“It’s all lies,” I say. “Everything started because she was angry about Graham and me, because he—” I suck in a breath. “And she started harassing me, but then—”
“Who is she?” Dad demands.
I want to blurt out the whole story, but I stop, defeated. I know how pathetic it’s going to sound to their ears. Just a girl with a crush. Evil Lemon, not getting her way.
“It doesn't matter,” I mutter. “It’s not true. I never did anything to him. Everyone just thinks I did.”
My father leans on his elbows; his suit jacket strains along the seams. “What does this Stuart kid say? I assume you talked to him.”
Hawkins chooses to answer this question. “We did, just yesterday. He denied Lemon was involved in any type of assault on him, on school grounds or off. He said it was another female student making up stories. A jealousy situation.”
My mind stumbles over that, even as I try to keep up with the conversation. Graham defended me.
“What about the locker issue?” Dad grunts.
Mr. Dean opens another folder. “Last month, on Valentine’s Day, Lemon’s locker was vandalized with . . . ” He coughs. “Lemons.”
It sounds ridiculous when he says it out loud. I don’t dare look up to see my entire humiliation spread out for them.
Hawkins chimes in again. “I tried to talk to Lemon about it, but she was reluctant. In fact, she denied it ever happened. However, we know that it did and that it may have been retaliation. For what, we aren’t sure.”
For a few seconds, Mom and Dad seem stunned. The clock hanging behind me ticks with a vicious chuckle. I don’t offer anything, and Mr. Dean moves on.
“Lastly, there is the recent fighting suspension and the incident from yesterday, for which there has been no punishment thus far.”
I hold my breath against the broken, ragged gasps pumping from my chapped lips. Mr. Dean is systematically tearing me down, one charge at a time, but when he shuffles another folder on top of his stack, I realize he isn’t done yet.
“As I said earlier, all of these contributing factors lead to why we’re here. With the rumors, combined with two altercations, some of our students have confided that they fear Lemon might pose a risk.”
“That’s not true,” I say. “I never said anything like that, and I wouldn’t ever hurt anyone.”
“Lemon,” Dad warns.
“She isn’t a violent girl,” my mother says. Her eyes search the table, pleading. “I don’t understand any of this.”
Hawkins rubs his chin. “I think Mr. Dean is trying to emphasize that we have to take these types of allegations very seriously. If we ignore it and something happens, we’ll all be sorry we didn’t talk about it first.”
“But I’m not going to do anything,” I insist.
Dad takes off his glasses and glides a hand down his face. The pouches under his eyes droop and spring back into place. “If these accusations are just rumors, and if this—Graham—says she didn’t do anything, then there’s no basis for you to assume she has cause to hurt anyone. She’s already been punished for the fight, and from what you’ve said, it sounds like yesterday’s problem didn’t cause anyone physical harm.” He’s presented his case. Pounded the gavel. “So I don’t think there’s anything else to discuss.”
Hawkins leans forward. “To our original point, Lemon has clearly been having a tough year. It’s not just these accusations, it’s all of the issues with her peers on top of the stress at home.” When Dad doesn’t respond, Hawkins adds, “With Meg missing.”
At that, the air sucks right out of the room. I close my eyes; I don’t want to open them again, but I do. Some images are so bad, they’re scorched into your memory. I know I’ll never forget my mother’s fingers knotted so tight that they’re bone white, or the brutal pain shadowing my father’s face. He bites down on it, causing his jaw muscle to audibly crack.
“She isn’t missing,” Dad says, dead calm. “We’re allowing her to take a furlough from her first year of college in order to travel. Which has nothing to do with this school and isn’t up for comment.”
It isn’t exactly the truth, but close enough. Still, I’m mortified for all of us, for Hawkins bringing it up. I dig my fingernails into my tights, scrunching the fabric hard.
“We aren’t here to judge you,” Mr. Dean assures. “You know how we feel about Meg. She was a talented and dedicated student during her career at Westmoore. We only bring it up within the context of how it affects Lemon and the other students at large.”
“It doesn't affect the other students,” Dad protests. “It’s a private family matter.”
Mr. Dean flashes a conciliatory smile. “Of course, and we understand that. But, unfortunately, it has become public.” He flicks the cover of his final folder, and I catch an eyeful of the papers it contains. He hands a clipped stack to my father, and even upside down, I see a screenshot of Madeline’s face. I freeze, working to place the exact video, but already knowing. I’ve seen it enough—hated it enough—to know my father is now holding screenshots of Lady Westmoore. Specifically, the post about Meg.
As Dad’s fingers curl around the papers, Mom leans over, interested. “Where In the World is Meg Lavender?” screams across the page. Her eyes widen, and she snaps back into her seat, face blank and zombified.
“These are screenshots we printed from a video channel started by one of our students,” Mr. Dean explains. “I think you’ll find these detail much of what we’ve talked about. As you can see from the comments, there is a considerable amount of fear surrounding Lemon’s stability.”
Heat burns its way up my back to my neck while my stomach lurches in aggressive protest. This can’t be happening. Not the video. Not Dad reading a transcript of the video. Because now he’s going to know everything I’ve been hiding. This is the very edge I’ve been trying to avoid, but there’s no room to run anymore, and I’m sailing over the precipice, watching the hard ground come up to greet me.
Dad inhales a shaky breath. While he reads, black spots seep into my vision.
Oblivious, Mr. Dean taps his fingers, not knowing when to shut up. “There is no denying she is a topic of conversation amongst the student body, which might be the root of . . . retaliations, like the vandalism of her locker.”
After Mr. Dean plays good cop, Hawkins jumps in as bad cop. “I’ve talked at length with Principal Shaw, and we want to make sure we don’t overlook a potentially serious problem. Lemon did start a fight, for which she was suspended, and then the same student felt very threatened in yesterday’s altercation, which was non-physical, but nonetheless, frightening to her. Obviously, there’s stress at home, which may be a trigger for all of this.”
Dad places the pages down gently. Too gently. He clears his throat and stares at me, stares and stares, until Mr. Dean coughs uncomfortably. Even then, Dad doesn’t break the tense standoff between us. His gaze tells me everything I need to know as Hawkins’ words sink in. Stress at home may be a trigger for all of this. I know the only thing Dad hears is blame. Finally, he twists his head back to Mr. Dean and retorts, “Why can’t you shut down this video channel?”
“Freedom of speech for one, but also because we have no domain over student social media accounts. The Internet is like the Wild West, Mr. Lavender, and there isn’t much we can do to police it. What we can do is address issues that impact students when they’re here, in our care. Which is what we’re trying to do today.”
I take my opportunity to jump in since the worst has happened. I can’t save myself anymore, but I can bring all of this to a head and hopefully get the hell out of here.
“Can I ask a question?”
Mr. Dean nods as Dad says, “No.”
I glance at Mom, who seems to shrivel smaller before my eyes. All these words—altercation, assault, allegation—are like battle cries. I doubt she’s even listening anymore.
Despite Dad telling me not to, I choose my words carefully. “I said I’m not going to hurt
anyone. And Graham said I never did anything to him. I admit . . . I’ve made some bad decisions, but I’m not violent.” I swallow, gathering courage. “Yesterday, I was defending myself against a girl who has been bullying me for months. I defended myself with words instead of fighting.” I direct that part at Hawkins. “I already served my suspension for the fight, and I demonstrated yesterday that I learned my lesson. So I don’t understand what this meeting is supposed to accomplish.”
Mr. Dean’s eyes circle to Hawkins. Neither answers immediately.
Hawkins stands and moves to the seat next to my mother. She doesn’t acknowledge him; her attention is focused solely on her hands.
“Mr. and Mrs. Lavender, let me put it plainly. We want to make sure we don’t fail to see a problem that could’ve been avoided. Because of all the reasons we’ve already mentioned, we’d like to suggest you move Lemon to homeschooling, just for the remainder of the year, for her own benefit. We think this will alleviate her anxiety and allow some of the hoopla to die down. Next year, we can reassess, see where she’s at emotionally.”
My spine juts straight, and I lean forward in my chair. What?
“Excuse me?” my father bellows. He pulls on his tie, loosening the knot.
“We’ve developed a plan of sorts, for you to look over.” Hawkins passes a binder to my father, who pushes his glasses back on. “A schedule for the rest of March until June, when school lets out. Lemon would work with a teacher who would come to your home once or more a week and provide her with assignments, collect the work, and guide her. It’s very hands-on, very personalized, and excludes all the stressors of being in a classroom.”
Suddenly, Mom lifts her head. “You want her to leave school? She’d be home all day?”
Mr. Dean hedges. “Not leave school altogether, just receive her education in an alternate setting.”
Dad focuses on the binder, flipping pages, but I know he’s circling the wagons in his mind. His shoulders come up again, and I see it happen—his shift into combat mode. No one is going to tell him he failed. Part of me expects him to turn the entire table over, but he smooths down his tie instead and, with a quick flip, closes the binder lid. He’ll never allow me the privilege of circumventing the problem, not after everything I’ve put him through at this meeting. If he has to endure it, then I have to endure it too. The thought of never returning to Westmoore again is so tempting, though, like falling into a soft bed when you’re so, so tired, that I nearly snatch the binder from him and hold it to my heart. But it’ll never happen. We’re Lavenders—we carry on in the face of disaster. And this is definitely a disaster.
Dad stands and places a reassuring hand on my mother’s shoulder. “Mr. Hawkins, Mr. Dean, thank you for your time, but we’re done here. Lemon will return to school as normal, beginning tomorrow. You can give her detention as punishment for yesterday.”
“Mr. Lavender, I think—”
Dad speaks over Mr. Dean. “We will discuss these incidents with Lemon and ensure she is adequately disciplined, but she will not be homeschooled.” To me, he barks, “Let’s go.”
As the three of us gather our coats and walk out, I can’t help but feel somewhat validated. Dad didn’t sell me out, and yet, once we’re outside, his silent treatment is colder than the damp March wind. I’m reminded all over again that this isn’t over. It’s only the beginning.
thirty
AT HOME, MOM DROPS her purse on the foyer floor, goes to her bedroom, and closes the door. I don’t know if it’s because she’s upset over Meg’s name being brought up or because she thinks my father dismissed homeschooling too quickly.
I meander in the kitchen, expecting Dad to blow up at me once Mom is safely tucked away, but he follows her to their room. In my coat still, I puncture my fingernail into the skin of a pear, creating two eyes and a frowning mouth, though I really have no appetite to eat it.
The faucet drips three times, and the refrigerator drops ice cubes into the basin while I wait. I track Dad’s movements by listening to the creaks overhead, pacing one way and then the other. A half hour later, he appears in his ragged work clothes, strides past me, and slams out of the house. A moment later, I hear the garage door grind open.
I leave the sad pear on the counter and follow him outside, where he’s wrenching open the box to the pressure washer. As he goes to war with the flaps, the Best Dad work gloves stuffed into his back pocket bounce.
I don’t say anything, just hover in the doorway, feeling sick. He notices me when grabbing a utility knife from the drawer of his tool chest. As he slices the box lid apart with a quick jerk, he says, “We are not talking right now. Go inside.”
“I want to explain.”
I can’t see his face since he’s leaning over, gathering the machine out of the box. “There is nothing you can say that I want to hear.”
“I’m sorry about Meg . . . and all the other stuff. I didn’t mean for anyone to find out.”
He raises his head slightly, but his eyes remain down. “I don’t believe you’re sorry at all. I tell you you’re not allowed to see anyone, and you do. I tell you not to talk about your sister, and you do.” He throws down the coiled cord. “You obviously didn’t want anyone to find out about your secret boyfriend. Especially not me.”
“He’s not my boyfriend. He never was.”
“I told you, told you no one could know about Meg. And you couldn’t keep a lid on it. Now your school knows. Jesus, this whole town probably knows.”
“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m just . . . sorry.”
“They think we abuse her.” At my reaction, he curls his lip. “Oh yeah, I watched that video, Lemon. And read every comment. I saw all of it. And now I keep looking at the street, expecting the cops to show up and accuse me of abusing my kids, for Christ’s sake.”
My knees feel like liquid, but there’s nowhere to sit. I cross my arms, as if they might protect me.
“Do you know how we looked in that . . . that ambush? We looked like the kind of people who have absolutely no clue what’s going on. The kind of people who create their own problems, but blame everyone else. They gave us just enough rope to hang ourselves.”
I kick a dead leaf that’s found its way inside the garage. “They don’t think that,” I say, unsure.
“I don’t even know the person they were talking about. I’m not sure I want to know. And I’m not even talking about the stuff in the video. What about your locker? What did you do to provoke something like that? Because of this Stuart kid?”
“They’re . . . people who aren’t my friends. I can’t even explain it.” I want to tell him he knows who I am, but I don’t even know myself anymore. I don’t think I ever have.
Dad wrestles with the hose. I think he might snap the plastic in half. “It’s obvious I’ve given you too much freedom. Maybe for the rest of the year, you should go to school and come straight home.”
“That’s all I’ve been doing for months!”
His nostrils flare when I raise my voice. I’ve never really done that before.
“Obviously, it hasn’t worked! You still manage to find a way to talk, talk, talk.” He makes a mouth with his hand, snapping it open and closed. “In fact, until I believe that every word out of your mouth isn’t a lie, your existence as you know it is over. From now on, you’ll do only what I say, when I say it. Consider your grounding as indefinite. You aren’t talking to anyone anymore.”
I’m silent, unsure how to plead my case. Still.
“I suppose, if it were up to you, you’d tell everyone I’m a total prick who won’t let you leave the house. Since you like to talk so much.”
“I’m not going to do that. I never meant for any of this to happen.”
“I can’t trust you, and you know it. All these things that I had no idea were even going on. That’s going to stop right now. I let one of you run wild; I’m not going to let the other one.”
And yet again, everything Meg started is mine to inherit.
&nb
sp; “I’m not Meg, Dad. I’m not like her, and I’m so tired of being compared to her when I’m not the one who ran away.”
He throws down the hose, angrier than I’ve ever seen him. I realize I’m shaking, both from fear and my own fury.
“You don’t want to be compared to Meg? Then act like it. Act like you deserve my respect instead of running around like some . . . some . . . trash, threatening people and getting into fights. Telling the world our personal business. That’s not who we are.”
“Trash? Are you serious? I’m normal, Dad. This is normal. Boys and making mistakes and having stuff happen in your life. That’s normal!”
“Not for us it isn’t.”
I hear him, but I’m not buying it anymore. While he drenches me in shame, I realize there’s so much I want to say to him—no, that I need to say—but I’ve been too afraid. Not just of his moods, but of him finding out about Graham and all the ways I’ve screwed up. But now, it’s actually a relief that he knows. At least he sees the reality of who I am. He may not like me or my choices, but I don’t need to keep secrets anymore. The voice I unleashed on Chelsea yesterday is still loaded, primed to break through once again.
“Have you ever wondered why Meg left? Perfect Meg, who never did anything but study and win and do what you said? She left because of you, Dad. She left because she couldn’t be who you wanted anymore.”
His hands clench as he whips around. “Don’t you dare presume to tell me why she left.”
“I am telling you. I’m telling you the truth, because nobody likes to talk about it. We don’t talk about anything! We ignore it and pretend it doesn't exist.”
He yanks the extension cord off its hook and turns his back to me, but I’m not allowing him to shut me out. Not anymore.
“This whole year, I’ve been so scared you’d find out about all of this. My locker, the stuff with that girl? I hid it from you because if I came to you, you’d find the angle where it was all my fault, even though I’m not totally to blame. Because, since Meg, I have to take up the space she left behind. I have to make sure Mom is okay and never leave the house for fear that I might have a life you don’t like. Just once, I wish you wouldn’t blame me or tell me I’m stupid or that I messed up. I know I’ve done some dumb stuff this year, but I didn’t confide in you because I’m afraid of you. I didn’t want you to hate me even more because I failed . . . because of what it would do to Mom . . . because you think I’m the worst part of this family.”
Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine Page 20
