Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine

by Elle Pallmore

  Because she was Perfect Meg Lavender, everyone thought she’d continue to be that person forever, as if her success was already immortalized like a prehistoric bug in amber. We were wrong about that, though, because on a sunny Tuesday in September, one day into her freshman fall semester, Meg opened her dorm room door, closed it behind her, and ran. The police said she probably met a guy and would come back when the hormones wore off. Meg hadn’t had a date during all of high school, so the mere suggestion that she was off with a boy made Dad’s face turn purple.

  After three days of not knowing, we got a call from her. In a rush of words, she told Dad she was fine, but decided to drop out of college and go to Europe. Then she hung up on him.

  I would’ve bet money that Meg would fulfill every glowing label she was given, but when she broke free, she initiated a tidal wave that knocked my parents ankles over ass. In all the turmoil, I somehow became the New Hope of the Lavender family. And this New Hope is supposed to make it appear like our world is perfectly normal. No amount of cleaning will right things, not Meg or my mother, and definitely not Dad’s temper, but I’ve come to see it as a necessary evil. If I don’t do these things, what then? I have a picture of us degrading into beasts who roam the house, pawing at the refrigerator and wrestling over scraps of food. Not a good look.

  I’ve just finished making dinner when Dad gets home from work. He chucks his keys and laptop bag on the kitchen table, saying nothing. He has one of those jobs he doesn’t talk about, and he always comes home tired and cranky. As he flips through the mail pile, I set a plate of lasagna and some silverware near him. Instead of waiting for the usual negative comments about how I’ve forgotten to pick up the dry cleaning, my lackluster grades, or what I’ve cooked, I opt to let a set of stairs and my bedroom door separate us. That way, I don’t need to choke on his disappointment while I eat.

  By the time I get my plate together, Dad is already anchored to the couch. I tuck a fork in my pocket and walk slow so the runny lasagna sauce doesn’t spill over the rim of my plate. Dad’s eyes are glued to the TV; if I make it past the couch without him acknowledging me, I know it’s going to be a semi-okay night. I’m almost to the stairs when the sound of the local news blinks out, stopping me cold.

  “Check on your mother when you got home?” he asks.

  I don’t turn around, don’t move. “Yeah. She was fine.”

  “Did you get her something to eat?”

  “She was asleep.”

  His fork scrapes against his plate. Twenty seconds of blessed silence follow, and I think it’s over. My foot hovers on the first step.

  “She has to eat, you know. Maybe you should’ve made her a plate anyway.”

  “She won’t eat anything I bring her.”

  In a perfect and rational world, this is where he’d say I’m right; we can’t force my mother to eat. That she needs more help than we can give her. But Lavenders don’t admit their problems—they run from them.

  The phone rings, granting me a momentary reprieve, and Dad jolts, nearly upending his plate to answer it. I wait, holding my breath, because all calls instantly trigger hope that Meg is on the other side. I swirl my plate, daring the thin sauce to swish over the edge. My shoulders sink when Dad pokes the screen to disconnect the call, hanging up on whoever—probably a telemarketer—interrupted his lecture.

  He picks up his plate again and impales the lasagna with his fork. I feel the tines strike me down to the bone.

  “So she didn’t eat?” he continues.

  I sit down on the step. Might as well get comfortable. “She didn’t want anything. She was sleeping.”

  “Maybe if you made something she likes.”

  It isn’t worth mentioning that my mother actually made this lasagna pre-Meg. I only defrosted it. “I think if she wanted something bad enough, she’d get up and cook it herself.”

  Dad slams his plate on the coffee table and tosses his fork on top. It clatters, then bounces off, splattering sauce. Cue the avalanche.

  “Damn it, Lemon!” His shoulders heave, as if he’s about to split the seams on his shirt and turn into the Hulk. He stands up and stares me down, covering me in his shadow. “You’ve been pampered like a princess for the past sixteen years, and I’m tired of your selfishness. If you don’t know how to do something, then learn. Try being resourceful and picking up a book.”

  Selfish. I’m always selfish and lazy in his eyes, because I can’t be a mother to my mother.

  “Don’t you think I’m trying?”

  “Both of us know you aren’t trying. But you obviously have a greater opinion of yourself. Go on, remind me of all the ways you’re so amazing.”

  I swiftly shift into telling him what he wants to hear. “Okay, I’ll make something she likes next time.”

  “And make sure she eats.”

  “And make sure she eats,” I repeat.

  He goes back to the couch and picks up his fork. “Exactly,” he says, poking the air with it. “That is exactly what you’re going to do.” The sound from the television clicks on, and after a moment, he adds, “Make her toast. I bought more bread.”

  Toast, apparently, is the answer to everything.

  I walk to the kitchen, drop my dinner plate on the counter, and grab the bread loaf out of the grocery bag. After an eon in the toaster, I take it upstairs and quietly open my mother’s bedroom door. When I turn on the lamp, she groans. Her hand flails around, searching for the switch that will extinguish the light.

  “Dinner,” I say without enthusiasm.

  I translate her responding mumble as, “Don’t want it.” She rolls, presenting her back to me.

  I sink to the edge of the mattress, holding the plate. I turn off the light, dousing us in darkness. After a few minutes, her breath evens, and she’s asleep again. The sheets smell faintly of mildew, but I stay and eat her toast while listening to the seconds tick away on her bedside clock.

  I EVENTUALLY LEAVE my mother so that I can bask in the solitude of my bedroom. Except the quiet isn’t always so great. The arguments with Dad are bad, but the hours after are far worse, when I wonder if maybe I really am lazy and selfish. Could I do a lot more to help Mom? And after chewing on that for a while, the other side starts, the one that reminds me it isn’t my responsibility to save her or Meg, and that Dad is being unreasonable. It loops endlessly, so when Isabel texts me, I’m thankful for the interruption.

  Iz: How was dtntn?

  Me: Most fun I had all day. SAT?

  Iz: Like wtchng paint dry. Check LW. Video on new guy.

  Me: Tell me I’m not in it.

  Iz: Nope.

  Me: He tlkd 2 me after school. Said I rescued him this morn.

  Iz:!! Need deets tmrw. Have 2 go, loads of hmwrk.

  As soon as I close the screen, I bring up the Lady Westmoore video channel on my phone. Despite my loathing for its rumors and trashy, tabloid-style videos about people I barely know, I check it sporadically to make sure my name isn’t mentioned. So far, I’ve remained off the radar, but screw-ups like today always make me worry. It isn’t possible to go through one class without hearing “Lady Westmoore said . . . ” or “Did you see LW?” With my name, a humiliating story is sure to solidify into legend, making the next two years of high school a living hell.

  After the page pops up, my eyes immediately settle on the latest upload. The video is frozen on Madeline Crenshaw, aka Lady Westmoore herself, standing next to Graham—and it already has over a hundred views. There are lockers behind them, so she must’ve grabbed him in the hallway earlier today for one of her impromptu film sessions. And though I can’t see her, I know Chelsea, Madeline’s BFF, is behind the phone, recording.

  When I hit play, Madeline flips a long blond curl over her shoulder and launches into a series of questions. My face gets hot all over again as I listen to Graham talk about moving to Westmoore from Chicago, by way of a small town outside of Edinburgh, Scotland, that he doesn't remember. He’s an only child, and the tattoo
across his wrist is in Latin, but he won’t say what it means. The rest of Madeline’s questions include hard-hitting investigative reporting on what kind of hair product he uses. It’s over too soon, with Madeline winking at her hungry audience, teasing part two of the video. The frame freezes once again, and a half circle appears, daring me to watch it again.

  Instead, I scroll to the comments. So far, there are 107 and counting. The first few say how gorgeous Madeline looks, and from there, they turn into brain-killing banter. They wonder what the tattoo means and why it’s in Latin. Someone argues it’s Sanskrit, and another comment says it means “cheeseburger,” and someone else swears it isn’t real. They write all kinds of things, good and bad. Some are scathingly mean because it’s anonymous and they can. No one ridicules Madeline, though—that’s the one rule everyone seems to follow, since, you know, life as a pariah isn’t on anyone’s bucket list.

  When I go back to the list of videos, I see it’s the only new posting. Thankfully, there isn’t anything about my mistaking Graham for a student teacher or how he talked to me at my locker. Not that someone didn’t submit the story to the tip line Madeline uses to gather dirt—just that it didn’t warrant enough interest for her to talk about it, which most of the time equals doom. All in all, I’m incredibly lucky. Whatever Chelsea saw today between me and Graham, she didn’t think it was serious enough to put me on Madeline’s radar.

  After sighing at this small miracle, I’m about to replay Graham’s video when my father knocks once and opens my door. I drop my phone face down on the bed.

  “Anything?” he asks.

  This is another of our daily rituals. After dinner, Dad barges in to see if I’ve received any messages from Meg. When we realized she hadn’t been abducted, just rebelling against a planned life, he made me harass her through emails and social media—essentially to smoke her out of her hiding place. So far, there’s been no response.

  “Nothing,” I reply.

  “And you’re sure she hasn’t sent anything in code, like if she didn’t want me to know?”

  “Positive.”

  I want to tell him that Meg won’t contact me and I don’t even have my own social media. I log into Isabel’s accounts because, obviously, I’m not stupid enough to set up any with my ridiculous name. Meg and I were never very close anyway, and when she disappeared, she cut me out of her life just as much as she cut out my parents. But it’s easier not to say anything else.

  Dad adjusts his glasses and scans my room quickly, as if I might’ve stuffed Meg under my bed. “Lights out at ten,” he instructs, and closes the door.

  Once I hear his footsteps fade, I turn onto my stomach and look at Graham’s frozen face once again. I stare for another few moments before closing out the page for good.

  My phone reads 8:42 p.m. Less than twelve hours until another bad day hurdles over the horizon.

  six

  TRUE TO MY PROMISE to Hawkins, I get up earlier the next morning and make it to school on time. The downside is that homeroom feels like the longest twenty minutes of my life. I tell myself I don’t care about seeing Graham in English Lit, even hoping he’s rearranged his schedule so I won’t have to. Then I imagine him never appearing, and an unwanted onslaught of disappointment changes my mind.

  So maybe I want to see him.

  Just a little.

  It isn’t like he’ll talk to me again, especially after yesterday’s conversational failure. It’s for the best. It is. Because I don’t need to get caught up in him and the anxiety he’ll inevitably bring. Too much exposure, too many watching eyes. The rational part of my brain knows this, but the emotional part isn’t as reliable when it comes to making good decisions. It likes to whip up wild scenarios, like Graham asking me out, Graham being my boyfriend, Graham and I making out.

  The fantasy is short-lived. Reality punches in, forcing me to think about my father meeting Graham, followed by my father throwing him out of our house, then hog-tying me to my desk chair. Dad won’t even let me have Isabel over, so dating is out of the question. Until we can resolve the Meg situation, no one is allowed close enough to get an inkling of the Great Lavender Shame.

  When first bell rings, I take my time walking to English Lit. I stop at my locker to do a quick mirror check, ensuring nothing has unexpectedly sprouted on my face in the last half hour. Minutes tick by until I can’t delay the inevitable any longer. When I arrive at the classroom door, I immediately notice Graham standing next to my desk, looking amazing in a dark-blue T-shirt and faded jeans.

  I also notice his view down Marisol’s low-cut shirt.

  He’s telling her a story, his face animated and his arms raised. Marisol responds with a sexy, throaty laugh and expertly flicks her neon gum around her mouth. As if he hasn’t gotten the message already, she shimmies her shoulders so everything below the neck jiggles.

  Reluctantly, I sink into my chair, feeling as attractive as Gollum. My vision starts to blur when I can’t keep my eyes from finding the place where his shirt pulls tight against his back. I snap out of it when he twists around and acknowledges me with an easy smile.

  “Hey, Lemon Lavender. You made it on time today.”

  I cringe involuntarily. “It’s just Lemon.”

  “I like saying your whole name.”

  He does that staring thing again, the one that convinces me I must have a huge pimple on my forehead even though I just checked five minutes ago. I busy myself by tugging my notebook from my bag and finding a pen. Graham stands there, towering over my desk like a cloud I want to run my hands over. I risk a glance around, knowing he’s pulling attention in our direction.

  “So . . . I picked out my own clothes today,” he says, stuffing his hands in his front pockets.

  The invitation to check him out sends chills through my already-malfunctioning circulatory system. I flick my gaze over him once, then force it down to the graffiti on my desk. My insecurity turns physical, a prickly burr wedging between my heart and ribs. I’m not sure if he’s joking or mocking me, just like everyone else. I hide behind a curtain of hair until finally, finally, Mr. Parsons tells everyone to sit down and take out their Gatsby books.

  For forty minutes, Parsons talks, but I barely hear him. My mind is firmly lodged two desks behind me. I want to know if Graham watches Marisol, concentrating on her long legs wrapped in skinny jeans. I picture them together, parading down the hallways with his arm slung around her swaying hips. No one laughs at them. Everyone loves them. They are prom king and queen. While my stomach sinks to a new level, I start to check my phone every few minutes, desperate for the torture session to be over.

  DURING GYM, ISABEL grills me about my two awkward conversations with Graham and then this morning’s humiliation. I fill her in as we walk to the outdoor track. After we’re lined up to run the dreaded mile and Coach Keets has killed all the lame excuses coming her way, she blows her whistle. The field-hockey girls, led by Chelsea, take off like bullets, leaving the rest of us to heave and whimper while we half-heartedly jog. Between gulps of air during our second lap, I complain about Marisol and her overwhelming cleavage.

  “I thought you liked Marisol,” Isabel says. She’s winded too, but she can at least speak, whereas I gasp each word.

  “I. Do. Like. Her.”

  “Just not her boobs. Or Graham looking at them.”

  I wipe a sweaty strand of hair from my temple. I don’t want to admit that I’m jealous. I don’t care if Isabel knows, but saying it out loud means I have to admit it to myself.

  “Maybe,” I exhale.

  “You don’t even know what he thinks of her.”

  “I’m. Pretty. Sure. He. Doesn't. Think. She’s. Hideous.”

  “Yeah, but not everyone likes the same thing.”

  I give her a look that says you’re joking.

  “You don’t even know him,” she observes. “He could be a loser wrapped in a pretty package, or he could be super nice but super into guys, and then you’d be wasting your time w
orrying about this.”

  “Not. Worried.” Gasp. “Just. Feel. Stupid. As. Usual.”

  We round the track for the last lap. The few field-hockey girls relax on the football field, sunning themselves and shouting at the rest of us to pick up our pace, which is what always happens when we run during gym. They’ll be done for ten minutes at least and spend the rest of the time eviscerating us with their catcalls, led by none other than Chelsea.

  “I hate them,” Isabel says. Her voice goes up an octave. “I wear a short skirt and chase a ball around a field with a club, and that makes me soooo cool. Makes me want to slap the bitch off them.”

  I don’t respond. If I’m going to make the last lap without fainting, I have to conserve air. I concentrate on anything other than each foot pounding against gravel and the pain in my heart, which feels like it might explode into tiny, fleshy bits. Sometimes I fantasize that it actually happens and Coach Keets has to live with the lifelong guilt that she made me die from running. But then my brain backpedals because I really don’t want life to end while I’m looking up at a circle of asshats who’ve made fun of me for years. I deserve better.

  Unfortunately, my mind wanders back to Marisol. When she runs, it’s probably like a Nike commercial. I bet she glows like an Amazon goddess.

  When Isabel and I reach the finish line, we both collapse into the grass. I close my eyes against the piercing-blue October sky and wait for the pain in my lungs to ease.

  When she can speak again, Isabel says, “I’m never getting up.”

  It takes effort to reply. “I’m convinced Keets was a murderous dictator in a past life.”

  For a few minutes, I’m so tired, no thoughts form. I like it that way—blank and empty. I skim my hands over the grass, and when my heart finally stops pounding in my ears, I turn on my side. “Iz, do you think I’m crazy?”