For the Love of Emmy

This was my first contest piece, and my first ever place/win at WDC. It was written for the February “Beyond the Water’s Edge” Flash Fiction Challenge. I had to include the words heart, chocolate, love, arrow, and roses.

He heard her sobs from his favorite place, from where he was parked in front of the television and PlayStation downstairs. Initially he closed the crying out, another round of Lego Star Wars II assisting in his selective hearing. After a third battle though, he realized he could still hear her. He sighed, and pausing his game, went up the stairs.
She was sitting in the living room in front of the big mirror. The room was filled with sunshine, dust motes dancing in the air. Her eyes were red, her cheeks wet and smeared with the remains of a chocolate bar. She held a doll, her own rich brown hair mingling with the vibrant blonde on the doll. Several pink discs with little straps, embossed with roses littered the floor.

“Emmy? What’s the matter?” She was only five, and not bad as far as little sisters went. He was four years older, so he could afford to be generous in his attentions sometimes. She was cute, although he’d stick a needle in his eye before he’d admit that to his own peers. Her heart shaped face came up, and looked at him imploringly.
The little girl spoke, her sobs continuing to cause her speech to come in little fits and gasps.
“Cooper!” She wailed. “My doll won’t dance!” At this announcement, she broke into fresh sobs. She was so little, sitting there, with her stupid little doll. He felt a tiny arrow pierce his studied reserve.

“Well, let’s see then.” He picked up a piece of cloth from the litter of toy bits at her feet, wiping her tears with the heart-printed piece.

“That’s her ball gown!” Emmy’s indignation broke through as she realized what he had almost had her blow her nose on. He smiled, but at the look on her face, he quickly put on an air of studied concern.

Emmy looked suspiciously at him, but then realized that he was her only hope. “She’s supposed to dance like I do, and she won’t move right!” Her tears had stopped, her demeanor moving toward righteous indignation as she explained how the pink discs were to strap to her wrists and ankles, that the doll was supposed to mimic her movements and that the whole thing just didn’t work.
He followed her explanations, growing intrigued despite himself. It was stupid that it was a doll, but a knight would be cool, or a robot. Maybe he could rig it somehow…
He pulled the straps to attach the discs around his own wrists and ankles. He stood the ballerina doll on her stand, and hit the ‘on’ button.

“Like this” Emmy said, holding arms up, twirling around in a wobbly ballet. He did as she demonstrated, and felt a strange pride that he managed the maneuver. Emmy laughed, delighted at her big brother, that she had managed to catch him in one of her games. He smiled as she laughed; he did love to hear that laugh, it made him crack up every time. Even better, the doll had moved – not correctly, but the doll had twitched.
He examined the discs on each wrist; those held the tiny transmitters the doll was supposed to receive. He checked each one, and realized that the batteries were in backwards in two of the wristbands.

“You did the batteries all by yourself?” he asked Emmy with a smile.

“Yes, Gramma wanted to help, but I wouldn’t let her”.
The batteries righted, he stood once again, facing the ballerina doll. He raised his hands, the doll raised hers.

“Wait!” Emmy rushed to him, her hands filled with pink fluff. She fastened a glittery tutu around his waist.

“Now you look right, you’re beautiful!” she said happily, her head cocked to one side, a look of satisfied adoration on her face. He had come to her rescue, and she loved him beyond anyone else at that moment. His chest puffed a bit, he stood a little straighter. He decided a little showing off wouldn’t hurt.

He bent one knee, standing on one wobbly leg, watching the doll repeat his motion. He was fascinated; the toy looked awful – pink and fluffy and girly. He wondered if he could remove the mechanisms and rig them on one of his own action figures. Without really thinking about it, he danced with the doll, watching how it mimicked his own movements, transfixed. Emmy encouraged him, showing him movements to follow, calling out the names of the steps in horrible French. Plié, jeté, arabesque, tondue. Her delight fed his ego, and he performed with all his heart, dancing with all his might.
The sound of applause froze him where he was, arms held in 4th position, foot pointed in tondue. Something in his brain told him what had happened before events revealed themselves and he thought for a moment if he could just drop through the floor he’d be fine. Laughter erupted as he stood there, harsh, mocking and ugly. A deep red flush began to creep up his neck. Emmy looked thunderous as she stared at the top of the stairs.
Their older brother stood there, head thrown back in laughter, skateboard tucked under one arm, helmet under the other. The boy was mortified. Standing next to his brother were two other boys, his constant companions. All three of the thirteen year old skaters were howling.

“You ready for your debut?” The word was stretched to sound like ‘day-buuuu’.

“I think pink is your color – you gonna wear that to the prom?”

“Is that for the talent contest next week?”

“Did Mommy sign you up for lessons?”

The taunting was hard to understand, each teenager speaking over the other, and the whole punctuated by their snorts and sniggers. But enough came through for Cooper to hear what he couldn’t stand.
He stood, rooted in place. He thought his face would burst into flames, it was so hot. He wanted to disappear, to melt, to simply be gone. Emmy however, was furious.

“Don’t you dare!” she yelled, her fists balled and arms held straight at her sides. The big boys didn’t hear her at first.

“Don’t you dare!” she repeated, louder, and her voice climbed the register several notches. Their brother noticed her then, and started to speak, but it was too little, too late.

“Emmy, we’re just playing….” he began, his voice showing a hint of contriteness for his beloved little sister. Because he was so old, he didn’t mind being wrapped around her finger most of the time. Emmy was the only girl, the little sister of four brothers.
Too late. Emmy had launched her small body, a chocolate smeared arrow of fury at the three teenagers. She hit her oldest brother first, small fists pummeling at his middle.

“Hey, Emmy, I’m sorry!” He tried to croon to her, to soothe her. She began to kick as well.

“He fixed my doll!” She was now shrieking, and the boy was a little surprised the glass in the room didn’t crack from the sound.

“He helped me!” She screamed, punctuating her words with her fists and feet.

“So don’t you laugh at him!” And with that she gave the boy a giant shove, her heart-shaped face screwed up and eyes closed with effort, a little grunt escaping her lips.

The fall unfolded in slow motion, and for the rest of his life, the boy wished it had been on film. A video of that fall would have bolstered him through every tease, torment, razzing or harassment the remainder of his days.
Their brother, his arms full of skateboard and helmet, stopped talking first, and a slow surprise spread over his face. He first dropped his helmet, then his skateboard, and both arms wind milled – actually wind milled – as he scrambled for purchase. His buddies were in the way however, and instead of grasping the banister or the wall, he merely knocked them off balance as well, first the one on the left, then the one on the right. Like dominoes, their own skate equipment hit the stairs and bounced away. Except for one.
Someone’s foot came down on the board that had hit the step behind them and stayed there. For a moment it appeared that the footing was solid enough to stop the slowly unfolding disaster, but the reprieve was transitory, enough to raise hopes and nothing more. The inevitable fall finally unfolded. One boy’s backside actually rose in the air as he somersaulted backwards in the tangle of adolescent arms and legs. The edge of stairway blocked the view of half of the fall, but the boy savored the sight of that falling backside, momentarily rising above the banister like the hand of a drowning man above the waves. Thud, thump, crash.

Cooper stood in his tutu, looking at Emmy, who stood staring wide eyed down the stairs. Then she laughed. She pointed a finger down the stairs and clutching her side with the other, let loose with peals of laughter. He hurried over to join her. The three teenagers lay tangled on top of one another at the bottom of the stairs, arms and legs, skateboards and backpacks all mingled, and three wide eyed faces punctuating the tangle. All three boys were white faced, and at one moment, all three blushed, turning crimson.

One finally moved, and slowly, all three untangled, picked themselves up, and began retrieving their gear. Cooper hadn’t laughed too hard, until his brother actually shook his head to clear it, and with that he joined Emmy in her unrestrained howls.

The older boys walked out the door, limping slightly, one surreptiously rubbing the back of his thigh. The younger two children began to settle, sitting on the top step, shoulder to shoulder, hiccupping now and then.

“The skateboard…”

“His butt…!”

“Did you see his face?!?”

Settling with a sigh, Emmy leaned against his shoulder, still smiling. He lifted an arm, patted her awkwardly, smiling himself.

“Can I have my tutu back now?” She asked, her manner serious.
He unhooked the mass of tulle from behind, wadding it up and handing it to her. He released the Velcro straps on his wrists, and reached for the ones on his ankles.

“You can have it.” Emmy stared at him. “I think it’s kinda stupid. She doesn’t do much, and I have the tutu.” Emmy jumped up, ran to the kitchen, returned with a screwdriver.

“Here.” She paused, then grabbed the doll and shoved that at him as well. She leaned down and planted a sloppy kiss on his forehead; that close she smelled of Hershey and baby shampoo.

“Thanks” she said, then whirled off and was gone.
He gathered his spoils and wounded pride both, and headed to his room. He knew where to find the right action figure. He could cut open the back, and transfer the little transmitters. He could paint the discs black, maybe file off the roses. Possibilities flowered, his chin came up, and he whistled as he planned.

1847 words

Readability (Gunning-Fog Index) : (6-easy 20-hard)5.6