Essence of Emma

by Rachel Anne Jones

Essence of Emma by Rachel Anne Jones Meet Katie Sapphire Albright, dedicated high school basketball star, destined for the WNBA, or is she?. With killer moves on the court, she leaves ‘em shakin’ and quakin’ beneath the basket while mad mojo flows through her blogs, her personal comfort zone where she channels her inner Emma Stone Fangirl persona and blogs with confidence on the world-wide web.

Real life courtside is a struggle when her dad makes a fast break and starts a new life with homewrecker Debbie, the office girl. Katie plays defense, and she and her mom hit the road for a new beginning.

Katie enters a whole new world when she meets up with her Instabestie, JuneBug in person, gets a job at the Cupcake Shoppe and embraces her feminine side, complete with princess dresses, tiaras, and shopping sprees.

When Katie meets her scrumptious Mudpie Mojo, aka Oliver, aka first serious real-life crush, sparks fly. They share an electric attraction intensified by stolen kisses, heated collisions, special moments, and unforgettable public poetry reading. Katie’s falling hard and fast, and it’s scary. She turns to her security blanket, the Internet, where she finds a more distant and safe love interest online.

Will Katie, the overly imaginative dreamer, step into the real world for handsome Oliver and face possible heartbreak, or will she hide out in La La Land with Emma Stone? Some habits are hard to break.






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Whaddup on a perfect Tuesday afternoon? As I kick back, all comfy in my Adirondack chair in the yard, watching hotties in the waves through my granny’s binocs that she left on her last trip to see her fave granddaughter, I’m reminded me of the sweet, sweet, smell of victory—as scrumptious as a whiff of my neighbor’s bacon cookin’ on his George Foreman grill—curbside on his porch.

Knock me sideways, Georgie, as you cook up one more heart attack on a plate for old Joey of the Sea. Can I get a wink and a smile, Bermuda shorts Joey, as you pack up bacon-on-a-biscuit to head for another day of glorious retirement with your pontoon, Tom Clancy, and a stray fishing pole? Oh, to be 70 and still kicking.

As for this girl, I’m suiting up tonight for The Championship Game! It’s gonna be a banner year. Come on down to the Civic Auditorium tonight, grab yo’self some popcorn and a Coke, and settle in for a killer game (7:30 PM). Go Dawgs!!

I upload a B&W pic of my neighbor’s serving hand beside his food, killer grill, and a palm tree or two in the background to go with my blog. It’s Fire!



I barely post my daily blog and get an instant reply from my Instabestie—JuneBugKicksA$$. “Dang, girl, you flyin’ high today! So the big game’s tonight? That’s so Excite! Wish I could be there, but there’s like a huge costly plane ticket sittin’ between us! Go get ‘em, Dawgs! P.S. You sure you’re white?”

I Snap a selfie, make all bug eyes, stick out my tongue, and check my background for a palm tree. “Yo, yo, June-y. The other teams goin’ down! We’ve got this one in the bag. P.S. Caucasian is a state of mind..” I hit Send before I step in the front door of my home, a cottage just two miles from the Florida beach, which I rarely visit, as I’ve got bigger fish to fry, which basically means playing as much basketball as I possibly can every minute of every day for the past twelve years of my life.

“Mom! I’m headed to work!” No answer. I tear up the stairs, grab my team bag, and pause for a few seconds at my mom’s bedroom door. She’s in her yoga stance, practically staring a hole through the T.V. screen, as meditative music floats around the room on surround sound. I sigh as I scan my mom’s bedside table and spy a plethora of new self-improvement books lying in the space where my dad used to sleep. I want to scream at her, “I love you just the way you are, and right now dad’s a total tool!” But instead, I clear my throat. “Mom. I’m headed to work. See you at the game at 7:30?”

She glances my way and pastes on a creepy June Cleaver smile.

“Of course, honey wouldn’t miss it.” There’s an awkward pause. “Will your dad be there?”

“I’m sure he will be. I gotta get to work.” I race downstairs and feel displaced as I have been for the past three months since dad moved out. I shake my head to clear it; not wanting to think any more about that.

I walk into work ten minutes early and go looking for my dad in the main office of the biggest car lot in South Florida, complete with tacky commercials with gators and pelicans and a cheesy tagline: “From the beak to the tail, you’ll get a whale of a Sale!” or “Take it from this odd duck, I’ll get you in an awesome truck!” The office is empty; maybe he’s out in the lot. I head for the back door. I hesitate when I hear noise coming from the supply closet. That’s weird. I turn the knob, even though my gut instinct screams No.

Let me just say the only thing more awkward than catching my parents getting it on is catching my dad getting it on with another woman. I close my eyes for half a second and wish my life were like Emma Stone’s character in Easy A, who bragged of imaginary sexual escapades. This reality sucks. Big time.

As I step into an alternate universe, my inner baller girl pops out and rescues me from falling to pieces. My emotions get the better of me as I stare at Debbie, the platinum blonde receptionist and well-endowed homewrecker who wears man-eater hotpants on the daily, which I snatch, along with her slinky shirt and push-up bra. I would take her panties, but they’re attached to her ankles. There’s too much skin. Too much everything. I slam the door. “Really?!” I yell at them from the other side.

“Are you going to tell your mother?” Dad’s pathetic voice comes through the door.

I crack the door just enough to look him in the eye. I’m dying inside. “Grow a pair and tell her yourself. You’re such a coward.”

“What are you doing with my clothes?” Hotpants has the nerve to speak.

There’s no way I’m looking at her again; so instead I summon the I-don’t-give-a-crap-because-I’m-too-cool-for-everyone attitude and sass of Emma in Easy A and tug the door shut in my dad’s face. “I’m throwing them in the trash, where you belong.” My words sound more like a snarl, but my claws are out, and they’re not done.

I spy an industrial-sized shredder, and I’m pissed. I flip the switch and feed it the stripper clothes; but even shredders have more class than my father, a fact I soon discover as the shredder tries to spit it out, sputtering and smoking. My palm stings as I beat on the red panic button.

Dad steps out of the closet in his polo shirt and boxers. He stares at me in wide-eyed wonder. “You broke my shredder!”

My eyes fly to the floor. “You broke my heart.”

His hands go to his sides, and he squeezes the fabric of his shirt. “Aw, baby, don’t…”

Rage on behalf of my mother waiting for him to move back home shoots out of me. “I can’t believe you’d do this to mom! You’re such an ass!”

His hands reach for me. “Honey, calm down. Let’s talk about this.”

“Don’t call me that! I’m not your little girl. Not anymore. I quit.” Awkward silence fills the room for a few seconds.

“I’ve got a game to go to,” I mutter before turning to go.

Hotpants homewrecker peeks her head around the closet door, and I give her the Emma Stone stink-eye I love so much as I point one long index finger at her. “You’d better not come to my game, whore.” Yeah, I just sunk that shot from behind the arc with one eye open. Nothing but net, baby. I walk away and add a little swish, swish in my hips. “That one’s for you, mom.” I whisper as I walk into the parking lot.


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