Beautiful teacher guy makes a face because, obviously, he doesn’t speak crazy. “Are you okay?” he asks.
Please, no. An accent. He has a Scottish accent—a slight one, but it’s there. What is it about different speech pronunciation that turns American girls into puddles? The heat centralized on my face blasts outward, down my neck, everywhere, turning me into a walking inferno. I command my body to cooperate, but it’s like my eyes are stuck on him and I have to peel them off one by one.
Lemon! Walk! Now!
“Sorry I’m late,” I mumble.
I throw the crumpled pass on the desk, praying he won’t ask my name, but knowing it’s inevitable. As I throw myself into my seat, I prickle with mortification. I position my book bag to create a blockade between us, but when I peek around, he smiles, still watching me.
There’s another obvious laugh from the side of the room, along with fragments of “Squeeze her lemon” and “So embarrassing.” I also catch a whiff of “she-creeper.” My bad Monday swan-dives into a full parachute-failing plummet.
Beautiful guy leans off the edge of Parsons’ desk, looking as if he’s a model for khaki pants. A sand-colored curl flops onto his forehead, taunting me. “Your name is Lemon?”
At that moment, I’m convinced roll call was invented by demons.
“Yes,” I whisper. “Lemon Lavender.”
His mouth opens to reveal teeth that could star in a toothpaste commercial. He dips his head in disbelief and continues to study me. “Seriously? That’s your name?”
I don’t get a chance to respond, or die in my chair, which is preferable. Mr. Parsons appears in the doorway of the storage closet at the front of the room, carrying a yellowed paperback novel. He flips through it, fanning the pages with his thumb, and says, “This copy isn’t in the best condition, but at least you’ll be able to catch up. We’re only a few chapters into The Great Gatsby.” He hands the book to the guy and points. “You can take an open seat in the back.”
Beautiful guy gathers up a bag I didn’t see and grins as he passes my desk. I think I might audibly whimper, because Marisol, the Brazilian expat who usually sucks up most of the room’s attention, pops a red lollipop out of her mouth and leans over to me. “He’s not a teacher, querida; he’s the new guy.” She dazzles me with a highly glossed, sympathetic smile before turning toward the back of the room. “Yum,” she says, arranging her shining black hair so it frames the cleavage climbing out of her glittery tank top.
I drop my head so my own dull, lank hair forms a privacy shield around my face. With the absence of magic that will dissolve me into a puff of smoke, it’s the best I can do to hide. I’m undeniably blushing from head to toe, but not in a pretty, dusty-rose, Jane Austen kind of way. Instead, boiled-lobster red comes to mind.
As Mr. Parsons starts the lesson, I wonder if modern science has any leads on time travel. Like, if I really concentrate, I’ll be able to go backwards so Monday never started. A do-over. But then again, why go back only one day? I want an entire life reboot, starting with the moment my parents named me.
four
ON THE SCALE THAT MEASURES all human humiliation, I’m very sure I’ve reached a personal high score. It’s bad enough that my mistake was witnessed by my entire English Lit class, but the more I have to hear about the new guy, the worse I feel.
By second period, I know he’s a junior like me, and his name is Graham Stuart—a perfectly acceptable name with no obvious jokes, associations to fruit or colors, or both. An hour after that, he’s an instant Westmoore celebrity, and my mistake is the top headline of the day.
At lunch, I collapse at my usual corner table and contemplate changing schools. Isabel, my best and only friend, tips her brown lunch bag and shakes out its contents. She narrows her dark-brown eyes. I’m used to her staring at me like this, trying to uphold her serious façade when she really wants to laugh.
“Graham,” she says without preamble. “What a hipster name.”
“It’s a nice name,” I reply. “Normal and bland. Like rice cakes.”
“Everyone’s talking about him. And you.” She smiles, revealing her braces, and I shoot her a look that says I’ll stab her with a spork if she dares to make fun of me. “It was an honest mistake, Lem. He’s dressed in that plaid shirt and khaki pants, lookin’ like an old dude.”
The clothes aren’t great, but adding his eyes and height and accent into the equation, it hasn’t taken long for everyone to get their nether bits into a tizzy.
“I had to wipe drool off my lip.”
She shrugs. “Just trying to make you feel better.”
“It’s creepy, though. Imagine everyone watching and obsessing over you. I mean, I was watching and obsessing, but that was because I acted like an absolute tool in front of him.”
“People obsess over you,” she retorts.
“Uh, correction. They don’t obsess over me. They make fun of me because I have a weird name and an even worse middle-school nickname, which is on a whole other spectrum. If Sally or Jennifer practically stumbled into his lap and made stalker eyes at him, nobody would care. Since I did it, though . . .”
“Is anyone even named Sally anymore?” she asks absently.
“Seriously? That’s the best you got?”
“People like new stuff. Especially when it’s shiny and pretty.” She arranges her lunch in the order she plans to eat it. “Already throwing their panties at him.”
“Wolves stalking a wounded animal seems more accurate.”
I munch on my potato chips while Isabel strips off the silver lid to her much-healthier Greek yogurt. In most ways, she’s the yin to my yang. She’s tall, I’m short. She has olive skin and long dark curls; I’m on the plainer, paler side of things with my shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes. Science is her first love, whereas I generally enjoy doing nothing. But somehow, we balance. I like to think I bring some comic relief to her life, which she definitely needs. With her AP class load, she’ll be drowning in homework until June, but she’s definitely going to rule the world someday. I just hope she lets me hang around, cleaning her house and watching TV.
Isabel dunks a spoon into her yogurt. “The probability of either one of us even being a blip on his radar is incredibly slim. I mean, I could calculate the likelihood of him asking one of us out. I’d just have to divide the number of events, which is him choosing you or me, by the number of possible outcomes, which is him choosing any other girl at Westmoore—”
“Isabel Anne Gilbertson. I have never ever heard you talk about liking a boy. Besides maybe Tony Windham in second grade after he gave you half of his Twinkie, which in retrospect sounds kind of dirty. You’re usually all business with your equations and chemistry doodads.”
She sits up straight, head high and regal. “I’m going to be a future Nobel Prize winner, but I’ve still got eyes in this head. I know it when I see it. I just choose not to be distracted like a damn fool.”
I lean back in my chair, content to be a damn fool. “Wow. He must be hotter than I thought if your molecules are all abuzz.”
She smirks. “I like it when you try to use big words, like molecules.”
I laugh for the first time all day, but even Isabel can’t keep my dark mood at bay. Even if the story subsides, Graham will remember me by name alone. Like everyone else, he’ll probably join in teasing me with the rest of the class. As long as I live, I’ll remember his reaction. Seriously? That’s your name? Gah.
“You think anyone will forget?” I ask.
“Of course they will. Tomorrow it’ll be something else, and you’ll fade away. Hashtag distant memory.”
I’m somewhat comforted, and we eat in silence for a few minutes, finishing our lunches. Except I can’t stop thinking about it. I drop my head on my arms. “Iz, why is my life such an epic fail?”
“It’s not. You just think it is.”
I groan a little. “It feels that way. Maybe I can change schools.”
“Of all the traged
y in the world, this morning is not worthy of this level of drama. You need to chill. And don’t even think about leaving me alone in this dumpster fire.”
“Thanks for the support, Dad. I’m having déjà vu from last night.”
Isabel’s forehead softens into concern. “Is Papa Lavender on your case again?”
“There’s no such thing as him being off my case. If he isn’t making me the Mom police, then he’s grilling me about Meg. I didn’t do anything wrong, but everything is my fault. I didn’t make Meg drop out of Princeton and run off to Europe. I didn’t turn my mom into the undead.”
“At least he’s actually paying attention to you now, with Meg gone and all.”
I press my fingertip against potato-chip crumbs on my shirt and flick them away. “It’s not the attention I want. Hawkins only gave me detention for being late today, but if he calls my house again, my dad will go ballistic. There will be smoke billowing above a crater that used to be my room.”
Isabel collects our trash, making a separate pile for recycling. “You know you can stay over whenever.”
“I wish I could, but he barely lets me out of the house anymore.”
“Remember, anything’s possible. With climate change and the unpredictability of the universe, our days could be numbered anyway.”
I force a smile. “You know just the right way to comfort a girl.”
DETENTION IS IN THE old biology room that smells like formaldehyde and dead frogs. Despite the icky surroundings, I’m actually happy to be here. It’s peaceful with the open windows and the sound of leaves shimmying in the breeze, which drowns out the death metal leaking from the headphones of the guy next to me.
Detention means one hour less that I have to tend to my mother, but it also means I have to come up with an excuse for not being home right after school to answer Dad’s check-in text. Not being Meg is enough of a crime, but a Lavender girl with detention—it would send Dad into apoplexy. When the message inevitably comes, I tell Dad I’m in a tutor session. One crisis averted.
I play a game on my phone until Mr. Adams taps his ring against the desk, signaling our release. As I walk toward my locker, the hallway is mostly empty except for a group of field-hockey girls I recognize from gym class—also because they’re popular and it’s impossible not to know who they are.
Chelsea Millinger, team captain and all-around she-devil, swishes orange crepe-paper streamers around her neck like a feather boa while one of her minions laughs and tries to move a clunky metal ladder. Another wrestles with a banner for the Spooky Spectacular Halloween Dance. I ignore them as I pass—or, more accurately, they ignore me—since I’m nobody—just the way I like it.
I stop at my locker to swap out the books I don’t need tonight, but before I can finish, I hear “Hi Graham!” in unison, followed by a wave of giggles.
“Ladies,” he replies. “How goes the decorating?”
At his voice, I shrink behind the door of my locker. Between the slats, I watch as he makes small talk with Chelsea, all while walking backward. He’ll have to pass me to get to the student parking lot, meaning another last-minute humiliation shoved into the day. When the floor doesn’t open up a vortex and swallow me whole, I scrutinize the size of my locker. I’m not that tall—if I bend my elbow one way and angle my head the other, I might be able to fit inside.
“Lemon Lavender, I thought that was you.”
Graham catches the edge of my locker door and leans into it. Even then, the top of my head barely clears his chin. Up close, I notice a thin scar winding through his eyebrow to the corner of his right lid, causing it to droop a little. My mouth goes dry when I pick up the scent of leather and inhale deeply.
“Yep,” I croak, “you found me. Not that you were looking, just that I’m here. At my locker. Right now.”
I chance a quick look past him, then wish I hadn’t. Chelsea has me pinned with a scathing gaze. I’m just as shocked that he’s talking to me as she is. I flick my eyes back to Graham’s and try not to fall into the hazel slivers. Self-preservation fades with every second I stare. Damn fool, right here.
“I’ve never met anyone with such an awesome name,” he says.
“It’s really not,” I reply. I grab a book from my locker, any book, since they’re all a blur, and throw it into my bag. There could be a rabid squirrel inside, and I wouldn’t notice. “Who wants to be named after fruit? And not even a good one,” I add. “Gag.”
Mentally, I bang my head against the metal shelf as an uncomfortable silence creeps between us. While the field-hockey girls turn away and begin to talk again, I know they’re only pretending not to notice what’s happening. In contrast, Chelsea openly stares like a predator, waiting to see if the competition—me—is going to steal her prey, which is hilarious. She’s the kind of girl every guy likes. She has shiny chestnut hair that she keeps in a signature fishtail braid, knows how to do a perfect cat-eye with black liner, and has plenty of curves. She’s also a beast on the field. For some reason, guys equate this with sex, and they eagerly line up to be her next chew toy. Today, though, it seems she only has eyes for Graham. And now me.
He drums his fingers on my locker door, calling my attention to his arm. A tattoo skims across the underside of his wrist, but I can’t make out the fancy script.
“I stayed after to see if I could join the school newspaper, but they aren’t writing anything interesting.” He pauses. “Why are you still here?”
I remind myself that words form sentences and sentences form conversation.
“I had detention. For being late.”
“Oh, right. Guess you can’t slip in when your name is Lemon Lavender.” He hitches his bag on his shoulder and holds it there. “I was lucky you showed up to rescue me this morning. That teacher—Parsons—told me to wait in front of the room and then disappeared. The entire class was staring at me.”
“I think I made it worse,” I admit. “I guess you realized I thought . . . you were . . . ”
“A teacher?” He laughs. “My mum made me wear these clothes, but don’t hold it against me.”
“You let her pick out your clothes?”
As soon as the words leave my mouth, I know it’s wrong. Wrong, wrong, so utterly wrong. But I can’t help it; my head is floating off my body, and I don’t know how to catch it. Yes, he’s attractive and all that, but it’s also that I have no practice at this. The only male I talk to regularly is my dad, which absolutely does not count.
“Not on a daily basis,” he replies. “She thought I should make a good impression, and I let her. Rookie mistake—I’ve never changed schools mid-year before . . . or ever, actually.”
There has to be something to salvage in this conversation. Desperately, I look down at my own clothes: a generic long-sleeve shirt in blue; basic jeans with no swirls, sequins, bling, or bedazzles; shoes—just black Converse, not too clean, not too dirty. Overall, I don’t strive to be ugly or pretty. Just plain and vanilla with a large dose of invisible. Lemon Laugh-at-her learned the rules a long time ago.
“I pick out my own,” I say, tugging the hem of my shirt.
“That’s . . . good to know,” he replies.
Ohmygod. Shut up, Lemon.
I feel Chelsea’s eyes burning a hole through my forehead. I’m convinced she can actually do that—blister my brain right through my skull. I focus on my hands, which appeared claw-like as I resume shoveling book after book into my overflowing bag. Graham probably wishes he never stopped to talk to me. He searches down the hall for what must be an exit strategy.
“Speaking of my mum, she’ll be hovering at the door, waiting for me. First day, new school, and all that. I should probably head out.”
“Sure, right. Got it.”
As he walks away, I can’t help but watch his broad shoulders sway. After a few paces, he turns and says, “See you tomorrow?”
“I’ll be here,” I reply. I almost add a double thumbs-up, but my hands are mercifully weighed down with books. He nods,
smiles that awesome smile, and turns away.
As his silhouette melds into the light and he disappears through the main doors, my breath returns. Chelsea’s gape frisks my body one last time before she orders the other girls to move the ladder. Anonymous once again, I unload my bag of all the unnecessary stuff I’ve crammed into it and allow my shoulders to hunch. Leaning my head onto the locker shelf, I breathe in and out, trying to dislodge the cement block of anxiety off my chest.
Don’t like him, I warn myself. Just don’t.
five
THAT AFTERNOON, AS much as I want to hide in my room and obsess over everything I said and did in front of Graham, my chores can’t be ignored. I check on Mom, who is still twisted in her sheets, asleep. Quietly, I clean up the mountain of tissues from the floor and put a fresh box on the nightstand. She doesn’t move the entire time, so I carry on, plucking towels from the bathroom and collecting coffee mugs that Dad has left around the house.
This is my daily routine as fake Mom. First, check on real Mom, make sure she’s still breathing, then conceal another day of dysfunction.
I wasn’t particularly in love with chores before Meg blew up our lives, but now I’m responsible for cooking, cleaning, and doing laundry. Someone has to, and it isn’t as if I have much else to occupy my time, since homework isn’t a major priority. Equations? No, thanks. Scouring sticky bits from the counters? Sure, why not? But as I go through the motions, I know it isn’t exactly solving any problems. Instead, I feel like I’m just hiding the evidence of our situation, making it appear that everything is fine, even though it’s most definitely not fine.
I might have pouted at times, but it was easier when Meg was the bright star, sucking up all the attention. She was so shiny and golden that she practically emanated a radioactive gleam, darkening everything outside her perimeter. It wasn’t just her achievements either—her hair had blond highlights, her manicure was glossy, and her skin was caramelized, courtesy of periodic spray tans. And my parents added to it, beaming at her with one-thousand-watt smiles whenever she got them another win. Most valuable player, valedictorian—either one would’ve been enough, but she needed both. There was always another title to earn, more greatness to achieve.
Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine Page 2
