Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine

by Elle Pallmore

  “Yeah, I guess. Hey, where are you?”

  “You can’t tell them I called. I wouldn’t have, but I need a favor.”

  I run to the window, hoping Dad’s car will pull into the driveway, but they only left for the hardware store a half hour ago. I search both ways; the road is empty.

  “They’ve been worried,” I say. “I have to tell them.”

  “If you don’t promise, I’m going to hang up right now, and I won’t call back. Ever.”

  “Okay! Okay, I won’t tell them. Calm down.” I sit back on the couch and grab a notepad off the coffee table.

  “I just need money. If I give you an address, can you send me some cash?”

  “What do you need it for? Are you in trouble?”

  “No. It doesn't matter. Can you do it?”

  I stand and pace from the family room to the kitchen. “I don’t have any money. I’ve only got what Dad gives me, which is pretty much nothing.”

  She swears, and for a moment, her voice is muffled while she seemingly talks to someone else.

  “Meg? Don’t you have a credit card?”

  “It’s—I lost it, okay? I knew I shouldn’t have called.”

  “Where are you? Dad’s been crazy worried. You have to come home.” I hear more rustling and a spark, then inhale. Meg smoking is surreal.

  “That’s not going to happen.”

  “Why not?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Just tell me.”

  She exhales. “Seriously, Lemon? I’m not coming back so I can be Meg Lavender, perfect daughter, perfect student, all over again. Leaving is the best thing I’ve ever done.”

  I struggle to come up with a response. I never knew she felt that way, but we haven’t ever talked that much, so it isn’t surprising.

  “You don’t have to be either of those things.”

  “Yeah, right. If I come home, I give Dad three whole seconds before he goes ballistic and reminds me how I’ve ruined my life. And Mom will just look at me, all disappointed and judging, like I murdered someone. To hell with that. I’m not trapped anymore.”

  “Mom hasn’t been the same since you left, and Dad . . . he’s just sad.”

  “I don’t care,” she utters.

  I bite my lip. I’m not used to this Meg—it’s like talking to a completely different person. Then I realize that I am. Even if she comes back, she’s never going to be like she was.

  “Can’t you just call them and let them know you’re alive?”

  “No, because a phone call is where it starts. They’re never going to let it go.”

  “But you can’t keep running forever,” I insist. “If you don’t have any money, how are you going to eat and stuff?”

  “It’s fine. I’ll get a job or something. I’ll figure it out.”

  “You can figure it out here.”

  There are voices again, muffled. Either she’s covering the phone with her hand, or they’re far off.

  “I have to go. Don’t tell them I called. You promised.”

  My mind is moving fast because I don’t want her to hang up. The line crackles, still live.

  “Maybe I can get you some money. I can make something up, a reason I need it. Like a school trip or something.”

  “That’s good. That’s smart. When?”

  “A few days maybe. Give me your address, and I’ll send something to you.” I grip the countertop, waiting to see if she’ll tell me where she is.

  “No, no. I’ll call you first. To make sure you were able to get it. I’ll call next Friday, after you get home from school. Make sure you answer. And don’t tell anyone.”

  I unnecessarily scribble Friday on the notepad, as if it’s remotely possible I’ll forget.

  “I’ll make sure,” I say.

  “Okay. Bye, Lemon.”

  She seems as if she’s going to say something more, but the line clicks, and I know she’s disconnected.

  IN BED, I’M PREOCCUPIED by too many thoughts to sleep. When Mom and Dad got home from the hardware store, I didn’t tell them about Meg. I changed my mind ten times, but I couldn’t get the story out, since I knew Dad’s reaction would mess it all up. I wouldn’t be able to convince him that yelling won’t make Meg jump on the first flight home. So I kept it to myself.

  Along with the guilt, I’m still reeling from everything Meg said and how wrong I’ve been about her. I always thought she wanted to be Perfect Meg Lavender, but apparently she’s been pretending for years, like she never wanted to be an amazing student or get awards for her grades and sports. It makes me question everything about her, and when I think about it, I can’t really recall ever seeing her smile. Maybe for pictures, but even then, she presented a tight mouth for the camera. And she was always silent in the morning, at least the few times I saw her, since she always left early for swim practice or to study in the library before homeroom. At home, she stayed in her room, and Dad always told me to be quiet because Meg had the SATs coming up, or a big AP exam. Maybe her life did feel like a prison, always doing the right thing, getting the next A, the next award. Faced with four more years of it, she ran, and she keeps on running, just to avoid being the person she thinks she has to be.

  With sleep being futile, I sit up and roll my shoulders. I can’t stop wondering who my sister is. It’s that curiosity that makes me swing my feet out of bed and quietly pad to her room. After closing the door, I fumble in the dark until my fingers find her desk lamp. The soft pink light illuminates the stitching of her bedspread, the dustless surfaces of her furniture. Brass medals and trophies glint from the bookshelf, looking lonely.

  Her dresser drawers slide easily against their grooves. I’m surprised to see most of Meg’s clothes folded in tight squares. All one color, plain style, similar to what I wear every day, except more athletic. I open another drawer, and it’s more of the same. I move to her closet next. Although it’s almost empty, leftover sweaters and dresses hang on matching wood hangers, facing the same direction, arranged by color. The top shelf holds clear shoeboxes, each expertly labeled in my mother’s handwriting.

  I sit on the bed, pivoting my attention to the desk, the flower artwork, the clock. Just like my own bedroom, there’s no personality, no photographs or ticket stubs or posters. No proof that there was ever life here.

  Trapped is the word Meg used, and I start to see the faint outline of bars that kept her life precise and orderly, just like her drawers and closet. The cage wasn’t only here—it stretched beyond this room, following her to school. She never spoke up, never fought with Mom and Dad. When they asked her to do something, she did it. She nodded when Dad said her SAT scores needed to be higher. She agreed when Mom said she needed a trim. She never stepped beyond the lines until she scratched a crack in the wall and slipped right through it.

  I run my thumb over her name etched into a trophy. My childhood was spent watching Meg fold herself into an origami girl. I was in awe of her, but over time, it turned to ambivalence. Meg won another award, broke another swim record. Everyone knew she would do something great in life. It was expected. Nobody required anything of me because Meg did it all. And all the while, she must’ve envied my freedom, the way no one bothered me about my B and C grades or declining to join any school activities or sports.

  How is it that two people as different as Meg and me both turned into people we don’t want to be? Different circumstances, but same result. Where did each of us go wrong?

  I remember when it wasn’t like this—a summer when I was about seven. We’d just moved to Westmoore and Mom had a new washing machine delivered. Dad wanted us out of the way, so we dragged the oversized cardboard box onto the lawn, opened the flaps on both ends, and climbed into the middle. The grass prickled my legs as Meg and I sat, spine against spine, enthralled with our blank canvas. While the August sun warmed our heads, we shook our silver markers until they clickety-clacked, then wrote our names in bubble letters and made up funny poems, traced our hands and feet.
She made a list of all the boys she liked, and I connected points to make the constellations I’d learned about that year.

  By the time the sky was dotted with light from the streetlamps, we’d covered the entire inside of that box. I had mosquito bites across my arms and legs, but I remember thinking it was worth it because Meg and I had created something beautiful. An overnight thunderstorm ruined our work, and as I lifted a water-logged corner, Meg just shrugged, but I felt we’d lost something special.

  That summer, Meg and I had opinions and thoughts and favorite things; we wrote them down, not caring who saw. Over time, though, all those dreams slipped away. And now we’re both pressing our faces against the cage we created around ourselves. I understand why Meg ran away and how addicting it can be to live in a state of perpetual forward motion, where the euphoria lasts because you don’t have to ever stop to look back. Maybe I even believe she made a good decision by abandoning school and breaking free of her shackles.

  For the first time, I find some compassion for my sister. I might be running in place, but it’s still an escape from thinking about Chelsea and Madeline, Isabel and Graham. When my feet hit the pavement, nothing exists except burning muscles and a moving horizon. Running also means that the root of the problem remains alive, always in the background, following even as I try to dodge it.

  twenty-seven

  ON MY FIRST DAY BACK at school since the fighting suspension, Shannon stands nervously at my locker. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other while flicking her bangs out of her eyes.

  Before I get a chance to shed my jacket, she says, “Hey, Lemon. Um, I’m supposed to tell you, but maybe you already know, that it wasn’t Isabel.”

  I drop my bag to the floor and grab my lock. Shannon won’t look me in the eye.

  “It wasn’t Isabel . . . what?”

  “Um. That . . . you know. Told everyone.”

  I’m tired, annoyed that Isabel has sent her new sidekick with some cryptic message. Someone knocks into me as they walk by, and my mood grows darker. Shannon steps closer to the wall of lockers for protection.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I say, speaking slow, as if she can’t keep up. “Isabel didn’t tell everyone what?”

  She clutches her cross necklace. “You don’t know, do you?”

  “Shannon. Speak in full sentences. Please. What don’t I know?”

  “Shit,” she says. “Shit, shit.” She looks around to see if anyone is staring at us. They are. Her shoulders curl in.

  I grab her sleeve. “Tell me. Now.”

  She sighs, and those damn bangs fluff up. “It was on Lady Westmoore last night. About your sister . . . that she dropped out of Princeton.”

  I slap my eyes onto my lock, hyper-focusing on the numbers around the dial. There’s a rush in my ears before a whoop of laughter distracts me for a moment. I feel as if I’m spinning suddenly; I almost grab Shannon for balance.

  “Nobody knows about that,” I argue, because it has to be a mistake.

  Her words gush forth, eager to tell me the gossip so she can get away from me. “It was all over the vlog about Meg—that’s her name, right? Like hundreds of comments, and that was just last night. I guess someone told Madeline. But it wasn’t Isabel.”

  My mouth gapes while the news settles. I lift my eyes to take a cursory glance around as a ringing starts in my head. They know, they know, they know. People are staring. And talking. Not just about me. Talking about my family.

  “Isabel sent you?” I croak.

  Shannon nods. “She didn’t tell anyone. That was what she wanted you to know.”

  My mouth is completely dry as I swallow, hard. “Where is she?”

  “She’s pretty upset with you still. I—she—I’m just the messenger.” Shannon steps back, as if I’m emitting an infectious poison. “Sorry,” she says before walking away fast.

  I brace a hand against my locker, trying to work the combination again. The numbers dance as I rotate the disc and try to appear like I’m not in an emotional freefall, but there are too many eyes on my back, too many whispers. The lock won’t budge, even though I tug it several times. I kick the door, which does nothing but elicit more stares, an “Oh my god” from somewhere behind me.

  I peek through my hair and am met with a wall of people, lurking, curious about what I’ll do. If I’ll cry or freak out. I have to go somewhere, anywhere, to get away from them. I grab my bag off the ground and swing around, plowing right into someone coming from the opposite direction.

  When I pull away, Graham’s face is inches from mine. The devil must be having a laugh, because the first person I encounter is the most likely suspect as Madeline’s tipster. I angle around him, but he blocks me.

  “Move!” My hiss turns into begging. “Please, Graham. Please move.”

  “I heard what happened. Are you okay?”

  “Don’t talk to me,” I reply. “I just want to go.” I sidestep him, but he gently wraps his fingers around my elbow.

  “I know we aren’t . . . and maybe you don’t even . . . I just wanted to say that I can drive you home if you want to get out of here.”

  I wrench myself free of his feathery grip. “Why would I want to be anywhere near you? I told you about my sister in confidence. I bet you were waiting for the right time to use it against me.”

  He shakes his head, and his voice drops low when he says, “I swear I didn’t say anything. I never told anyone. Not a word.”

  “You were the only one who knew besides Isabel, and she would never betray me like this, no matter what.”

  I tuck my chin into my shoulder because I can’t hold the tears back any longer. They slide down my face. I don’t want Graham looking at me, but he ducks his head, peering into my avoiding eyes. I twist to get around him, but he says, “I swear to you, Lemon. On everything. I didn’t tell anyone. Even after what happened with us, I still wouldn’t have said anything. I wouldn’t hurt you like that.”

  He sweeps away a strand of hair that’s stuck to my wet cheek. It’s so gentle and completely surprising; I feel my resolve crack just a little, letting in some light. Maybe he wouldn’t do this to me. My mind sifts through what I know about him, but it’s too much everything. It has to wait, because I need to get in front of whatever is happening with the video. What matters right now is understanding the damage.

  I clear my throat, gaining control of myself. “Can I borrow your phone?”

  He looked confused, but retrieves it from his pocket. He keys in the passcode and hands it to me.

  “I’ll give it back,” I promise. “Thank you . . . I . . . ”

  There’s so much to say, but I don’t know how, and this isn’t the time. I’m struggling for more than thank you when Rob Frost whips an arm between us, blocking Graham.

  “Attack! Attack!” he yells before blowing a whistle in three short, ear-splitting bursts.

  Graham tries to push him aside but can’t get by. He sends me a desperate glance, but I don’t stay to see what happens. I elbow my way through the crowd that’s stopped to get a piece of the latest drama, and dart around the corner, into the bathroom. An empty stall is the privacy I need.

  As I slide the lock into place, I breathe in and out, but it does little to squelch the vomit creeping up my throat. My hands tremble as I fumble with Graham’s phone, opening an app to get to Lady Westmoore. Stale antiseptic burns through my nose as it loads, but I soak it in, using it like a smelling salt to snap me into focus.

  When the video appears, the headline reads, “Where in the World is Meg Lavender?” The frame is frozen on a picture of me, captured in an unflattering moment during the lemon incident. Meg’s senior portrait is adjacent. Those images, together, are the clickbait.

  I play the video, and what comes next is a mixture of truth and lies. Yes, it says Meg disappeared, but the fabricated details include it being my fault she’s gone. Madeline describes me as a “Westmoore student who is well-known for her violent past” and
backs it up with every twisted incident I’ve supposedly been involved in, including when I almost attacked Chelsea. The post says no one has heard from Meg, but a “source” reports she dropped out of Princeton and is living in Europe, happy to be away from her “schizophrenic” family.

  Along with the sickness of everyone knowing about Meg and thinking it’s my fault is the question: did Meg really say those things? I shake my head, scattering the demented inquiry, but the next one rushes in swiftly. Who is this source, and how do they even know her? Is there even a source? Was it really Graham who told, and Madeline made up the rest of the details? Either way, it’s too easy to believe—even I’m struggling to say some of it isn’t true, so the general public will definitely think it’s accurate.

  They don’t know the circumstances, though. They don’t know how my father spends hours online trying to track her down, or how my mother is falling apart. Maybe we are messed up, but Meg left mostly because of herself. Because she didn’t have the courage to stand up for what she wanted.

  I know I shouldn’t look, but I go to the comments. They are scorching, brimming with cheers for Meg. The consensus is that she’s lucky she escaped us, as if the Lavender family is a satanic cult trying to jail her against her will. Some of the comments say that we drove her away and that I, in particular, am unpredictable and dangerous. Some have made claims of child abuse, as if this is the only logical reason she’d drop out of college and not speak to us. They make generalizations and speculations, which others take as truth and build upon. The inaccuracies are so wild and intricate, branching into crazy allegations, that I begin to lose the point of origin.

  Not one comment says there might be more to the story or that some of it is fake. Because Madeline put it out there, everyone feels they have a personal obligation to not only believe it, but also throw their opinion on the pile. And for what reason? Nothing we do impacts their lives—it’s merely entertainment, a bloody gladiator battle. It’s exactly how Dad said it would be when I suggested we tell Aunt Vee. Ten thousand versions of the truth unleashed, ready for the vultures.