Related, on Waypoint: Check out what else Emily Kaldwin gets up to at Waypoint High in this comic by Stephan Maurice Graham.
Huffing, Amelie pretended not to notice. "Her? She just asks me for notes because she forgets hers. Have you seen her Instagram? She takes pictures of airplanes. Who does that? She's got her head in the cl-" Her words trailed off.Emily's attention was elsewhere, looking suddenly pensive. She fingered the heart necklace around a neck, a gift from her mother who had passed on. "Let's go to class." "Sure, but I don't like it when you get that look in your eyes." "Shut up."
Amelie strode up the brick walkway to a cute white house, workout bag slung over her shoulder. Emily had pressed her to come over after she was done with ballet practice, so she obliged, hair still pulled tightly into a bun. She turned for a moment to look at the truck in the driveway—a yellow box that had an imposing rat perched on the top. It read—ATTANO EXTERMINATOR SERVICE—and never failed to make her laugh. Something about how happy the rat looked, considering what Emily's father (Adoptive? Biological? She was not sure and never thought to ask. He was just her dad) did for a living.
"We're going to the diner in a bit, I hope you're hungry." "I'm starving. I could eat a whole plate of French fries." Both of them snorted a little."What are you looking at?" Amelie flopped next to Emily, turning the girl's hands so her phone screen was visible. "Oh, you know, hate-reading Delilah's Facebook." "What's she saying now?" "Oh, you know, the usual. Weird articles about possession and whatnot."
What greeted her was not Emily scrolling through something on her phone, but the familiarity of the place.
Emily stared at her reflection in the giant glass windows of the diner. Across from her was Amelie digging silently into a huge plate of fries, mayonnaise and ketchup mixed into an orange goop. She looked up as the door shook open with a bell and returned to sipping her coffee.
"So what was this about getting me a date? With who?" She chewed on a fry ungracefully. Emily's eyes gestured upwards as a gangly figure bounded up to the table. "'Ello, loves. Mind if I have a seat here?" Amelie nearly choked. She shot Emily a look that could kill. "Sure, Lena, be my guest." She looked at Amelie over the rim of her coffee cup, smiling, as she scooted over to let the slender British girl in. It was all worth it, of course.When Amelie stepped onto the dark dancefloor, swan-like, and Lena with her tiny orange dress and matching bowtie, asked her to dance, it made Emily swell with pride over a job well done. It was one thing to be president, but to be a matchmaker besides?She fiddled with her necklace again.The heart wants what the heart wants.
It was all worth it, of course.