Meanwhile, spring had snuck up on us. We were seniors, of course, so what did we care if the air got warmer, if the flowers bloomed? Our whole lives were about to change. We didn’t care about spring. We were spring.
I found myself hanging around the Owl office. The staff had thinned out by then. I was taking all the pictures. Emma was writing all the articles. The two of us would stay late and fiddle around with the layout. It had become a two-man operation. Emma didn’t mind. She liked to do everything herself, which was probably how she got straight As and was going to Yale. She paid great attention to detail.
We would hang out in the office until six or seven some nights, drinking coffee and feeling very responsible and adult. Mr. Hull, the faculty adviser never stayed after school anymore. Emma had convinced him to leave it to her, which he happily did. It wasn’t like Emma was going to do something edgy or controversial. She wasn’t capable of that.
• • •
One night we locked up the office and walked across campus to the parking lot and I noticed Emma seemed especially chatty, in a different way than usual. As we crossed the parking lot, Emma continued to talk in a rushed, nervous voice. We came to my car.
“All right,” I said. “See you tomorrow.”
“Oh, uh, Gavin?” she said.
Her voice ran out of air as she said this. I could see her chest heave. Her eyes bounced around in their sockets.
“Yeah?” I said.
“Would you, uh, want to go to a play with me on Saturday?”
“A play?” I said. I wasn’t sure what she meant. “Like a school play?”
“No, a real play. My parents have tickets they’re not going to use.”
“Oh,” I said. “So not for the magazine?”
“No. Not for the magazine.”
I was confused. Why would she think I wanted to go to a play? “What’s it about?” I said.
“I’m not sure,” she said, her chest heaved again. “But it’ll be good. It’s at the Civic. They only have good plays there.”
I almost said, Why are you asking me? But then I understood. She was asking me out. On a date.
“Oh,” I said, my confusion about the play turning into confusion about how to respond to Emma.
She could see I was unsure. She probably thought since we hung out so much, and talked a lot, that maybe something was happening between us. And being the studious, nonsocial person she was, she didn’t know how to tell if a person actually liked you or not.
“Uh . . . ,” I said. I had never been in this situation before. A girl was asking me out. A girl I was not attracted to. All I could think to do was not hurt her feelings. “Uh. Yeah. Okay . . . ,” I said. “I mean, if you need someone to go with.”
“You would have to drive, though. I can’t use my mom’s car that night.”
“Okay,” I said. “I can drive.”
• • •
At home that night, I got an e-mail from Emma with her address. I looked it up. Her house was in a neighborhood I didn’t know, which was surprising. I thought I knew every nook and cranny of our high school boundary. But this was on a road I’d never heard of.
That Saturday, before the play, I watched tennis on TV. Then I took a shower and went through my ritual of getting ready for a date. This time was different, though. Usually I went out with girls who I liked and wanted to impress. Girls like Rachel Lehman, who I would put on extra deodorant for, since I would be nervous in their presence, since they had been on lots of dates, usually with guys who were as cool or cooler than me. But Emma? Had she even been on a date before? Probably not.
I drove the RAV4 to the Van Buskirk house. It wasn’t that nice. I mean, it was fine, but it was small and on a dead-end cul-de-sac. It seemed odd that Emma was going to Yale. But she did have a 4.0 grade-point average. And she was the editor of the Owl.
I parked and rang the bell at her front door. Her mother answered. She was very excited to meet me. She invited me into the small entrance area and told me about the play: who wrote it, who directed it, how great the local theater productions were. Then she yelled—too loudly—up the stairs for Emma, which I was sure Emma didn’t appreciate. And then Mr. Van Buskirk showed up, taking off his reading glasses to shake my hand. He also told me about the play and how great it was. I felt like saying, If it’s so great, why aren’t you going?
It was all very weird. Emma was still upstairs. “So Emma tells us you’re going to art school in California,” said her mom. “You’re a very talented photographer.”
“Yeah,” I said, looking up the stairs.
“That’s wonderful. Your parents must be very proud.”
“They’re sort of occupied with other things.”
“What do your folks do?” asked Mr. Van Buskirk.
“My dad’s a lawyer.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Van Buskirk. “A lawyer!”
Finally, Emma came downstairs. She was wearing a dress. She looked pretty good. She had cute shoes on and a bit of lip gloss. But she also had a small orange scarf tied around her head. I’d never seen her wear anything like that before. We were going downtown, to the big theater, so I guess that’s why she went for the scarf. Her parents were still talking and asking me questions about myself. But the scarf had thrown me off, and with everyone talking at once, it was hard to focus.
When we finally got outside, I found myself opening Emma’s door for her, so she could climb into the RAV4. When she was in, I closed it for her. Everything was going to be very formal tonight.
We drove downtown, making small talk on the way. Emma directed me to park in a parking garage, so I did, even though it cost twelve bucks. Then we walked up Broadway to the theater. There was a pretty big crowd, older people mostly, people who looked like Emma’s parents.
I made a joke about the old ladies, but Emma was too nervous to laugh. And she never liked my jokes anyway. She always got touchy whenever I joked around at the Owl office. Like high school journalism was not supposed to be funny.
• • •
Anyway, we made it through the play and then walked to the frozen yogurt place across the street. Several other people from the play were there, dressed-up middle-aged people. It was all very polite and civilized.
Emma finally seemed to relax once she had the frozen yogurt in her hands. It gave her something to focus on. I ate mine too, and we sat there and tried to talk about the play, which I totally didn’t understand. It was about people living in a New York apartment building. Kai might have liked it. She might have understood the jokes.
As I drove Emma home, I suddenly felt sorry for her. When she got inside, her parents were going to grill her. What happened? Did he like you? Will he ask you out again? That was Emma’s problem. She had been dominated all her life by her parents. They had pushed her to excel at high school and then pushed her to go to Yale. Now they were pushing her to go on dates, because it was getting to be “that time.” She needed to learn about boys so she could eventually meet her husband and start her family.
One good thing though, halfway through the play she took off the scarf. And she did look good in the dress. She would eventually get a husband, at Yale or whatever.