Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine

by Elle Pallmore

  The conversation changes again, and she turns to me, where I’ve huddled myself into the corner of a countertop. “This is fun, right?” Her eyebrows pop upward expectantly. She wants me to say yes, so I do.

  But it’s not fun. It’s soul crushing for the next few hours.

  We’ve moved upstairs into a media room by the time midnight finally comes. The crowd erupts after a loud countdown, and the people who ignored me all night congratulate each other, hugging and high-fiving, as if they’ve done something amazing by making it into a new year. Bodies spin, turning to the next friend and the next, until their eyes fall on me, and they shift away. I’m that girl, after all. You can talk about her, but you can’t talk to her.

  Isabel leaves my side to circle the room and join in the revelry, and when she returns, I yell in her ear that she should take me home. I’ll never admit it, but I’m elated Dad gave me a strict curfew.

  “Are you sure you want to go?” she asks. “You could stay over here too.”

  Her sleeping at Shannon’s is news to me, but I only shake my head. “If we leave now, you can come back while there’s still a party.”

  She nods, and as we make our way out of the room, she’s stopped by no fewer than five people demanding she stay. “I promise I’ll be back,” she shouts. Her smile is huge as she adjusts the plastic hat that keeps falling off her head.

  We maneuver our way down the staircase, weaving through the swarms of bodies blocking our way to the foyer. I keep looking down so I don’t trip on the stairs or step on anyone’s foot. I have to flatten against the wall to let some people by, and when I turn back, I’m face to face with Graham.

  I blink, frozen, and because I’ve stopped, Isabel bumps into my back, pitching me forward as I grapple for the railing. Her hand cuts the circulation on my arm to keep from falling, but it doesn't move or lighten its pressure once she sees him too.

  “Hey, Graham,” she says. “Happy New Year.”

  His eyes push around me, to Isabel. He nods in greeting but doesn’t speak.

  Seeing him, standing this close, is less like the explicit pain I endured after he said we broke up. This is slow and tortured, like stitches popping one by one in a slow unzippering. It takes the breath right out of me.

  “We were just heading out,” Isabel says. She nudges me to move, but I can’t. I’m paralyzed with panic. I hear her say my name, but I’m lost.

  Our staring contest only breaks when Rob Frost shoulders his way up the staircase; he stops behind Graham and claps a hand on his shoulder. When he notices me a second later, his eyebrows skyrocket.

  “L. Lav . . . didn’t know you’d be here.” His lids are hooded, and he sways, obviously drunk. The hand on Graham’s shoulder slings around his neck, into a bro hold. “Don’t hurt me, babe. He and I are just friends, I swear.”

  It’s like being doused in ice water. My eyes slide to Graham. I wait for him to defend me, but he looks away, almost bored, like I’m a just a stranger blocking his path. I dig deeper, imploring him, silently asking why, but when he meets my gaze again, I see the worst possible outcome: he’s going to treat me like I’ve actually done all the things I’m accused of. I instantly recoil.

  “Hilarious,” Isabel says in her haughtiest voice. “Mind letting us through?”

  She hasn’t let go of my arm, and when she squeezes, I square my shoulders and start rolling forward. I haven’t gotten very far when a girl blows past us down the stairs, heedless of the crowd. Like a pinball, she bounces off me and Isabel, shoving us aside and tipping off a waterfall of flailing arms and legs. My foot gets kicked out from under me, sending me off the edge of the step and directly into Graham, who grabs my waist to stop my stumbling. I scrape in a shocked breath when his hands connect with my ribs and our eyes collide. One second, two seconds. Then, as if realizing too late that he’s touching me, he jolts away. His gaze grates mine before he twists around me, moving up the stairs.

  “Nice one,” Rob says into my ear as he follows. His smile is smarmy, and the whorl of my ear feels wet from his breath, even though it isn’t. My head is completely scrambled by the time Isabel and I reach the foyer. I look back once, but Graham is gone, swallowed by the second level. I take shallow breaths while we wait for our coats, trying to squeeze threatening tears away.

  The quiet outside is intense compared to the party. I silently follow Isabel to her car, away from the blazing light of the house. After turning on the main road, she flips on the radio to cut the tension. Neither of us has said a word in the past few minutes.

  Instead of the scream I want to let go, I mutter, “L. Lav . . . what the hell is that about?”

  In the brief brightness of a streetlamp, I see a cringe marring her brow. “That’s what they call you now. On Lady Westmoore.”

  “What does that even mean?”

  “It’s your first initial—”

  My heart slams against my sternum like a sledgehammer. “I know what it means. It’s just . . . never mind.”

  She drives, and I press my cheek against the icy window, wishing I had never left home. The whole night has been a disaster, a reminder that I’m not going to be able to get away from the persona Lady Westmoore created. I’m covered in lies, and while I’ve been trying to ignore my haters, they haven’t let me be. They swept in like vandals, clapped chains on my arms, and stole my identity.

  AFTER MY FATHER PEELS himself from the couch and goes to bed, I creep out of the house. The sun will rise in a few hours, but now is my safety net, when no one will see me.

  In the dark, each step seems weightless, my presence barely making a wrinkle in the atmosphere. At the same time, anxiety skitters along my nerves. The unfairness of everything, that ball of vitriol I’ve been carrying, is bigger, harder to control. It makes me want to throw myself on the ground and pound my fists until they’re bloody. It’s a desperation I’ve never experienced before—a relentless desire to rid myself of all the confusing emotions caught up inside.

  To the sound of distant fireworks, I stretch my muscles and lengthen my stride until I find that I’m running. Despair is like fuel, helping me lean into the split at my side, sink into my cracking shins as each flimsy sneaker sole slams into the pavement. It feels like I’m flying through glass for all that it hurts—the burn of my thighs, the cinch of my ribs, that piercing pulse in my gut as I gulp for breath.

  I want to run forever, until nothing is familiar and the landscape flattens into desert and red rocks, but I only get to the end of the street before my weak body wears out. I’m out of breath, my shocked lungs unable to keep going. My heart bangs, scaring me with its relentless pounding.

  Emptied out, I stumble to a curb and cradle my head on my knees.

  twenty

  “GOD, IT’S LIKE ALL anyone will ask me about,” Shannon huffs.

  On the day we return to school from Christmas break, Madeline posted about Shannon’s New Year’s Eve party, shooting her to instant Westmoore celebrity status. It was newsworthy only because, according to the video, I attempted to push Graham down the stairs.

  “Did I see you do it? Did I throw you out?” Shannon exhales again, fluttering her bangs.

  She complains that no one will leave her alone, but the growing darkness inside me whispers that she’s enjoying her fifteen minutes of fame. I instantly regret letting Isabel convince me to join them at lunch, and judging by the disappointed stares from the nearby tables, everyone else is too. They’d likely planned on accosting Shannon with more questions, with her being the expert eyewitness and all, but can’t now that I’m sitting right next to her.

  “I wish I’d been there,” Lisa says. “I can’t believe I missed it for a ski trip.” Glancing at me, she adds, “I mean, so I could defend you.”

  Isabel flattens her brown lunch bag, pressing the creases. I wonder if she’s still thinking about what happened earlier, while we were walking out of the locker room together after gym. Some arbitrary guy backed away, dramatically flinging himself against
the lockers, throwing his hands up as he yelled, “Don’t shove me, L. Lav!”

  The responses ranged from closed-mouthed snickers to blatant laughter. I stared at the ground like I was indifferent until Isabel steered me away. She hasn’t mentioned it or what happened with Graham, and I’m starting to wonder if she’s run out of supportive comments.

  Later, when Shannon and Lisa go to the bathroom, probably to talk about the party more, Isabel sighs. I’m about to ask her what’s wrong when a paper airplane lands on our table, skidding to a stop against my arm. It’s a completely bad idea, but I unfold it to find a pamphlet from the Peer Counseling office. At the top it says, Why Can’t I Make Friends? How to Overcome Social Anxiety. The Social Anxiety part is crossed out in black marker, and Being a Psycho is written in. Psycho is spelled wrong. I crumple the paper and flick it to the middle of the table.

  “What is it?” Isabel asks.

  I shake my head, denying her an answer. Embarrassment pushes me to say, “I didn’t mean to drag you into this. I know you asked me to come to lunch, but I don’t have to anymore. If it bothers you.”

  I want nothing more than for her to reassure me, to continue to see me, the real me. If Isabel isn’t on my side, then I have no one.

  Instead of responding to my offer, she blurts, “I think you should talk to Graham. Sort this out.”

  “I think that’s the worst idea ever.”

  “I talked to him at the party. After I took you home and went back. He was still there.”

  I tear off a piece of the pamphlet and shred it to confetti. “So?”

  “I don’t think he’s over you.”

  “I got a distinctly different impression.”

  “I think he’s mad, Lem, but you could fix everything with him. If you wanted to.”

  I swipe the pile of paper away, exasperated. “How?”

  “You could apologize, first of all.”

  “For what? I didn’t do anything wrong. He’s the one who started it.”

  “Unknowingly.”

  Under the surface of her words, I sense a layer of disdain. “You think this is my fault?”

  She focuses on peeling the sticker off her banana, curling it and pressing it flat again. “Of course not.”

  “Did you guys talk about me and, like, agree I’m overreacting?” My chest starts to hurt, right in the center, like it does when I run.

  “It’s not like that. We didn’t bitch you out behind your back. It’s just that we both see what’s really going on here.”

  I imagine her and Graham huddled together, scrutinizing all my flaws, like one of Isabel’s lab experiments.

  “Please enlighten me on what’s really going on, since you seem to understand it so well.”

  She puts the banana in her lunch bag, uneaten. “The issue isn’t him and what he did. Yeah, it happened, but whatever. It’s about you now and how you’re handling it. If you made up, you’d have him on your side. There wouldn’t be anything for Madeline to say anymore.”

  I doubt her logic. There would always be something for Madeline to say, because she can turn fiction into truth. She’d keep filming away, telling new lies, chipping at us until we ended up back in this place. Estranged and resentful. Punished for wanting something she doesn’t think we should have.

  “Considering that this is my life and it’s happening to me, I don’t think you have any right to judge.”

  Her eyes drift to the side. Not quite an eye roll, but close enough. It lights a fury I’ve never felt toward her before. I snap before thinking about it.

  “Neither of you wake up every morning and wonder what’s been said about you overnight. You don’t have to pretend you don’t see all the looks, you don’t get paper thrown at you. No one is afraid that you’ll talk to them or assault them, and no one calls you a thirsty skank, or countless other names. Talking to Graham won’t flip a switch and make all that stop. You have no idea what it’s like, so how can you say I’m not handling the situation the right way?”

  She plucks the bracelets on her arm. “Come on, Lemon. I’m trying to help, and you’re being defensive.”

  Tears prick my eyes, and the last thing I want is for her, or anyone else, to see me cry. It means I’ve finally given in, which will satisfy their black hearts even more. I gather the contents of my lunch in one pile before standing and throwing my bag over my shoulder.

  “You don’t understand how this feels, so you and Graham can stop brainstorming ways for me to show my face around for the rest of the year.”

  Isabel bites her lip, her own tears starting to form. I nearly turn back when I reach the cafeteria doors, but it’s too easy to keep going. Sink or swim, after all.

  ON SATURDAY MORNING, my mother bursts into my room and sits on the edge of my bed. I open my eyes, barely, because I was up until dawn trying to think my way out of my problems. Now, completely exhausted, I want nothing more than to stay under the covers all day, but Mom isn’t about to leave.

  “Wainscoting,” she chirps. “I think we should wainscot the family room and up the stairway.”

  I rub my face. “What the what?”

  She turns her phone in my direction and swipes through images even though my lids aren’t completely open. “It’s like this. Paneling to separate the top half from the bottom half of the wall. I think it would make it more elegant.”

  My life is imploding, and she wants to make the family room more elegant. “Sure,” I grunt. “Nice.”

  “Great! Get dressed, and we’ll pick up the supplies.”

  Belatedly, I realize she means right this second and that I have no choice in helping. An hour later, after she’s bought out The Container Store to finish the garage-reorganization project, we’re at the hardware store.

  While Mom discusses measurements with the salesman, I wander the aisles, wondering what Isabel is doing. I avoided her by eating lunch in the library for the rest of the week, and when we were in gym, we didn’t talk. My thoughts keep fluctuating between what she said, feeling angry, and wishing she could actually help. But the only way would be to build a barrier around me that can’t be breached, and that isn’t the way she wants me to solve my problems.

  At least Mom has a handle on her grief. On our way home, she schedules the rest of our day—we’ll organize the wood pieces for the wainscoting, and I’ll start painting them. While they dry, we’ll hang our new shelves in the garage so we can start eating in the kitchen again. No need for thoughts, no need to address any issues. Good old-fashioned avoidance.

  When Mom parks in the driveway, Dad is on a ladder taking down the Christmas lights she requested he put up at the last minute. At the time, he grumbled that there was no point when they’d have to come down in a week. He did it anyway, for the same reason I got up at eight o’clock on a Saturday morning—this version of Mom is better than the last one.

  Dad descends the ladder as we unload the car. “What you got there?” he asks, gesturing to the wood sticks poking out of the bag in my hand.

  “Wainscoting,” I say. “For the family room.”

  His mouth opens, and he rubs his head with his forearm. To my mother, in a lowered voice, he says, “Sarah, are you sure you should take on another project? We’ve still got the garage . . . and all the Christmas decorations have to get packed away.”

  I know how he feels. Our house is bedlam. The Great Reorganization has spilled into almost every room, disrupting our already-disrupted lives. But Mom doesn’t bat an eye at his concern.

  “The garage will be done today. Lemon and I have it covered.”

  He frowns, then wanders to the base of the ladder, looking totally unsatisfied. I pass him with another load of bags, and he says, “Don’t let her start anything else.”

  As usual, my father is in serious denial about my lack of magical abilities.

  OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, my time consists of going to school, half-assing my homework, then painting an endless stack of wood sticks in the garage. My legs ache from crou
ching on a plastic tarp, knees grinding into the cold cement. Every time I think I might be done, Mom brings more pieces out to me.

  By Thursday, I’m finally on the last set. The garage door is open to vent the paint fumes, leaving me exposed to frigid January wind gusts. I shiver in my coat and adjust my scarf to cover my frosty ear lobes.

  I’ve just dipped my brush in the paint can to start on the first piece of the day when Isabel’s car pulls into the driveway. I busy myself with making long, even strokes as my breath comes in shallow, nervous bursts. Through lowered lashes, I watch her booted feet stop before me.

  “Hey,” she says, as if nothing has happened between us. “I guess your phone isn’t on, since you haven’t called me back.”

  “I turned it off—didn’t seem like I needed it.” From inside the house, I hear the pop of the nail gun as Mom continues to hang the wainscot.

  Isabel rubs her mittens together. “I wasn’t sure if you’d answer anyway.”

  The truth is, I’m not sure either. I hate fighting with Isabel, and we’ve never given each other the silent treatment before, so I have no idea what to do. I still feel the sting of our last conversation.

  “I would’ve,” I lie.

  “I was afraid you were going to write me off because you thought I wasn’t on your side.” She drops to the edge of the tarp. “’Cause I’m always on your side. I just thought you needed to hear another perspective.”

  “Graham’s perspective,” I correct. I dip my brush again, swipe either side on the paint can, and slather it over the molding.

  “No, not just his. Ours. He’s on your side too, even if you don’t think so.”

  That subject is too loaded to get into. I can’t focus on mending my relationship with Graham and Isabel at the same time, not when it’s so hard just figuring out how to be me on a daily basis. I change the subject to the issue at hand.

  “So you think I should do something different than what I’m doing?”