jerome’s pajama top. Being extremely careful not to disturb him, she used the eyeliner to write neatly over his belly button: “I love you.” Directly underneath it, she added: “Love, Esmé.” After applying a fresh coat of lipstick to her mouth, she kissed him on the stomach, leaving behind a bright red imprint. Then she dashed across the room and into the bathroom to shower.
Meanwhile, in her bedroom two doors down, Emma was sitting up in bed, wide awake. She had been for nearly two solid hours, her mind plagued by thoughts of Olaf and her parents, making it impossible to sleep all the way through the night. Emma knew that Esmé would be stopping by her room soon to wake her and kiss her goodbye before leaving for work. For the first time in her life, Emma actually felt happy to be going to school, having no desire to spend the entire day alone in the penthouse with Jerome.
Sighing, she rolled over and closed her eyes. Olaf had said that he would be contacting her again soon and had advised her to keep an eye on the mail. Maybe there would be a letter waiting for her this afternoon when she arrived home! The notion struck her hard, and she sat up with a start. Suppose that Jerome got to the mail before she did? How in the world would she explain the appearance of a letter from her biological father? Emma knew that both Esmé
and Jerome were bound to ask her a million questions, ones which Emma would be more than willing to give false accounts to. Then again, Olaf hadn’t said anything about not wanting anyone to know about him. If anything, Jerome was the only person in the picture who had something to worry about.
Nearly an hour went by before Emma finally dozed off, and the next thing she knew her mother was calling her softly from the open doorway: “Good morning, darling. Are you awake?”
Out of all the rules Emma had ever heard of parents enforcing, not being allowed to sleep with your bedroom door closed was definitely the strangest. She had been told by her stepfather that it was because her mother was terrified of fires, in spite of the fact that there had never once been a fire at their apartment building since its construction back in 1890. Up until just two days ago, Emma had always assumed that her mother’s fear was due to the death of Emma’s biological father. Now that the truth had come to the surface, Esmé’s fear of fire seemed somewhat inane.
Lifting up her head from the pillow, Emma rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Yes,” she replied. “I’m awake.”
“Did you sleep well?” Esmé asked as she stepped into the room and drew back the curtains from the window, enabling some light to flood the dark room.
“I did.”
As Esmé leaned down to kiss her daughter in the center of the eyebrow like she did every morning and every night before tucking her in, Emma caught a whiff of her mother’s lavender-scented perfume. It was a scent that she had first learned to distinguish as a very young child, and to this day she always associated the small of lavender with her mother.
“Jerome will have breakfast ready for you by the time you’ve finished getting ready,” Esmé said. “And please, darling. Make an effort to be a little kinder to him than you have been, alright? I understand you’re a teenager now, but this behavior just won’t do. Jerome has never been anything but a wonderful, loving father to you, and I won’t stand by and watch you treat him with such disrespect. Is that clear?”
“Yes, Mother,” Emma replied.
Esmé smiled. “Good. I’ll be staying late at the bank today, but I promise I’ll be home in time to cook dinner for you and your father.”
Emma had to force herself to ignore the last two words. “What are we having?”
“Well, last week I had a conversation with a few of my associates from work,” Esmé explained. “We were discussing the types of meals that are both in and delectable. Sara Nordstrom brought up veal patties layered with breadcrumbs, Romano cheese, garlic and cornmeal. I thought it sounded like an absolutely
smashing idea (her ideas always are). Of course, I also made sure to consult this month’s issue of
In and Out Magazine, just to be sure. And, just as I thought, veal patties layered with breadcrumbs, Romano cheese, garlic and cornmeal is going to be the innest of all gourmet meals for the entire month of March!”
Esmé clapped her long-nailed hands together in glee, kissing her daughter once more in the center of the eyebrow before spinning around the room in her excitement. Emma couldn’t help but be excited for her, although deep down the prospect of anything having to do with veal turned her stomach.
“Well, I’d best be getting myself down to the bank now. And
you, young lady, had best be getting up and dressed for school.”
“Okay,” Emma said.
“Have a marvelous day, darling,” Esmé said. “And I’ll see you this evening.”
“You, too, Mother. Goodbye.”
After Esmé had gone, Emma changed into her uniform and then hurried to the nearest bathroom. She washed her face and combed out her hair. Then she returned to her room where she made her bed and took a few extra minutes to look over her notes for Mr. Remora’s test.
When she entered the dining room fifteen minutes later, she found a plate on which was set two slices of whole wheat toast, scrambled eggs, and two slices of bacon. This had always been Emma’s favorite breakfast, and the way Jerome prepared it could not have been more perfect. But on this particular morning, she just didn’t feel all that hungry.
“Good morning, Emma,” Jerome announced as he emerged from the kitchen. He was feeling much better this morning, thanks to the note from Esmé he had found printed in black eyeliner on his belly. It was a special secret of theirs, something she had done every morning for the past year. Every time he went to shower and Esmé’s message washed away, he nearly cried.
Emma said nothing as she sat down at the table and stared down at her food.
“Emma,” Jerome said as he slid into a chair across from her. “Is there something going on I should know about?”
“No,” she replied.
“Are you angry with me? Did I do something wrong?”
Emma didn’t answer.
“Sweetheart, your mother and I are very concerned.” Jerome reached across the table for her hand, which she pulled away and set down in her lap.
“I think I’d really like to go downstairs to the lobby and wait for the bus now,” Emma said.
“But don’t you want to have a little breakfast first?” Jerome asked.
“I’m not very hungry.”
Jerome frowned. He had seen this before. In Carmelita, when she was less than a year older than Emma. Of course, Carmelita’s reason for refusing food had been completely dependent on the fact that Nero had chosen to discourage any romantic involvement whatsoever with her, a decision which had ultimately caused her to starve herself and end up in the hospital. Jerome could hardly see how Emma could ever do anything like that, considering her only love interest was a boy just two years older than she.
“Emma, if there’s something going on—”
“There’s not.”
“If you need to talk about anything—”
“I don’t.”
Jerome sighed, leaning back in his chair. “Very well,” he said. “I’m not going to argue with you.”
“Then don’t argue,” replied Emma, her head still down.
Emma’s words rang a familiar bell in Jerome, and he looked up. During the earlier days of their marriage, there had been countless times in which Esmé had spoken the very same words to him. He had no idea where their daughter could possibly have picked them up from, but he supposed he wasn’t surprised. After all, the phrase “Then
don’t argue” is a rather common one. That, along with the fact that Emma was becoming like every other irritable teenager in the city. He couldn’t say he cared for her new unfortunate attitude, but he sought comfort in the fact that it would pass. It even made him wonder what Esmé had been like at thirteen.
“Alright,” Jerome said at last. “Go ahead down to the lobby and wait for the bus if that is what you want.”
Emma started to get up.
“Provided you have a few bites of your breakfast first.”
Emma sat back down, rolling her eyes in the process. “Oh, fine,” she said. Reaching across her plate, she picked up a piece of toast and took a single bite, then did the same with a piece of bacon. “There. Are you happy now?”
“Are you sure that’s all you want?”
“Yes!” Emma snapped. “Jeez, what is it going to take for you to stop asking me a million questions and to leave me alone?” Furious, she got up from the table and slammed her chair forwards, causing the dishware to clatter in response.
Hurt and confused, Jerome watched his stepdaughter— who had once worshipped and adored him in the same way she
still did her mother —throw her backpack over her shoulder and storm out of the dining room.
What
had he done?
***
Emma spent the hour and fifteen minutes on the bus ride from 667 Dark Avenue to Prufrock Preparatory School being tormented and teased by the usual group of kids. These included Davey Foxworth, who had been bullying Emma ever since their days in nursery school together, and for one very obvious reason.
“Eyebrow,” Davey whispered from the seat behind Emma.
“Cakesniffer,” she replied without turning around.
“Eyebrow.”
“Cakesniffer.”
“Eyebrow.”
“Cakesniffer.”
“Eye—”
As the bus halted in front of Prufrock Prep and everyone stood up, Emma smiled to herself, content with the notion that she had gotten the last insult. However, with her face still turned towards the window there was no way she could have seen Davey as he took a fistful of her hair and pulled as hard as he could.
“Ouch!” Emma hollered, and slapped Davey’s hand away. When she turned to face him, the cruel smirk on his mean face was enough to make her blood boil. Lunging forward, she caught him by the shoulders and hurled him through a group of kids and into the seat across from hers. There was the sound of glass shattering, followed by an ear-splitting scream. Emma didn’t care, and managed to slam Davey’s head three more times against the window before the bus driver managed to separate them.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded.
“It’s
his fault!” Emma accused. “He pulled my hair!”
“So what?” a friend of Davey’s argued. “That doesn’t give you the right to slam his head into the window.”
“Oh, yes it does!”
This was the first time in which Emma had done anything violent, but this concept did not register to her as she attempted to lunge a second time at Davey, who was sobbing in the seat in front of her. She would have succeeded in ramming his skull against the window a forth time had the bus driver not tightened his grip on her shoulders.
Her fury was quick to override her fear, and she felt no remorse as Davey forced himself to sit up and reveal a bloodstain on the window behind him.
“Davey, you’re bleeding,” exclaimed his friend.
By now, everyone who had still been on the bus when the incident took place had all gathered around to watch the scene unfold: Emma was indignant; Davey was hysterical; and the bus driver was angry.
“Would someone please take him to the nurse’s office?” the bus driver asked.
“I will,” Davey’s friend offered, putting their arm around him. “Come on, Davey.”
Emma knew she was in trouble even before the bus driver clamped his other large hand down on her other shoulder and led her off the bus. But she didn’t care. Davey Foxworth had gotten exactly what he deserved after nearly ten years of relentless bullying. And if that meant having to buy Vice Principal Nero one bag of candy or one
hundred, then so be it.
Still holding her tightly by the shoulders, the bus driver pushed Emma along the front lawn of Prufrock Prep like a wheelbarrow in the direction of the administrative building. She immediately grew wary of all the whispering going on around them, amazed by how quickly word of her assault on Davey had traveled. There was no doubt in her mind that the students had found their topic of conversation for the week. Emma actually felt quite proud until she found the bus driver and herself riding up in the elevator to the ninth floor where Nero’s office was located.
Emma had gotten away with a lot during her seven years as a student at the school, but something told her that neither her parents nor her vice principal were not going to overlook an act of violence— whether or not it had been random.
The elevator doors slid open and they stepped out, the bus driver still not having loosened his grip from Emma’s shoulders. As they approached the door of Nero’s office, she wasn’t surprised to hear the familiar screechings and scrapings of his violin coming from inside— though she would have to be exceptionally lucky in order for these sounds to override that of the bus driver’s knuckles as he rapped them against the door.
The screechings and scrapings came to an abrupt stop and a moment later the door opened to reveal Vice Principal Nero. In one hand he held his beloved cherry-colored violin (which had been given to him by Carmelita after his original had been destroyed in the fire that had annihilated the first Hotel Denouement) while in the other he held the bow.
“Yes?” Nero asked, not at all surprised to see Emma. He was, however, rather surprised to see her
bus driver standing alongside her.
“Your student caused quite a dispute on my bus,” the driver explained.
“Oh?”
“She attacked one of the other passengers by slamming his head into a window and cracking it.”
Nero’s eyes widened at this. He had always known Emma to have a temper, but she had never before done something so violent. He couldn’t believe it. Carmelita had been the same way, although she was nearly thirteen (the same age as Emma) by the time she outgrew it. So why was Emma just starting to show signs of serious behavioral problems?
“Don’t worry,” Nero replied. “I’ll see to it that the damages are paid for by the academy. Thank you for taking time out of your schedule to bring her to me. I understand you’re a very busy man.”
The bus driver nodded and then left.
“Come in, Emma,” Nero said, ushering her into his office with his bow. “I can see by the circumstances that we have a lot to discuss.”
Emma took a hesitant step into the unbelievably tiny office and sat down in a seat across from the vice principal’s desk.
Nero set his violin and bow down on the desk before taking a seat behind it. He examined Emma for a long moment before saying anything. “I really have no idea what to say, Emma,” he said finally. “Other than I’m extremely shocked. I would never have expected this type of behavior from someone with your upbringing. What happened?”
“Davey Foxworth pulled my hair,” Emma explained. “And before that he was teasing me. So you see, Nero, I had to defend myself
somehow.”“That’s
Vice Principal Nero. You know I can only permit you to call me ‘Nero’ when we aren’t in school. And as far as defending yourself goes, what you should have done was come to
me and explained the situation. You know that the same rules that apply to the other students don’t apply to
you. I wouldn’t have taken away your silverware or made you buy me a large bag of candy.”
Emma looked at him hopefully. “So,” she said, “you
aren’t going to punish me?”
Nero tugged uncomfortably at one of the four long, greasy braids hanging over his left shoulder. “Well, I don’t want to,” he admitted. “But what choice do I have? You
physically attacked another student.” Nero paused. “How badly did you hurt him?”
Emma shrugged.
“Was there blood?”
“Y— yes.”
Nero sighed. “What’s gotten into you? Carmelita mentioned something the other day about you supposedly giving your father a hard time. Is that true?”
Lacing the fingers of both hands together, Emma concentrated hard on her fishnet stockings and stiletto heels. The downside of having a vice principal who was also her brother-in-law was simple: It was as though any problem that arose between Esmé, Jerome, and Emma automatically found its way to Carmelita and Nero, since Esmé always repeated whatever crisis she was currently facing to Carmelita, who more often than not passed it on to Nero. Half the time it felt as though Emma was starring in her very own soap opera entitled
The Dark Avenue Diaries.
“It’s a personal matter,” Emma said.
“I see,” Nero said. “Emma, I’m sorry about this, but due to the brutality of what you’ve done, I have no choice but to notify your parents.”
Emma gulped. She knew this was coming. “Which one of my parents are you going to notify?”
Nero reached for the telephone on his desk and picked it up, the finger of his other hand hovering above the dial pad. “I thought I’d try the penthouse first. Jerome is home, isn’t he?”
“Yes,” Emma replied.
“I doubt your mother would be very pleased to hear from one of her co-workers about her daughter being suspended,” Nero said as he dialed the number of the penthouse apartment. “Don’t you?”
“Su— suspended?” Emma had never been suspended in her life! She wasn’t too worried about what Jerome’s reaction would be (not that she cared much), but she was more than a little apprehensive about the way her mother would react. While Emma waited for Nero to say something into the phone, she wondered if any more spare rooms would be in shambles before the day was over.
“Hello,” Nero spoke into the phone, and Emma felt her stomach tense. “Jerome? This is your daughter’s vice principal and son-in-law calling. How are you?”
Emma couldn’t help rolling her eyes at Nero’s chummy acquaintance with her stepfather. Hadn’t Nero just made it clear not five minutes before that he expected Emma to address him not as “Nero” but as “Vice Principal Nero”? Since when did Jerome receive special privileges? It just wasn’t fair!
“I’m fine, Nero,” he replied.
“And yourself?”“Quite well,” Nero said. “Thank you. Listen, Jerome, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but it seems as though Emma got herself into a little bit of trouble on the bus this morning.”
“Trouble? What sort of trouble?”“Well, from what I was told she rammed a boy’s head against the window of the bus hard enough to shatter it.”
“What?” Jerome practically screamed
.”She broke his skull?!”“No,” Nero explained calmly. “I was referring to the window.”
“Oh. Well, was he injured?”“Well, there was some blood.”
“Oh, my God…”“I’m sorry to be the bearer of such bad news, Jerome,” Nero said. “Emma is an excellent student and a very pleasant young lady. I just don’t understand what could have triggered this type of behavior.”
“Neither do I,” Jerome admitted.
“She’s been acting strangely the past couple of days, but she refuses to tell Esmé and me what’s bothering her.”“I hate to suspend her— I really do —but I can’t have her going around beating up other students just because they rub her the wrong way. Prufrock Preparatory School is a serious academy, you understand, and not a fighting arena.”
“I understand, Nero. And I can assure you that both my wife and I will be speaking to Emma about this.”“I know you live some distance away from Prufrock Prep,” Nero said, “but I must insist that you come get your daughter immediately.”
“I’m on my way,” Jerome said, and hung up the telephone.