"Emma," my mom wrote.
Write me as soon as you get in. Tell me how your flight was. Is it raining? I miss you already.
I'm almost finished packing for Florida, but I can't find my pink blouse. Do you know where I
put it? Phil says hi. Mom.
I sighed and went to the next. It was sent eight hours after the first.
"Emma," she wrote…
Why haven't you e-mailed me yet? What are you waiting for? Mom.
The last was from this morning.
Emma,
If I haven't heard from you by 5:30 p.m. today I'm calling David.
I checked the clock. I still had an hour, but my mom was well known for jumping the gun.
Mom,
Calm down. I'm writing right now. Don't do anything rash.
Emma.
I sent that, and began again.
Mom,
Everything is great. Of course it's raining. I was waiting for something to write about. School isn't bad, just a little repetitive. I met some nice kids who sit by me at lunch. Your blouse is at the dry cleaners,you were supposed to pick it up Friday.
David bought me a truck, can you believe it? I love it. It's old, but really sturdy, which is
good, you know, for me.
I miss you, too. I'll write again soon, but I'm not going to check my e-mail every five minutes.
Relax, breathe. I love you.
Emma.
I had decided to read Wuthering Heights, the novel we were currently studying in English, yet
again for the fun of it, and that's what I was doing when David came home. I'd lost track of the time and I hurried downstairs to take the potatoes out and put the steak in to broil.
"Emma?" my father called out when he heard me on the stairs.
Who else? I thought to myself.
"Hey, Dad, welcome home."
"Thanks." He hung up his gun belt and stepped out of his boots as I bustled about the kitchen. As far as I was aware, he'd never shot the gun on the job. But he kept it ready. When I came here as a child, he would always remove the bullets as soon as he walked in the door. I guess he considered me old enough now not to shoot myself by accident, and not depressed enough to shoot myself on purpose.
"What's for dinner?" he asked warily. My mother was an imaginative cook, and her experiments weren't always edible. I was surprised, and sad, that he seemed to remember that far back.
"Steak and potatoes," I answered, and he looked relieved.
He seemed to feel awkward standing in the kitchen doing nothing; he lumbered into the living room to watch TV while I worked. We were both more comfortable that way. I made a salad while the steaks
cooked, and set the table.
I called him in when dinner was ready, and he sniffed appreciatively as he walked into the room.
"Smells good, Emma."
"Thanks."
We ate in silence for a few minutes. It wasn't uncomfortable. Neither of us was bothered by the quiet. In some ways, we were well suited for living together.
"So, how did you like school? Have you made any friends?" he asked as he was taking seconds.
"Well, I have a few classes with a girl named Jessica. I sit with her friends at lunch. And there's this boy, Neal, who's very friendly. Everybody seems pretty nice." With one outstanding exception.
"That must be Neal Cassady. Nice kid, nice family. His dad owns the sporting goods store just outside of town. He makes a good living off all the backpackers who come through here."
"Do you know the Jones family?" I asked hesitantly.
"Dr. Jones' family? Sure. Dr. Jones' is a great man."
"They… the kids… are a little different. They don't seem to fit in very well at school."
David surprised me by looking angry.
"People in this town," he muttered. "Dr. Jones is a brilliant surgeon who could probably work in any
hospital in the world, make ten times the salary he gets here," he continued, getting louder. "We're lucky to have him, lucky that his wife wanted to live in a small town. He's an asset to the community, and all of those kids are well behaved and polite. I had my doubts, when they first moved in, with all those adopted teenagers. I thought we might have some problems with them. But they're all very mature, I haven't had one speck of trouble from any of them. That's more than I can say for the children of some folks who have lived in this town for generations. And they stick together the way a family should, camping trips every other weekend… Just because they're newcomers, people have to talk."
It was the longest speech I'd ever heard David make. He must feel strongly about whatever people
were saying.
I backpedaled. "They seemed nice enough to me. I just noticed they kept to themselves. They're all very attractive," I added, trying to be more complimentary.
"You should see the doctor," David said, laughing. "It's a good thing he's happily married. A lot of the
nurses at the hospital have a hard time concentrating on their work with him around."
We lapsed back into silence as we finished eating. He cleared the table while I started on the dishes. He went back to the TV, and after I finished washing the dishes by hand, no dishwasher, I went
upstairs unwillingly to work on my math homework. I could feel a tradition in the making.
That night it was finally quiet. I fell asleep quickly, exhausted.
The rest of the week was uneventful. I got used to the routine of my classes. By Friday I was able to recognize, if not name, almost all the students at school. In Gym, the kids on my team learned not to pass me the ball and to step quickly in front of me if the other team tried to take advantage of my weakness. I happily stayed out of their way.
Killian Jones didn't come back to school.
Every day, I watched anxiously until the rest of the Jones' entered the cafeteria without him. Then I
could relax and join in the lunchtime conversation. Mostly it centered around a trip to the La Push Ocean Park in two weeks that Neal was putting together. I was invited, and I had agreed to go, more out of politeness than desire. Beaches should be hot and dry.
By Friday I was perfectly comfortable entering my Biology class, no longer worried that Killian would be there. For all I knew, he had dropped out of school. I tried not to think about him, but I couldn't totally suppress the worry that I was responsible for his continued absence, ridiculous as it seemed.
My first weekend in Storybrooke passed without incident. David unused to spending time in the usually empty house, worked most of the weekend. I cleaned the house, got ahead on my homework, and wrote my mom more bogusly cheerful e-mail. I did drive to the library Saturday, but it was so poorly stocked that I didn't bother to get a card; I would have to make a date to visit Olympia or Seattle soon and find a good bookstore. I wondered idly what kind of gas mileage the truck got… and shuddered at the thought.
The rain stayed soft over the weekend, quiet, so I was able to sleep well.
People greeted me in the parking lot Monday morning. I didn't know all their names, but I waved back
and smiled at everyone. It was colder this morning, but happily not raining. In English, Neal took his accustomed seat by my side. We had a pop quiz on Wuthering Heights. It was straightforward, very easy.
All in all, I was feeling a lot more comfortable than I had thought I would feel by this point. More
comfortable than I had ever expected to feel here.
When we walked out of class, the air was full of swirling bits of white. I could hear people shouting excitedly to each other. The wind bit at my cheeks, my nose.
Wow," Neal said. "It's snowing."
I looked at the little cotton fluffs that were building up along the sidewalk and swirling erratically past my face.
"Ew." Snow. There went my good day.
He looked surprised. "Don't you like snow?"
"No. That means it's too cold for rain." Obviously. "Besides, I thought it was supposed to come down in flakes you know, each one unique and all that. These just look like the ends of Q-tips."
"Haven't you ever seen snow fall before?" he asked incredulously.
"Sure I have." I paused. "On TV."
Neal laughed. And then a big, squishy ball of dripping snow smacked into the back of his head. We both turned to see where it came from. I had my suspicions about Eric, who was walking away, his back toward us, in the wrong direction for his next class. Neal appatently had the same notion. He bent over and began scraping together a pile of the white mush.
"I'll see you at lunch, okay?" I kept walking as I spoke. "Once people start throwing wet stuff, I go
inside."
He just nodded, his eyes on Eric's retreating figure.
Throughout the morning, everyone chattered excitedly about the snow; apparently it was the first snowfall of the new year. I kept my mouth shut. Sure, it was drier than rain, until it melted in your socks.
I walked alertly to the cafeteria with Jessica after Spanish. Mush balls were flying everywhere. I kept a binder in my hands, ready to use it as a shield if necessary. Jessica thought I was hilarious, but something in my expression kept her from lobbing a snowball at me herself.
Neal caught up to us as we walked in the doors, laughing, with ice melting the spikes in his hair. He and Jessica were talking animatedly about the snow fight as we got in line to buy food. I glanced toward that table in the corner out of habit. And then I froze where I stood. There were five people at the table Jessica pulled on my arm.
Hello? Emma? What do you want?"
I looked down; my ears were hot. I had no reason to feel self-conscious, I reminded myself. I hadn't done anything wrong.
"What's with emma?" Neal asked Jessica.
"Nothing," I answered. "I'll just get a soda today." I caught up to the end of the line.
"Aren't you hungry?" Jessica asked.
"Actually, I feel a little sick," I said, my eyes still on the floor.
I waited for them to get their food, and then followed them to a table, my eyes on my feet.
I sipped my soda slowly, my stomach churning. Twice Neal asked, with unnecessary concern, how I was feeling.
I told him it was nothing, but I was wondering if I should play it up and escape to the nurse's office for
the next hour.
Ridiculous. I shouldn't have to run away.
I decided to permit myself one glance at the Jones family's table. If he was glaring at me, I would skip Biology, like the coward I was.