Dad leans his elbows on his knees and stares downward. He brushes away a broken leaf clinging to his boot lace. I haven’t seen him like this before, so defeated. Usually he’s just angry, but now his voice is low, like a wrecking ball has torn a hole through his throat.
“Have you heard anything lately?” I ask.
“Nothing. Just following the pings on the credit card, and it’s never the same place twice.”
I catch Dad’s eye as he watches me sorting and flipping through Mom’s recipe book.
“You got everything you need here?”
“Think so,” I reply.
“Seems like you have it under control.”
It’s the closest thing to a compliment I’ve received from him in a long time. I look back down at the book and say, “I think, maybe, it would be better if we told Aunt Vee she was eating with her roommate’s family or something like that.”
I steal a glance at him. He nods. “That is better.”
“Are you . . . going to tell Mom?”
He looks at the ceiling, as if he can see through it, to their bedroom. “I’ll go. She should probably eat something anyway.”
He seems so sad all of a sudden, as if all the anger has raged out of him and there’s only emptiness left over. As much as I hate how he’s on my case all the time, I don’t like this version of him much better.
“Do you want me to make Mom some tea?”
He stands, his knees creaking, and pushes in his chair. In a rare moment of appreciation, he says, “That would be nice. I think she’d like that.”
Neither of us speaks the truth; she won’t even notice, and the tea will grow cold, untouched, as she continues to pretend the world doesn’t exist outside her bedroom.
WITH AUNT VEE COMING for Thanksgiving, my panic level increases a few good degrees. I have no idea how I’m going to pass off the reason I’m cooking dinner instead of Mom, but I push it aside and concentrate on making sure there will actually be a dinner.
On the Friday before, I rush to the grocery store after school, convinced I’ll burn or maim some of the dishes and have to start over. Therefore, I need extras of everything. I’m tossing packages of butter into a cart when someone sneaks up behind me and covers my eyes. I yelp, twisting away from the mystery hands, which are attached to Graham. Without meaning to, I back up like he has the plague. People are staring at us since I yelled kind of loud.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
His happy expression falls. “How about ‘great to see you’ or ‘wow, it’s my incredibly hot boyfriend.’”
I must twitch at the word boyfriend, because he frowns even more. I don’t know what to say, not to that, so I do the wimpy thing and deflect. “You scared me.”
“More than usual?” I notice a flash of annoyance before he pulls off his wool hat and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. “You said you were going to be here. I thought I’d surprise you, but I guess that was a bad idea.”
Immediately, I sense something is off about him. Maybe it was my reaction, maybe not. He doesn’t lean in to kiss me, and I’m relieved—now I don’t have to find an excuse to pull away.
“You want to push?” I ask, gesturing to the cart.
Without a word, he wheels it down the aisle. As he brushes past me, I pick up his soap-and-leather scent. It dings my heart first, then rockets around my insides, popping like a string of electric lights. I try to clear my mind by staring at the grocery list on my phone, which is only half finished. I suck in a calming breath and catch up with Graham, who navigates the cart while I grab stuff from the shelves. After two aisles, he still isn’t talking to me.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He taps his fingers against a carton of eggs. “I’m spectacular. Are you?”
“Yeah. Great,” I say with equal sarcasm. I know how to do sarcasm like a pro.
I’m contemplating jarred gravy versus powdered when he puts an end to our standoff.
“Lemon, what’s going on with you? You’ve been acting weird for two weeks now. I keep waiting for you to talk about it, but you don’t.”
I focus on the jar in my hand, like it’s the most engrossing thing I’ve ever seen. “I’m not acting weird. I’m just busy lately.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it.”
I swing around. “Can you lower your voice?”
He scoffs at first, but then talks softer. “I just want to know what’s going on.”
“Like I said, I’m fine.”
He tips his head back, as if I’m downright exhausting. I place two gravy jars in the cart and walk to the end of the aisle. As he trails behind me, he says, “Is it because I went to the dance with Chelsea? I thought you understood why I did it.”
“It’s not that.”
He gently takes my arm, stopping me. “So it is something. If it isn’t the dance, then what?”
“It’s nothing. I didn’t mean to make you think there was.”
He truly wants to know, but my voice is locked up tight. I can’t say I’m confused and afraid and my heart feels like a skewer is shoved through it. That I want him so bad it hurts, but being with him means I’m placing myself into the center of a bullseye, and it will undoubtedly hurt when Chelsea and Madeline unleash their own personal versions of hell on me. Isabel said I had two options, but I don’t like either one, so I’ve been wavering between both, hoping something else will reveal itself. So far, it hasn’t, so I’ve stuck to my own plan. Keeping us a secret, even if Graham isn’t clued in on it.
“Can you just stop for a minute?” he snaps. “Stop this cold I’m-fine-everything-is-fine crap?”
I start to walk away again, so he hooks his finger through the loop on my jeans. He isn’t letting me go without giving an answer.
“Lemon, please talk to me.”
As much as I don’t want to peel back the layers of this with him, since talking about it only forces me closer to making a decision, I also don’t want to be the root of his frustration.
“It’s just . . . everything has been really difficult.” I don’t elaborate, which leads him to connect the wrong dots.
“I know things aren’t great with your family, but it’s like you can’t relax. Even around me. If I barely see you in school and I’m not allowed to see you out of school, how is this supposed to work?”
“We’re together right now,” I say.
“Yeah, at the grocery store. The epitome of romance.”
“I just don’t want everyone talking about us. I’d rather keep us—being together—quiet. For now.”
“Why?” he insists. “Since it’s definitely making us both crazy?”
“I don’t like the attention. I don’t want everyone watching us.”
“It’s more than that. You won’t let me take you to Homecoming. You barely talk to me during the day, and you won’t come to my house. I’m like a stray dog following you around, hoping you’ll take me home. Even here, at the bloody grocery store, you can barely stand being near me. You’re a totally different person from the girl in my car on Halloween. Half the time, I don’t even know if there is an us.”
He shoves the clattering cart down the aisle. As I watch him go, my chest surges with pain. I’m wounding him. In his mind, we’re supposed to be together, and I’ve done nothing but sidestep him. I grab a loaf of bread off the shelf, not even sure what kind it is, and follow him. A clog of people blocks our path, so I rearrange the contents in the cart, avoiding his eyes while we wait.
He isn’t as willing to let it go.
“Are you going to acknowledge what I just said? Lemon, if you’ve changed your mind about me, at least give me the courtesy of saying so. I thought . . . I really thought you felt the same, but if you don’t, just tell me, please.”
As I weigh my response, a rogue thought emerges—he could be the one who leaves me. It didn’t occur to me until now that there’s always been a third choice in this situation. Graham could just as easily choose to walk away. He’d be confused, a
nd it might not be what he wants, but if he thinks I don’t care about him, then what’s the point? For the hundredth time in weeks, I feel like the worst person in the world for doing this to him.
“I’m sorry, Graham. I really am. I’m . . . I’m just afraid.” It’s the closest I can get to admitting my feelings. Maybe if we weren’t in a store, surrounded by strangers, I could dig deeper for something a little more revealing.
“Of what? Of me?” he asks plainly.
I lean against the shelf for support since we’re still stuck in the aisle, not going anywhere anytime soon. “Of getting my ass kicked. And having the gory details spread on Lady Westmoore like some bad reality show.”
He laughs, short and flat. “Getting your ass kicked by who?”
“By Chelsea,” I admit.
“Why in the world would you think that?”
Reluctantly, the story tumbles out. I tell him about Chelsea’s attacks in gym, as well as Madeline and her threats to splatter my name across Lady Westmoore, plus the note in my locker, which was followed by others—some with words and one that was simply an eyeball drawn in that same pink glitter pen.
Graham shakes his head when I’m finished, clearly irritated. “What the hell, Lemon? Why didn’t you tell me they were messing with you?”
“I didn’t want to talk about it.”
“And you didn’t think I might want to know what you’ve been going through? I’m supposed to be here for you.”
I shrug. “I can’t do anything about it. Chelsea wants you, or, at the very least, she doesn't want me to be with you, and she’s making it very clear. Maybe . . . maybe if you’d told her in the beginning that you didn’t like her in that way, she’d let it go. But I guess that didn’t happen.”
“We went to one dance. I didn’t have to tell her anything.”
I laugh in disbelief. “Have you ever met a teenage girl? It doesn’t matter if you only went out once. She hates me because she thinks I’m trying to steal you away from her. Because she doesn't know the truth.”
He drags me close, ignoring my frustration. “I liked being stolen by you. I don’t care who knows it.” He runs his hands down my back so I’m pressed against him. A kid screams from a nearby cart, reminding us we’re in a public place. He grits his teeth when I twist out of his arms. “Don’t you feel just a little happy you won?”
“It’s not a game,” I reply. “I wasn’t even in competition.”
“That makes me feel really good.”
“I didn’t mean—I’m just trying to protect myself. I don’t want to be the latest headline.”
“Who cares about that?”
“I do! She has the ability to ruin my life.”
The aisle slowly clears, and we’re able to push forward. We don’t talk for a few minutes, since I’m able to weave between people and get what I need. When I return to Graham, he absently stares into the cart while pulling loose threads from the sleeve of his jacket.
I unload the food in my arms as he says, “Is that the real reason you’ve been avoiding me? There aren’t any other secrets you’re hiding?”
Secrets. My whole life is one big secret. Yes, I’m afraid of the physical harm Chelsea will do to me if I don’t give Graham up, and of Madeline, who’ll be ready to report each blow to Westmoore’s clan of gossip-hungry vultures. Just as much, though, it’s Dad’s reaction when he inevitably finds out. A Lavender in trouble for fighting? And that it all started over a boy I lied to him about? Not to mention that the sordid details are online, tarnishing our perfect family image? I can already see his face, and it’s terrifying. It looms like a storm cloud on the horizon of my mind, dark and brooding, reminding me of the risk I’ve been taking this whole time.
But then, when I look at Graham, his sorrowful eyes and beautiful mouth, the ominous cloud recedes a little. Somehow, I’m still willing to be an irresponsible moron, which makes me even more mystified. I can’t tell him everything that’s going on in my head. It’s too complicated, too much to drop on him at once, so I lie. Again.
“That’s everything. No other secrets.”
When we finally finish with my list and check out, Graham helps me load the bags into my car. Afterward, we stand separated by the empty cart, unsure how to proceed with each other. I can tell his brain is working also, trying to unravel the problem I’ve presented him with.
“Can’t you tell Hawkins about the notes and let him deal with it?”
I rub the back of my skull, where it aches. “Madeline hasn’t really done anything wrong. Not enough for him to take it seriously.” I try to plaster on a smile, but it doesn’t entirely fall into place. “I’ll just ignore it.”
Even as I say it, it doesn’t seem possible. Graham leans in and kisses me. An apology of sorts. “Look, we’ll keep us under wraps for a while, maybe until this dies down. I’m not happy about it, but I want you to feel okay. It can’t go on forever. They’ll have to give up at some point.”
I nod, but I’m not entirely sure I believe him. When we finally go our separate ways and I start the car, I watch him cut through the parking lot, growing smaller in the rearview mirror until he disappears.
fourteen
THE WEEK OF THANKSGIVING at Westmoore is like trying to train feral cats to do tricks on command. Nobody wants to be in class, and we definitely don’t want to listen or do any work. Thankfully, most of my teachers put on a movie and let us have our phones out. My concentration wanes between my problems with Graham and the pressure of cooking an entire dinner by myself, turning me into an emotional time bomb.
During homeroom on Monday, I review the notes I took during Mr. Gilbertson’s cooking tutorial as if I might be able to jam the knowledge into my head. When Isabel points out my strange new obsession with cheesecloth during gym, I can only explain that I need Thanksgiving to be perfect. This is our first holiday without Meg, and we’re already brittle. Add more pressure, and my family will irreparably break.
I’m so preoccupied with planning that it’s Isabel who reminds me I haven’t received a stalker note in a few days. My mood improves a little, and I’m not as afraid to open my locker door after lunch. So when a piece of paper flutters to my feet, I instantly recoil, believing I jinxed myself. Fear turns to relief when I see it’s from Graham, letting me know he’ll be in the library instead of his last class, and can I meet him there?
I’m able to persuade Señor Martín to give me a pass instead of watching the movie, and when I get to the library, I’m elated to find that most tables are empty except for a few loners. I sit in view of Graham; after meeting my eyes, his gaze slides to the librarian, who is preoccupied with a stack of book returns.
I watch him stroll into the stacks. My phone buzzes a second later. Reference section.
After another check on the librarian, I slowly go to the nearest bookshelf, running a finger along the spines, working my way to the very back of the library. Graham waits for me there, shoulders against the ancient dictionaries I’ve never seen anyone use.
“Note in the locker,” I whisper. “Very old school. You could’ve texted me instead.”
“Just reminding you that not all notes are bad.” He looks around. “And that people aren’t always watching.” His hands circle my waist as he presses me lightly against the opposite shelf.
“We aren’t totally alone,” I point out, but he silences me with a kiss that starts slow, then grows more urgent as I push up on my toes to reach him. I slide my hands into his back pockets to drag his hips closer, leaving no inch between us. His responding groan makes me breathless, but at the same time I’m aware of my heart bursting, my blood sprinting through my veins. When his tongue touches mine, I’m a sparkler crackling to life, bright and unexpected, almost iridescent.
At the blaring sound of the school intercom, I jump, then quietly laugh into Graham’s neck when Bailey DeWitt’s cartoony voice starts the end-of-day announcements.
“I came to the library to study,” he whispers, resting his
forehead against mine. “You corrupted my learning experience.”
“This is your fault. You tricked me into scandalous behavior.” His mouth grazes down my neck, making it very hard to think. “We should go back,” I say. “Final bell . . . ”
My voice trails off, and I wonder if I’ve said the words out loud.
“Let’s stay here,” he murmurs, but when I give him a gentle push, he raises his head and sighs. “I guess one of us has to be responsible.”
I frown, and he touches my bottom lip with his thumb. “What’s wrong?”
“It was nice being irresponsible for a little while. I forgot about everything—Thanksgiving, the notes. Which, surprisingly, I haven’t seen today.”
He spins us so he’s against the shelf and I’m loosely wrapped in his arms. “I can’t help with your sister, but I told you I’d figure out a way to fix the note situation, which is why I did something.”
His hand slides up the back of my neck and down again, seducing me into a trance. He smells so good. “What kind of something?”
“I thought about what you said last week. I really didn’t tell Chelsea the truth about how I felt, which is why all of this is happening. And then I realized there was no use being on the defensive, so I explained it to her this morning. How I didn’t realize how much I liked you until I was already taking her to the dance.”
I stiffen, my spine straightening into a rigid line. I back away so I can see his face. “Wait, what? What?”
“I smoothed it over. So everything will stop. So you won’t have to worry anymore.”
I hear what he’s saying, but it doesn’t compute. The first small wave of comprehension collides with my brain a second later, followed by nausea. I let go of him, stumbling back so I can dig my fingernails into the bookshelf behind me. Without it, my knees might buckle.
“Why would you do that?” I ask, raising my voice.
His eyes widen in surprise. He looks at my sagging posture, my grip on the shelf, and cups my elbow to hold me up.
“I wanted to help,” he answers, and then, after a hesitation, “I told her the truth, which is what I should’ve done in the first place.”
Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine Page 10
