I whack my head against the seat as my teeth cinch together, holding in a scream. Tears of frustration bite the corners of my eyes. All I wanted was to go home and wallow, but now I have to deal with this. The first of my problems is getting home, but the second, more fearful consideration is my father. I don’t want to call him and face the unavoidable sermon on my failings. Mom isn’t an option either, since she went right back to bed after Aunt Vee left for the airport. She won’t answer the phone, even if she hears it.
Stupid, stupid, stupid Lemon!
I rapid-fire text Isabel, who’s going to be in the chem lab, then the library for the next two hours, but at least it’s a ride home. I sigh and open a new text to Dad, but my fingers slide away when I see Graham cut between the line of cars waiting to exit onto the main road. If I can get home earlier and finish my chores, maybe Dad won’t go straight up insane.
For once in my life, I don’t hesitate. I sling my bag over my shoulder and dart toward Graham before I can think about what I’m going to say. As I get closer, I slow down to look casual, as if I’m not in the midst of a total shitshow.
“Hey,” I say. “Are you heading home?”
He smiles when he sees me. “Hey, yeah, in a minute.” He unlocks his door but doesn’t get in. He rests his elbow on the roof in a careless way I envy since I rarely have control of my limbs when I’m around him. They just sort of flop.
“I didn’t see you much today,” he says. “It was a Lemon-less day.”
I ignore the pterodactyl circling inside my stomach. “Yeah, I didn’t see you much either. But I was wondering if I could beg a ride home. My battery died, and I really don’t want to bother my dad at work.”
“I definitely can.” He looks from me to the school and sighs.
Oh, hell. He doesn’t want to, but now he feels obligated. “If you can’t, it’s okay. I’ll wait for Isabel.”
“No, I want to. Really. It’s just that I promised a ride to Brian Ward and his brother. Which I’m kind of regretting now.”
I follow his gaze to Westmoore’s main entrance. As if conjured, Brian and a freshman version of Brian walk toward us. Graham raises his arm and waves so they know where he’s parked. When they reach us, we exchange lackluster greetings. I know Brian by name, but I’ve never talked to him before.
When he goes for the passenger door, Graham says, “Lemon already called shotgun.”
Even though I didn’t, I don’t correct him. I concentrate on settling into my seat, and the pterodactyl in my stomach stops long enough for me to enjoy that I get to sit next to him.
After we clear the first stop sign and pick up the main road, Brian and I give Graham basic directions to where each of us needs to go. He can head straight for my house or turn left to take Brian and mini-Brian home. As we roll up to a red light, Graham glances into the rearview mirror and says, “I’ll take you home first, yeah?”
Brian’s head pops between the seats. I inch away. “We’re down Ridgeline, which is in the opposite direction. You have to take her home first if you don’t want to backtrack and get stuck behind the buses.”
“I don’t really mind—” Graham begins.
“It’s on the way, man. It’ll take you forever to get back to her house. Go straight.”
I’m slightly annoyed that Brian keeps calling me “her,” as if I’m a boat or a classic car. Graham tucks his chin down and sets his gaze on the road. When the light switches to green, he goes straight. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch him angle his head toward me, then away. He follows my instructions of “left” and “straight” until he pulls next to the curb at my house.
We arrive entirely too soon.
“Thanks again,” I say, reluctantly opening the door. I sit there a second longer, not really wanting to leave, but knowing I can’t linger or it’ll be weird.
Graham palms the gear shift. “Sure, anytime.”
Brian’s head pokes between us again. “See ya,” he says pointedly, ready to take my place in the passenger seat.
I flick my eyes to Graham one last time. “Okay, bye.”
I get out, cross the lawn, and am about to stick my key in the lock when I hear my name. Graham is out of his car and jogging toward me. I panic and glance around, but the street is silent except for his car idling at the curb, and Brian’s face practically smeared against the window.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He stops just below the porch steps. “I just wanted you to know . . . I really wanted to take you home second.”
“It’s fine, really.”
Lie. It’s not fine, but I’m not going to talk about it now, three feet in front of the door leading to Zombieland.
He steps onto the porch. “And I didn’t tell you the truth earlier. About not seeing you in school. I wanted to talk to you today, but I kept finding an excuse not to.”
I stare up at him, not sure what to say to that. “Oh, um . . . ”
“I guess I’ve been a bit of a coward, because there is something I want to ask you. I, ah, don’t suppose you’d want to—”
Each word makes me lean in a little more, ready to say yes to anything—it doesn’t matter what. My mouth even starts to form the word. But he never gets a chance to finish his sentence. Behind me, the familiar click of sliding tumblers and the creak of hinges force me to turn around. In horrific fashion, Mom stands in the doorframe—or the new version of my mother, who likes wearing a ratty, paint-splattered gray sweater that hangs to her knees over a pair of Dad’s equally tattered sweatpants.
It speaks. “Lemon, is that you?”
Her hair is plastered to her head on one side and sticking up on the other. A wild look taints her eyes, as if she’s just woken up and isn’t quite sure where she is—which, let’s face it, is probably pretty accurate. She lurches forward, out of the muted light of our house. The sun reaches her face, and she squints, immediately backing into the foyer like a vampire burned from sun exposure.
This cannot be happening.
I turn back to Graham, who blinks in confusion. Behind him, in the car, Brian is engrossed in watching this episode of my terrible life.
As if possessed, I whip around and yank the door shut on my mother. Graham leans to the side, trying to maintain his view of the disappearing crazy lady before she’s gone.
“Who . . .?” he asks, and points at the closed door.
I’m afraid Mom will wander out again and start jabbering, so I shove Graham lightly, trying to get him to leave.
“You should go,” I say.
I press against his chest a second time and succeed in getting the message across, because he finally backs toward the edge of the porch. As he takes another step, his foot catches on the end of the step, and he tips off balance. I realize he’s going to fall. He tries to gain his footing, and I grab his arm, but gravity does its job. He pitches sideways, over our boxwood shrubs and onto the grass, accidentally pulling me with him as he goes. In a nanosecond, we’re both on the ground. Him on his back. With me on top.
When I try to extricate my face from his shoulder, his stomach breathes in as mine breathes out. I’m amazed I can even get air in my lungs, because surely this kind of mortification kills you instantly. I’m alive, though, and before even more revelations about the places our bodies are touching can reach my brain, I raise my head with the intention of apologizing but find myself looking right into his eyes. He appears as stunned as I am. I blink; my face flames.
“Hi,” he says, arching an eyebrow. “This is sort of . . . nice.”
If Brian suddenly drove Graham’s car right over us, I wouldn’t notice. In fact, I’ve forgotten all about our audience until I hear a lecherous guffaw. Brian is hanging out of Graham’s window, erupting into convulsions of laughter. Even mini-Brian has a grin slapped across his stupid face, and he doesn’t even know us. I roll away from Graham like I’m on fire and get myself back to standing position. I immediately look around, scanning for anyone who might have seen. If a nei
ghbor tells Dad, he’ll chain me up in the basement until I’m a pile of bones.
“Don’t pay attention to him,” Graham says as he sits up. “Brian’s a total dick.”
But I can’t stop the waves of humiliation. They’re laughing at what just happened, laughing at me, and I have no idea how much of my mother they’ve seen either.
Brian claps, then cups his hands over his mouth to yell, “Good show, old chap!” Which is British, not Scottish. Assclown.
I run my hands through my hair; some strands come away between my fingers.
“I . . . have to go now,” I mutter.
I turn away from Graham, who asks me to wait and reaches for my hand, but I don’t let him have it. I sweep up my bag and go inside, slamming the door firmly behind me.
AFTER WATCHING GRAHAM’S car drive away, I check on Mom, who wandered back to her bedroom. I bring her some tea and crackers—a ploy to get her to tell me what she’s seen, but her incoherent state tells me she probably didn’t catch much of Graham or our horizontal tumble off the porch. But still, I can’t be certain she won’t mention it to Dad in some brief lucid moment. I know I have to tell him, but do I do that before or after I admit to my dead car battery? Either way, it’s a lose-lose situation. He’s going to have a complete meltdown—all over me.
I end up waiting until after dinner, delaying his expletive-laced eruption until I feel like I can handle it. Which, as predicted, is exactly what happens. During the hour of berating for the car, I decide to rip off the Band-Aid and share all my transgressions at one time rather than wait for a second screaming session later. We’re on our way to Westmoore so he can jump the battery when I seize the opportunity. Thankfully, the dark car interior allows me to avoid direct eye contact.
At first, I think maybe he isn’t that mad. I left out names and details, cleaned up how Mom looked and what happened with Graham. But then I glance over; his face is briefly lit by the glow of a passing streetlamp, revealing a tight mask of rage. When we get to a traffic light, he slams on the brakes, pitching us both forward against our seat belts. Uncomfortable silence gives way to a flood of non sequiturs that finally crescendo to full sentences. And that’s when the questions start, which is problematic, because he doesn’t really want answers.
“What in the hell were you thinking, Lemon? Did we not just have a conversation about the importance of privacy?”
“I didn’t mean for—”
“How is it that I have two daughters who don’t understand the concept of respect? Is this how I raised you? To directly defy what I say right after I say it?”
The light turns green, but he doesn’t move. We sit in the middle of an empty road while he breathes heavily, possibly contemplating throwing me out of the car and leaving me there. When a horn beeps behind us, he punches the gas pedal to the floor, shooting us forward.
“I don’t get it, Lemon. I don’t understand you anymore. First the car and now this, all in one day? Since when do you have friends who aren’t girls? Who is this kid lurking around my house?”
It takes a second to catch my voice. “He’s nobody, just someone in my English class who offered to drive me home. I didn’t mean for it to happen. I didn’t know he would follow me to the door or that Mom would be up. It doesn't matter anyway, because he didn’t see anything.”
“But it did happen!” he insists. “And don’t say you couldn’t prevent it. You can control turning your headlights off. If you’d done that, your car—the car we are generous enough to let you use while your sister is away—would have started. You could’ve controlled your choice to rely on a stranger for a ride home rather than call me. If you’d done either of those things, I wouldn’t have some kid knowing my business. Some kid who probably thinks it’s a funny story to tell all his little cretin friends.”
I’m about to try diffusing him again, but he continues. “Life is a snowball, Lemon. One small mistake sets it down the hill, leading to more and more mistakes until it’s one giant fuck-up. Do you want people to look at you like you’re a giant fuck-up?”
Something about him saying the word fuck stings worse than if he physically slapped me.
“Do you?” he repeats.
“No,” I reply.
“Well, that’s one thing we can agree on.”
As we lapse into thick silence, it crosses my mind that I should make him understand that I’m not Meg, and just because she made choices he doesn’t like doesn’t mean I’ll do the same. It isn’t as if I’ve gotten into an accident from driving and texting, or invited Graham to my bedroom and we were half naked when Mom walked in. The things I did were mistakes, but I know my father won’t see it that way, so I don’t offer any observations. I grip my seat as he throttles the steering wheel, which is just as bad as his yelling.
At Westmoore, I tumble out of my seat as Dad barks instructions to pop my hood while he grabs the jumper cables from his trunk. After he’s connected the clamps, it takes three attempts to get the engine going, but it finally starts. I’m relieved when it does, so Dad can leave and I’ll finally get away from his criticism. He has to have the final word, though, as usual. After I get in my car, he pulls up alongside me and lowers his window. I do the same, because I know he expects it.
“I need to know you understand that we will not have another situation like this. The car is bad enough, but if I find out you’re gallivanting around with some kid I don’t know, telling him things about our family, I can guarantee you won’t like the punishment.”
I understand exactly. Be perfect all the time, or suffer the consequences.
“It won’t happen again,” I confirm.
He nods once and squeals out of the lot. I sit there a lot longer than necessary. I don’t want to be anywhere near him as I drive home.
LATER THAT NIGHT, I skim a chapter on ancient Rome for my Western Civilization class, but end up staring at the words like they’re actually in Latin. I close the book and study the blank ceiling instead.
As much as the argument with Dad upset me, it’s faded enough for panicked thoughts about school tomorrow to take over. I don’t know how much Brian saw or what he’ll reveal. Maybe it was obvious Graham and I fell, or maybe it wasn’t as bad as it seemed. I feel a fraction better after I check Lady Westmoore and don’t see any videos about our accidental game of sexy Twister. The relief is short-lived, because I know I have to think of a way to tell Graham I can’t see him anymore. After Dad’s warning tonight, it’s the best choice. Except my mind keeps wandering back to what Graham said while I was on top of him in an anxiety-induced paralysis.
He said it was nice.
I replay it in my mind until I’ve torn that one word apart and analyzed it from every angle, but I’m no closer to figuring him out. He said he was avoiding me, but then he started to ask me something, but then my mother, followed by our tumble off the porch and Brian’s laughter, which still echoes in my head, loud and obnoxious. It gets worse and worse each time I rehash it, and even though I want to sleep so my brain will stop its churning, I finally accept that it’s futile.
Graham Stuart is all I can think about.
ten
THE NEXT MORNING, I haven’t even entered Westmoore when Isabel texts me.
Iz: Did smthng happen btwn u & G ystrdy?
Me: Story 2 long 4 txt. Talk in gym.
Dread immediately clamps down on my intestines. As I walk into the building, I tuck my head down and pray the rumors aren’t that bad—or widespread. Through the curtain of my hair, I see a few heads pick up and watch me pass, but there’s no pointing or whispering, no furious texting. All good signs.
When I round the corner to my locker, Graham is already waiting. I can’t ignore him, but I don’t want to draw more attention to us either. As I fumble with my combination lock, the air clearly shifts; eyes begin to slide in our direction, and the normally loud hall turns obviously quiet. I’m contemplating the design of a locker with cross-functionality as an escape pod when Graham says, “Can we
talk for a minute?”
I discreetly scan our surroundings and know it’s impossible to have a real conversation with this many people around. Whatever rumor is out there, it hasn’t gone viral yet, but it’s a loose thread that’s poised to be pulled. I have to end this whole thing before it unravels.
“I don’t really think that’s a good idea,” I whisper, staring into the small rectangle of my locker.
He leans closer. “I guess people are kind of talking about us today.”
“I guess,” I say. “I just got here.” I press the door between us as a shield. I can’t be near him, feeling the lightness in my head, the memory of pressing against his body. The temptation is too great, especially when I can’t have him.
“I wanted to—”
“I can’t be late for homeroom,” I interrupt. “I have to go.”
He stands up straight when I snap my lock into place. “Right, okay. Maybe we can catch up later?”
“Yeah, maybe,” I reply, walking away.
I’m anxious to be away from him, as well as the shadows of the vultures surrounding us, restless to tear apart every detail.
ISABEL POUNCES AS SOON as I get to the gym locker room later. While we change into our uniforms, she peppers me with questions. I recap what happened yesterday in a low voice, right down to Graham’s “nice” comment. Isabel sits on the bench and tightens her shoelaces, not looking at me, which I know means something significant.
“Oh god, it’s bad, isn’t it? You heard something . . . what did you hear?” I bunch the hem of my sweatshirt in my hands.
She does a quick sweep to make sure no one is paying attention to us. “It’s just that—well, remember when Chelsea knocked into you last week? I think I know why.” Her eyebrows stitch together. “I heard that Chelsea asked Graham to the Halloween dance, and I’m pretty sure he said yes. But I think this was weeks ago, like before you guys started hanging out.”
Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine Page 6
