Emma Gray and Her Quest For Love

ONE: the caracci crisis

ONE:
the caracci crisis

  "I swear the next time that Zack schedules a Friday interview, he won't be working anymore. This child does not seem to understand that we have a newspaper that has to be edited, printed, and rolled by Saturday night!" Emma jumps as her mother slams another stack of newspapers on the kitchen chair. If she could see auras, she knows her mother's would be flaming red. At least, Emma resigns, she is not as mad at him as she normally is at the ad girls.

  "Zack Caracci, right?" Lance snips the stack on his way back in from the kitchen.

  "The one and only."

  "I read some of his poems back in high school when he tutored me. Got chills, man. I swear if I ever cried because of words it would be 'cause of that kid." Lance settles down on the couch after slicing the strings binding together his stack of unrolled papers.

  "Caracci? I think I have him. His name sounds familiar at least," Emma's father comments as he rips open a new box of plastic bags. "He wrote a poem about birds; 'Warbling, trilling, chirping / Sisyphus must've killed a few fowls in his years.'"

  Corrine scoffs from her spot on the couch. "Oh yeah, real tear-jerking stuff there, Lance."

  "Hm. Guess not everything gets better with age." He shrugs off our stares and rolls up a few dozen stories with his ink-stained hands. Corrine smiles--it's a mix of something smug and adoration. Emma reflects her friend's reflex.

  "His work has layers," is the defense Emma's father takes. He probably overanalyzed the Sisyphus to connect to rolling stones and killing birds with stones, but Emma sees this as pretentious rather than ground-breaking.

  Her mother starts complaining about the value of a wordsmith on her team but with chronic tardiness as a vice, could he really be worth his sentiments? Emma begins to zone out; she doesn't need to listen about the Caracci Crisis for the third time this week, rather focusing on the task ahead.

  It is a routine that Saturday afternoons, when not spent at Starston Bowl or Thespis Theater, are for rolling up the Starston Sunday. It is a mindless task: gently fold the paper in thirds, slip it into a plastic bag, knot the top, and throw it in the pile. Fold, slip, knot, throw. It is a rhythm that Emma is accustomed to.

  Her mind begins to wander to her brother-in-law and niece. She glances at her watch, noting that they've been gone for over three hours and that Davis forgot his phone yet again on the kitchen table. She bites her lip and re-folds the same paper a few times over--hoping to get it perfect.

  Emma's worries are suddenly interrupted by a sharp snap to her shoulder. Her head jerks up just as Corrine stifles her laughter and tries to hide behind her fiance. Lance pushes her away with a chuckle and smiles apologetically at Emma as she picks up the rubber band projectile.

  "Did you want something, Cor?" A mixture of mock politeness and seething sarcasm slip into Emma's quierie. She attempts to be firm, yet cannot help but smile.

  "Hon, I've been saying your name for the past five minutes," Her mother chides. "You should go and get us some dinner. You seem a bit distracted." Her eyes flit to the warped newspaper under Emma's hands.

  "Oh, uh sure. Where do we want to eat tonight?" Emma leaves her stack alone and stands to wash her inky fingers off.

  "Chinese?" Corrine suggests.

  "We had that last night," Lance groans, "I can only handle so much chow mein."

  "Did-did you really just say that? Engagement over. I need a fiance who can handle perpetual noodles." Emma can't see Corrine, but she imagines the redhead scooting away from Lance.

  "I haven't had Indian in a while," Emma's dad comments as she runs her hands under the kitchen faucet.

  "Yes because last time we had Indian for dinner, you got food poisoning," His wife responds.

  Emma returns to the living room in time to see her dad nod his head in vague remembrance. He has too much thought for a man who remembers so little. After readjusting his square-framed glasses and running a hand through his worn hair, Professor Gray shrugs and leans in his chair to pop his back, signaling that he has already given up suggesting options.

  Her mother lets out a sigh and raises her eyebrows in defeat. She is tired; the dark circles under her eyes and greasy ponytail reveal her struggle. She will look better after tonight, when she is satisfied all the papers are rolled and tucked tight in the car, ready for Emma's distribution in the early morning. Only then will she rest.

  "How about Winnie and Mo's?" Emma leans against the doorframe between rooms, wiping her damp hands on her jacket.

  The room's inhabitants visibly perk up. The promise of something warm and familiar brings a new light into the house. Perhaps thinking of some dough, sauce, and cheese thrown and baked together as a link to something they all used to know is pretentious (maybe a bit too unceremonious--bordering on inappropriate, given the circumstances), but ever since her older sister got her first job at the parlor, Winnie and Mo's had become a domestic tradition.

  Of course, Beatrice no longer works at Winnie and Mo's--she stopped after she graduated high school--but that never stopped the Gray's love for the food. It heightened it, if anything, because it became a symbol of opportunity. Also because the sauce is to die for.

  Emma stiffens at the morbid thought as she exits. She confirms the order then rushes out. She shuts the house door more quickly than she'd planned and inadvertently slams it.

  "Mad at your parents or something?"

  Emma whirls around to see Huck Caracci standing on her front lawn with balled up fists shoved into his jean pockets, pretending that he wasn't just reading their garage wall. Though this question is sudden, Emma knows he isn't being sarcastic--just genuinely curious.

  "No. It was an accident."

  His eyebrows furrow but then raise in amusement. He snickers and raises his fingers to his forehead--"Ah, you seem to have something on your face."

  Emma quickly glances at her reflection in her car's windshield and sees an ink smear running above her eyebrows. She attempts to rub it off with her jacket sleeve, but it refuses to leave.

  "Thanks, Huck. I gotta go."

  "Anytime."

♡♡♡

  When Emma exits Winnie and Mo's with two pizzas, a cinnamon wheel, and a 2-liter of Coke, all she wants to do is set everything down.

  She had to wait for her meal since she neglected to order ahead of time, and was subject to staring at her phone, waiting for a text from Davis saying he's home, while trying to hide her face from Eddie Maxon. Both tasks were fruitless. Eddie gladly started visiting with her, but she was too uncomfortable to make pleasant conversation, instead creating an awkward atmosphere.

  When her order was finally called, she gladly ran up and ran out to her car. She now steps off the curb and makes a move to grab her keys.

  However, her eyes immediately flit to her car's bumper. Rather, lack thereof. And then to her crumpled front. Fiats may be easy on the wallet, but they don't crash gracefully.

  Huck Caracci glances up, puppy-dog eyes and all, looking as if he rubs his hands through his sandy hair enough times, he can somehow reverse the damage. Emma freezes in the middle of the parking lot and sighs.

  "You hit my parked car?"

  "To be fair, I was provoked by a large truck," He starts to open his mouth again, but no words come out. Finally, Huck musters out a "...sorry?"

  The Caracci Crisis is about to blow up to more than just a late news article.