Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine

by Elle Pallmore

  I close the video and sit on the toilet lid, boiling in the coat I never got a chance to stuff in my locker. I can’t make it through the day like this. I also can’t leave, since Dad took my phone and car away, and if I use Graham’s phone to ask Mom to pick me up, I’ll have to give her a reason why. Honestly, it doesn’t matter anyway—I’m already cutting homeroom, and once Hawkins gets hold of me, he’ll call Dad. The whole situation is a ticking time bomb.

  I rip a blank sheet of paper from my notebook and write “Out of Order” in large block letters, then stick it to the door with some gum. The bathroom fills up after homeroom, then first period. I listen to the comings and goings, the chatter of my name over and over. I tuck my feet up and put my head to my knees, just trying to process what’s happening.

  By the end of second period, my body is cramped and I’m calm enough for rational thoughts.

  First and foremost, I can’t stay in the bathroom all day. It’s gross, and it smells. Second, I can’t go to class since I’ve skipped all of them so far; even the nurse will send me to Hawkins once she checks me in the system. Third, Graham’s phone locked up and I don’t know the passcode, so calling Mom isn’t an option anymore. I finally decide ditching is my only solution. I can sneak out of school, hang out somewhere until the day is over, then find Graham to return his phone and meet Mom at pickup. Hawkins won’t know I was ever at school.

  As I wait for the bathroom to empty, I clean my face as best I can with toilet paper. The minutes pass, traffic slows. The last girls run out as the warning bell for third period blares. I push Graham’s phone into my back pocket and lift my bag off the door hook. I unbolt the stall door—and immediately stutter to a stop. Chelsea and Madeline have taken up position in front of two smudged mirrors.

  twenty-eight

  I MEET CHELSEA’S REFLECTION first, since Madeline is focused on herself.

  “We heard you were in here,” she says. “Hiding.” Despite wearing her field-hockey uniform, complete with star stickers around her eyes and a white bow adorning her glitter-speckled braid, she looks menacing. It might also be because she’s blasting me with a death stare.

  My brain fires warnings even though my body keeps moving toward the sinks. I turn on the tap and wash my hands, ignoring them outwardly as my heart pumps so hard I can feel it in my fingertips.

  Madeline applies a layer of mascara to her lashes. “Sorry about your sister, Lemon. I hope no one thinks you had anything to do with it.” She looks at me, lazy, like a lioness that’s about finished eating her kill. She throws the mascara tube in her purse and turns to Chelsea. “I’m going to class. Find me later . . . when you’re done.”

  She adjusts the M pendant on her gold necklace and flicks her eyes over me, as if I’m nothing more than lint on her cashmere sweater, and walks out.

  As much as Chelsea’s threats and Neanderthal bullying really poke my rage, it’s Madeline’s nonchalance that irritates me now, because she puts so much effort into tearing me down yet acts as if she couldn’t care less about who I am or what I do. She does care, though . . . she must, or why would she bother?

  The paper-towel dispenser on my side of the sink is empty, and as I cross to the other one, Chelsea smiles.

  “I’m flattered that you’ve been avoiding me all day. I had to come find you.” The final third-period bell drones, but she doesn’t budge from her perch against the sink. I pass her, hoping I can leave, but she grabs my arm and holds it. “We’re not done yet.”

  “I have to get to class,” I lie. I tug my arm, but she doesn’t let go. “Look, I haven't done anything to you, alright? Let me go.”

  “You haven't done anything to me? Are you fucking serious?” Her nose hovers above mine, and I wonder if she’s badass enough to head-butt me.

  I back away, but she still has me in her grip, so we dance together in a morbid tango.

  “I didn’t try to steal him,” I say. “I didn’t even know you were going to the Halloween dance with him.”

  I shudder at the pleading in my voice. I hate acting like one of those pathetic goons in the mob movies Dad likes to watch. They always try to wiggle out of the situation by explaining, as if it’ll help. Then bam! Brains splattered everywhere. Chelsea is going to do what she wants, no matter what I say.

  “All you had to do was back off,” she says, saccharine sweet. “But you’re always there. Showing up at the same party. Waiting for him in the parking lot. Interrupting.”

  “I didn’t do anything wrong,” I repeat.

  “Your whole existence is wrong,” she snaps. “Stay away from Graham. I mean it.”

  She digs her bruising fingernails into my skin. I can feel her breath on my face and see my blurred reflection in the shiny stars around her eyes. I can’t turn into Evil Lemon, since I’ll only end up being a bully like Chelsea—the last thing I want. Besides, I’ll never win in a fight against her; I can’t outrun her either, but even if I somehow do and the physical threat recedes, Madeline will attack me on Lady Westmoore. I can’t win in any scenario. The only thing I can do is stand my ground and try not to go down during the first punch. It’s the most solid plan I’m going to find, even if it’s the most asinine plan too.

  The fluorescent light overhead sputters in frenetic pulses. My arm is really beginning to hurt.

  “You’re going to say it,” she commands. “Say you’ll stay away from him.”

  I stare directly into her pupils. After everything she’s done to me, it would be so easy to give her what she wants. I already avoid Graham—it isn’t asking for more than I’m already doing, and yet I hesitate. I think of this morning and how Graham came to find me. Maybe it’s proof that there’s still something—a glimmer that he doesn't hate me after all. It’s not much, but I’m just not willing to give up, not by force. Today it’ll be him. Tomorrow it’ll be something else. If I say yes, she’ll expect me to bow to her every whim.

  I shock myself when I say, “I can’t, Chelsea. I can’t say I’ll never see him or talk to him. And if you really cared about him, and he cared about you, there’d be no reason for you to push me aside.”

  At my refusal, her eye twitches. “You’re not leaving this bathroom until you say you’ll stay away from him. Believe me, I can be very persuasive.”

  I wonder how many times Meg bent to an ultimatum. All those silent agreements she made. The trophies and medals for doing what she was told and never arguing. That isn’t a solution. It just makes everything worse. Fighting doesn't seem to work either. Tried that, and failed. Somewhere in between Evil Lemon and Perfect Meg is a picture of a person I think I want to be. Not a bully, but not a pushover either.

  With each passing second, my voice struggles to wake up, to climb up my ribs like rungs on a ladder and emerge from the depths. I’m so afraid to get pummeled, but I think I’m more afraid of turning into my sister or letting Evil Lemon take over.

  “No. I won’t say it. Me staying away from Graham won’t change anything. If he wants you, I shouldn’t matter.”

  She wrenches my arm. Her mouth opens, but I cut her off.

  “Stop,” I say. “Just stop it.”

  Chelsea smirks. “Are you going to try hitting me again? Go ahead . . . I want you to.”

  I scrape in all my breath and shout louder. “STOP!”

  I’m startled by the sound of my voice, but once the word bursts out, I can’t silence it. The pressure from smashing it down all these months is so great that it explodes once I let it fly. I lean forward, getting in Chelsea’s face as I scream that one word at the top of my lungs, looping it over and over like an alarm.

  “Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop!”

  Chelsea drops my arm like it’s scalding hot. An anxious crease cuts between her brows. I’m breaking every rule on personal-space etiquette without actually touching her.

  “Stop, stop, stop, STOP!”

  I lunge another step, forcing her to retreat. She shoves me, sending me into a stumble against the edge of the sink. I gra
b it, plant my feet, and roar.

  “STOP, STOP!”

  I bombard her with the sound, even as she shoulders me aside and hustles out of the bathroom. Except, I’m right behind her, eyes laser-focused on her braid.

  “STOP, STOP, STOP!”

  “You’re crazy!” she shouts. “Completely fifty-one fifty!”

  My voice echoes down the empty hallway, adding to its power. “STOP, STOP!”

  I follow her until she takes off running, eventually rounding the corner and disappearing. Only then do I go silent.

  Exhausted, I fall against a locker. My throat is hoarse, and I’m shaking all over. Faces begin to plaster themselves against classroom windows. A few doors open. Heads pop out and stare, but I don’t run away. All I care about is that I made Chelsea stop. With one word, I changed everything, even if it’s just for a little while.

  A flicker of freedom rolls over me, and I nearly cry at how good it feels.

  twenty-nine

  THE EUPHORIA DOESN’T last long.

  I barely take two steps before three teachers corner me, then watch as Westmoore’s security officer hauls me down to the Peer Counseling office. A dude with an actual gun seems excessive, but judging by the wary looks on their faces, I’m quite the unpredictable vigilante.

  By the time I sit in front of Mr. Dean and his graying ponytail, he’s already called my father. He follows up that terrifying bit of news with questions about my “issues.” I shake my head and refuse to say anything, because where would I even start? Outwardly, I’m shell-shocked by what’s happened, but inside, I feel like I’m glued to a helicopter blade. Graham’s kind face as he saw me cry, everything I said to Chelsea, and my father’s inevitable reaction—it’s all got me whipping in circles.

  When Dad shows up, Mr. Dean requests that I sit outside his office. I wait, wishing I could hear their conversation, if only to confirm it’s as bad as I think it is. After ten torturous minutes, Mr. Dean and Dad emerge.

  “We’ll see you and Mrs. Lavender at nine o’clock tomorrow morning, along with Lemon.”

  My head bolts up. Mr. Dean wants to meet with us? Mom too? My attention snaps from him to Dad, who doesn’t acknowledge me. Instead, he walks out of the office.

  I look at Mr. Dean, confused. “Am I . . .?”

  “You’re excused to go home, Lemon.” He ushers me toward the door. “We’ll discuss what happens next in more detail tomorrow.”

  Dad has a good lead, but I manage to catch up with him when he gets to the visitor lot. Inside the car, his hands curl around the steering wheel in a noiseless, lethal calm. He doesn’t tell me what Mr. Dean said, and I don’t dare ask. When we get home, I go straight to my room without being told.

  “What’s wrong?” Mom wonders as I pass the kitchen, not stopping. “I wasn’t supposed to pick you up until later.”

  “Sarah,” Dad says. “Let her go.”

  I lean against my bedroom door and attempt to listen to their muffled conversation downstairs. I can’t make out any words, but when Dad raises his voice and they start arguing, I turn on a music app to drown them out. Later, Mom’s footsteps trudge by my door to her own room, and the rest of the night is eerily silent, just like when we first found out about Meg.

  The television groans low as the hours stretch toward midnight. In my head, I’m running. I imagine my feet hitting the road while light shifts across my ceiling, changing from patterns of dark blue to sweeping grays and blacks, then to bitter yellow as the sun yanks itself up again, forcing me to conclude that there truly is no rest for the wicked.

  AT THE APPOINTED TIME, Mom, Dad, and I meet with Mr. Dean. Instead of squeezing all of us into his office, he guides us to a conference room with a long table and a dozen chairs set around it. The walls are ringed with portraits of every principal since Westmoore opened in the seventies. Too many sets of accusing eyes watch as I take a seat to the left of Mr. Dean, who settles at the table head, while my parents sit on his right. I tried to dress nice, to show Mr. Dean I’m not a delinquent, but my tights itch and I can’t stop fidgeting. One scathing look from Dad is enough to shackle my limbs down.

  After offers of coffee and water, which we decline, Mr. Dean clears his throat and gets right to the point.

  “Well, we all know why we’re here, I think, but it’s always prudent to go over the facts.” He straightens his folders, which no doubt contain sordid details about Evil Lemon. “Yesterday, Lemon had an altercation with another female student in the ladies bathroom. The same female student who was present during her previous suspension. While these incidents are cause for concern, they don’t typically warrant this type of meeting. However, we are particularly worried about Lemon since she’s been having some trouble this year.”

  I catch Dad’s eye for a moment, but he looks away. Mr. Dean is about to go on when Hawkins opens the door, closes it, and sits at the other end of the table. He nods to my parents and says, “I’m just an observer. Mr. Dean, please continue.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hawkins.”

  I sink in my chair, aggravated at the fake pleasantries.

  Mr. Dean clears his throat. “So, to sum up, we’re concerned about Lemon. We’re here today to get to the bottom of why she isn’t succeeding this year and to develop a solution for how we can help.”

  Mom spins her wedding ring around her finger. She twists too hard, and it shoots off her finger, clattering across the table. Swiftly, she scoops it up. “Sorry,” she whispers, and her hands disappear from view.

  Mr. Dean opens the first folder. I lean over and see my transcripts. He turns to my parents and continues to talk about me like I’m not sitting inches from him.

  “Lemon is passing all of her classes, and her teachers say she isn’t a disturbance, but it’s outside the classroom that appears to be the issue.”

  My stomach fills with rocks. I wish I could stop time and tear open those folders to see what they contain. I sense that Mr. Dean is building a case, point by point, and there’s nothing I can do but sit, helpless, while he tosses words like lit matches in my direction, waiting to see which one will catch and send me up in flames.

  Dad’s eyes, like mine, sweep the folders, impatient. “We’re already aware of these issues.”

  Silently, I thank Dad for pushing things along.

  Mr. Dean continues. “I think we should discuss some of the additional accusations that go beyond Lemon’s suspension and yesterday’s incident.”

  “Additional accusations?” Dad replies, confused. “What accusations?”

  Overhead, the panel of lights hums while Mr. Dean chews on a response. “Perhaps ‘accusation’ is a strong word,” he eventually admits. “Throughout the day, we hear all sorts of . . . chatter . . . and most of the time we don’t intervene since it’s merely gossip—kids being kids. But I believe that the situation Lemon found herself in yesterday was a result of other contributing factors, and they lead to why we’re here.”

  Dad closes his eyes for a moment. “Fine,” he says. “Proceed.”

  Another folder opens. I bite around my thumb nail, flaying the tender skin.

  “So we have a few things that we’ll go over, but in summary, they include reports about ongoing harassment involving Graham Stuart, the situation with Lemon’s locker vandalism, the fighting suspension just last week, and now yesterday’s . . . skirmish.”

  A horrific beat of stillness falls like a hammer. Mr. Dean just ripped out the stitches with no warning, and now everything is melting. The walls, the floor, Dad’s face, as if the universe is deflating, molecule by molecule. It all comes raining down as voices erupt around the table at the same time.

  “Who is Graham Stuart?” Dad snaps.

  Mom says, “What locker vandalism?”

  “Don’t forget the lateness issue,” Hawkins announces, launching out of his observer status.

  In the chaos, four sets of eyes slingshot over to me. I want to slide under the table and die there. Instead, I knead my hand against my thigh mus
cle.

  Mr. Dean pumps his arms like he’s trying to push down the air. “Let’s all calm down.”

  “Back up,” my father interjects, poking the table. “I want to discuss every detail of the incidents you’re talking about.”

  Mr. Dean sighs, like this meeting is not going how he wants. “Of course. As I said, that’s why we’re here.” He runs his finger down a page in the folder. “Graham Stuart is a junior at Westmoore, joining us just this year. There have been quite a few rumors about Lemon and Mr. Stuart’s relationship . . . rumors that indicate Lemon shoved him while he was on your property, then there was an altercation at a New Year’s Eve party, as well as various alleged events on school grounds that threatened his safety.”

  I grip the edge of the table as a vein in my father’s forehead pulses. “I don’t see how any of that is possible, since Lemon isn’t allowed to . . . date.” He chokes on the word.

  Mr. Dean shuffles his folders, placing a new one on top. “Mr. Lavender, we have to take all accusations—reports—seriously, especially when they involve a student’s well-being. We have a duty to protect them.”

  What about protecting me? I think.

  Mr. Dean spins his chair to look at me. “Would you like to comment, Lemon? I always like to include the student in these discussions. Another perspective can be helpful.”

  A mixture of panic and adrenaline electrifies my skin. “Which part?” I mumble.

  “Pick something,” Dad commands.

  There are so many tangles to unravel; I struggle to find exactly where to start. I could tell them about falling for Graham, who liked me back, but then Chelsea and the dance happened. Halloween at the Gas & Sip happened. I organize the information and shuffle it around, trying to find an angle that doesn’t sound like the plot to a soap opera. All four of them stare, judging, cutting my thoughts to shreds. They flutter around me while I try to catch them.