Project Emma, page 1
Table of Contents
Books by Hannah Kay
Title Page
Legal Page
Book Description
Dedication
Trademark Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Chapter Fifty-Seven
Chapter Fifty-Eight
Chapter Fifty-Nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-One
Chapter Sixty-Two
Chapter Sixty-Three
Chapter Sixty-Four
Chapter Sixty-Five
Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Seven
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About the Author
Finch Books by Hannah Kay
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The Artist and Me
PROJECT EMMA
HANNAH KAY
Project Emma
ISBN # 978-1-78651-782-1
©Copyright Hannah Kay 2020
Cover Art by Louisa Maggio ©Copyright February 2020
Interior text design by Claire Siemaszkiewicz
Finch Books
This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events are from the author’s imagination and should not be confused with fact. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, events or places is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher, Finch Books.
Applications should be addressed in the first instance, in writing, to Finch Books. Unauthorised or restricted acts in relation to this publication may result in civil proceedings and/or criminal prosecution.
The author and illustrator have asserted their respective rights under the Copyright Designs and Patents Acts 1988 (as amended) to be identified as the author of this book and illustrator of the artwork.
Published in 2020 by Finch Books, United Kingdom.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the authors’ rights. Purchase only authorised copies.
Finch Books is an imprint of Totally Entwined Group Limited.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book”.
What started as homework ended in fireworks.
Emma has one foot out of her small Southern town. She spends her weekends memorizing facts and figures and spending time with Alex, her best friend, while she still has time. In six months, they’ll be out of there.
Nonetheless, every day that the quiet, determined high school senior hops in Alex’s hand-me-down car and goes to school, she spends more time within the confines of her favorite books than hanging out with the high school entourage—that is, until an English project becomes so much more than an assignment.
Suddenly, with the help of a bad boy on a horse, Emma embarks on a journey to find herself and escape her comfort zone, all the while learning lasting lessons about friendship and the power of love. Yet, in the end, she has to make the choice—to love or to leave?
Dedication
I will write about the good times because they were as real as the bad ones.
Trademark Acknowledgements
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Sticky Note: Scribe OpCo Inc.
Facebook: Facebook Inc.
Pac-man: Namco, Midway Games
Cheshire Cat: Disney Enterprises Inc., Lewis Carroll
The Great Gatsby: F. Scott Fitzgerald
Waffle House: WH Capital LLC
Candy Crush: King.com Limited
Instagram: Instagram LLC
Twitter: Twitter Inc.
Keds: SR Holdings LLC
Girl Scouts: Girl Scouts of America Incorporated Association
Coke: Coca-Cola Company
Thermos: Thermos LLC
Scrabble: Hasbro Inc.
Yahtzee: Hasbro Inc.
American Idol: Fremantle USA, 19 Entertainment
Thing 1 and Thing 2: Giesel-Suess Enterprises, Inc.
Solo: Dart Container Corporation
Boggle: Hasbro Inc.
Uno: Mattel Inc.
Sharpie: Sanford LP
New York University: New York University Corporation
Brown: Brown University Corporation
Superman: DC Comics General Partnership
Word: Microsoft Corporation
Girls Gone Wild: Joe Francis
M&Ms: Mars Incorporated
Twizzlers: Hershey Chocolate and Confectionary Corporation
Wi-Fi: Wi-Fi Alliance Corporation
FaceTime: Apple Inc.
Ford: Ford Motor Company Corporation
Chapter One
Light bleached the worn book under my hand, and I shifted, listening to the wail of the chilly Mississippi winter wind. Humming, I cursed the ever-present sun and breathed in the earthy scent of freshly mown grass, somehow still thriving in the recently arrived colder temperatures. As I squinted to see the page in front of me, a fly landed on my arm and I swatted it away. Three cheers for nature, I thought.
The bell rang, so I slammed the crumpled envelope between the pages. A month ago, that very envelope had housed an acceptance letter. Now, it was a reminder that I was just biding my time.
I hurried into the school and stopped at my locker. I was a senior. I would graduate in a little over six months, then I was leaving Nomansville in the dust.
At the locker, I thrust my lunchtime light reading into its confines and slammed it closed. Just a few paces down the hall, I arrived at my last class of the day, English composition. It was funny how Nomansville rotated the same teachers. Mr. Zelner, the bright spot in all of this high school madness, had taught my freshman English class too. Before I’d stepped into his room… Well, I’d hated reading. The concept of it had baffled me. He’d opened my eyes to an entire world—a world of books and literature—and, for that, I could not be more grateful.
Inside his classroom, Mr. Zelner sat with his back to the students, examining something on his bookshelf. A tuft of dark brown hair stuck out in the wrong direction and the collar of his red button-down shirt sat uneasy, but a mug of warm coffee steamed on his messy desk. They say that the wisest people live in a state of chaos. For Mr. Zelner, that much was true.
He spun in his chair, shocking a couple of blondes on the front row. They stuffed their cell phones into their handbags in awkward unison, and Mr. Zelner nudged his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He was crookedly handsome, with little attention to it. He smiled at me. “Miss Cage,” he said, just as I slid into my desk. I startled at the attention. Catching my reaction, he grinned. “See me after class, all right?”
Great, I thought. Had I missed an assignment? Drifted off in class again? I hadn’t been sleeping that well recently. I had been too worried about college applications and surviving these last months of high school. But the handwriting was on the wall and the end was spiraling toward me. I could feel it. I could already hear the screaming and feel the whir of caps in the air. It’s so close, I thought—and that made me happy.
Zelner stood, smoothing his khakis and grabbing the mug from his desk. “Nothing is wrong,” he added then turned to address the class thoughtfully. He scrunched two bushy eyebrows together, calculating as the last few stragglers rushed into class, and he lifted a paperba
He wrote only three words, and the entire class released simultaneously awkward chuckles. May twenty-fifth, he’d scribed. Twenty-three some-odd seniors danced in their seats for the date of sweet, liberating graduation. I guess, in a way, that was something we all had in common. We were ready to escape.
He slapped the chalk onto the tray, and I straightened to attention. Mr. Zelner leaned against the wall, surveying us. Sometimes it seemed that he forgot his stature at the head of the classroom and became that twenty-two-year-old, straight out of college again. He looked confused—concerned, a little bit like he was the blind leading the blind. Then he forced a smile and recovered.
“Your final for this class will be a creative project,” he said. Now he walked an uneasy line away from us, shrugging his lanky shoulders. “I have assigned you a partner, and together, you and your partner will choose the medium—a song, a short story, a play…” He ran a hand through his hair. “I don’t care which, just be creative. Think,” he probed, and we all sniggered, cogs in his machine. “The idea is to be original and immerse yourself into something real.”
Everyone looked around, confusion rippling throughout the room, and he held up a hand to questions.
“The purpose of this exercise is to remember that art is just that. We can interpret, we can guess, but can we really know the inner mind of an artist? No,” he said, shaking his head. The screenwriter’s head had suddenly popped into frame, seemingly cautious and idealistic, all at the same time.
“English as a discipline broadens the mind to other possibilities, and it requires you to think past the literal, but for this project, I want you to act as the artist.” There was a wicked gleam in his dark eyes, and I reveled in it.
A hand shot up from the back of the room, but Mr. Zelner lifted a pale finger. “Don’t knock it until you try it, Mr. Roberts,” he said. Chuckling, he turned toward the window. “Now. How many days until graduation?”
My classmates’ hands darted skyward, and Mr. Zelner smiled. “Exactly,” he said. “It’s a date you all know. Well, subtract five days from your countdowns, and that is the due date for this assignment.” He rubbed his temples, a methodical gesture, and he shook his head. “I’m telling you this now so that you can forget about it until March.” He chuckled. “No,” he said. “Take Christmas to think about your project. Spend time with your partners. Become friends or cherish your luck that you are already friends. After all, you’ll be spending a lot of time together over the next semester.” He retreated behind his desk once more, shuffling papers. “Good luck.”
Chalk to chalkboard, now he set our fates as he began to post the partnership assignments. I poised my pencil on my notebook, swallowing hard. I hated partner projects, but who didn’t? Nibbling my bottom lip, I watched as he scribbled names along the board. As he wrote, there were a couple of snickers and a groan or two, but when I saw my fate, I merely stared at the blank sheet in front of me, stomach twisting with the cruel joke of it all.
Maverick English stood between me and my diploma.
Chapter Two
Maverick English, I thought, my heart pounding in my ears—anyone but Maverick English. Swallowing hard, I cast my gaze to peer at his vacant seat in the back. Maverick, the mystery man, I thought, exhaling. He wasn’t exactly a raving intellectual, not to say that he was dumb. I wouldn’t know. He didn’t exactly like school enough to show up most of the time. He ran track and worked on the family farm, but that was the extent of my knowledge about Maverick.
“Now,” Mr. Zelner said, segueing with a deep chuckle, “in an effort to facilitate the introduction process, let’s take these last thirty minutes of class as something of a meet and greet.”
The classroom escalated into chaos, voices raising in rapid fire without restraint, and he held up his hands. “It’s such a nice day. Why don’t we take it to the courtyard?” The introvert blossomed from our English teacher as he shooed my peers from the tiny classroom. They fell into step, two by two, and soon they were gone, leaving just Mr. Zelner and me in their wake.
I stared at my notebook, offended, my heart in my throat. Mr. Zelner had been my ally in this place.
Now he smiled, leaning against his desk and crossing his arms. “Hey now,” he said. “You look like a wounded puppy.”
I straightened the sticky note dividing my notebook, suddenly aware that I had been unconsciously pouting. “Maverick isn’t even here.”
“Yeah,” he said. He crossed to the big window that faced the courtyard, scanning the class as it mingled. “Emma, about Maverick…” Mr. Zelner’s voice trailed to silence as he tallied, accounting for everyone before his attention returned to me. I listened to the hive of seniors buzzing outside the window and wondered how it felt not to be trapped inside my own mind, inside a dream for something more.
“Emma? Are you with me?”
My cheeks warmed. “Yes, sir,” I said. “Sorry.”
He nodded, not dwelling on my lengthy loss of focus. Instead, he forged on with his speech. “Emma, don’t take Maverick at face value.”
I frowned, scanning his bookshelf to the spiderweb in the corner of the room, looking at anything but Mr. Zelner. “I know,” I said. I sighed, stuffing my notebook into my backpack. “I know… Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
He laughed apologetically and twisted the wedding ring on his finger—a slim golden band he’d gotten when he’d made Ms. Martinez a Mrs. Zelner. “Exactly, Emma,” he said. A grin spread across his face, and he exhaled softly. “There is always so much more underneath the appearance.”
I stood, tossing my backpack over my shoulder. “I can’t even contact him,” I said.
He shrugged a shoulder and spun to grab the laptop he’d earlier tucked away under a pile of essays to be graded. He slid into his desk chair, opening the laptop. “I can give you his email address,” he said, clicking through documents on the computer then scribbling the email address on a slip of paper. “But you know where the farm is. That might even be easier.”
I swallowed, annoyed, and grasped the paper in my hand. “Yeah,” I said, “okay.”
He sighed and a genuine grin slipped onto his face. “You’ll be fine, Emma,” he said. “Just give him a chance. He might surprise you.”
* * * *
I heaved my backpack into Alex’s car and sighed. “Maverick English…,” I said, tucking a strand of dull brown hair behind my ear in frustration.
Alex snorted, leaning against the driver’s side of the car. Her copper highlights gleamed in the sun. “I mean, I got Caroline Pryor. She’s not exactly top notch.”
I groaned. “You’re laughing at me,” I said, hopping into the passenger seat with an exasperated sigh. “Caroline’s smart too.”
Alex nodded. “I’m sorry,” she said, biting back a giggle. “Just calm down.”
“This is graduation we’re talking about,” I said, buckling my seat belt.
Alex shrugged and pulled out of the parking lot. “I know,” she said. “It’s going to be okay, though. Seriously… I doubt they can make ‘Miss Highest Honors’ fail senior English ’cuz the town farm boy doesn’t come to class.”
I sneered. “That isn’t the point,” I said. “Now I have to find this guy.”
“You don’t have to,” she said. “You can just wait until January. He’ll have to show up one day. You can just plan then.”
True, I thought. If only… “No,” I said. If only that was how it worked. I rapped my fingers against the dashboard, listening to the roar of the engine. “It would drive me crazy to wait.”
Alex slid to a stop at one of the three red lights in town and swept her hair into a messy bun. “You are strange,” she said. Her hazel eyes twinkled as the light turned green, and she hit the gas. “But I love you.”
I peered out of the window as the town fluttered by. She rolled the windows down, and I groaned into the wind. She laughed and, soon, I was too. That was the two of us. She leveled me and I steadied her. Somehow, together, we made a complete person. “I love you too,” I said.
