Dad rips off his baseball hat, rubs his forehead, and smashes it back on. He opens his mouth, but a small shake of his head follows, and he closes it again. With nothing to stop me, I keep going.
“I can’t be Perfect Meg, and I’m not Reckless Meg either. I wish you’d let me be something in between, and . . . I just wish . . . you’d care about me anyway.”
I can’t even say the word love, like it’s reaching just a little too high, and that thought steals the fight completely out of me. The tears fall as quickly as I can wipe them away, because I should be sure that he loves me, but I’m not.
Dad holds the edge of his worktable, suddenly still. His shoulders rise and fall, but he doesn’t turn. I want to reach out and tug the edge of his duck vest so he’ll acknowledge me. I want him to tell me it’s okay and I’m not the disappointment I think I am. I wait for him to argue, to scream at me, to do something. He doesn’t, though.
Dad abandons the table and picks up the hose again. He kicks the extension cord with his boot to uncurl it. “I have to get started on this,” he says, leaving the garage.
I gaze out the door to the perfect blue sky. A basketball dribbles across the street. A twang echoes—the ball hitting the backboard. After another minute, I go upstairs to my room. For the rest of the day, I listen to the loud whir of the pressure washer as Dad strips grime away from our house.
thirty-one
I KNOW MADELINE’S VIDEO on Meg added fuel to the ever-burning fire of my ruined reputation, but I don’t expect the reaction I receive at school the following morning. Before, it was hurtful whispering and texting and teasing, but now they’re actually terrified of me. Instead of a hundred following eyes, the crowd parts in the hallways, giving me a wide berth.
The upside is my tormenters have backed off—I probably won’t have to worry about lemons in my locker anymore. Apparently, I’m unpredictable and dangerous. The evidence is everywhere: In English Lit, when I pass a handout across the aisle to Marisol, she won’t even take it. I finally drop it on her desk. And during gym, Coach Keets has me kick the soccer ball against the wall instead of partnering. She keeps a close eye on me and Chelsea, but neither of us acknowledges the other. Chelsea seems to be just as freaked out as everyone else.
By the next day, I’ve settled into my pariah status so much that I don’t notice Isabel follow me to the library during lunch. I left a long sorry note in her locker, two pages of handwritten begging. I hoped for a response, but I’m still surprised when she stands a few feet away from my table. She appears sort of annoyed, and I consider that she might tell me off instead of accepting my apology. Tentatively, I offer a small “Hey.”
She throws a hand on her hip, disrupting her bracelets. “So, can we just get over ourselves and make up already?”
I can’t help but sniffle.
“Lem . . . ,” she says, sitting down. “Don’t be sad. It was supposed to be funny. Too soon?”
I throw my arms around her, nearly knocking her off the chair. “I’m so sorry, Iz. I should’ve apologized forever ago. I don’t know why I didn’t. I wasn’t even mad anymore, but it seemed like you moved on. You had all these friends suddenly, and I was jealous of—”
“I haven't moved on,” she promises, unfurling herself from my strangling hug. “We’re still friends. No matter what, remember? I just had a lapse of selfishness. Please come back to lunch. I really miss you. I miss the way things used to be.”
The librarian—who is probably a very nice lady despite interrupting every pivotal conversation in my life—shushes us, so I lower my voice. “What about Shannon and Lisa?”
“We’re best friends, and they’ll have to deal with it if they want to sit at our table. I should’ve told them that instead of pushing you aside. But I hope you’ll give them a chance, because they’re important to me too.”
She finds a pack of tissues in her bag and hands me one so I can mop up my face.
“Are they willing to be seen with Westmoore’s most famous lunatic?”
Now I’m trying to be funny, but Isabel frowns. “You know, it was hard to watch everyone putting you down and talking about you, and rather than standing by you, I ended up being just as bad as them. I’m really sorry for that, Lem.”
“You’re here now, and I’m willing to listen now, so I guess neither of us are cut out to be long-term assholes.”
We look at each other. We aren’t enemies anymore, and it feels amazing.
“Everything’s been sort of . . . weird without you,” I continue.
“Yeah, the post on Meg. And I obviously heard about your shouting match with Chelsea.”
“Yeah, that.”
“What happened?”
“I don’t know. It was like an out-of-body experience. I mean, I was in the bathroom trying not to have a breakdown, then Chelsea and Madeline were there, and Madeline left so it was just me and Chelsea. She had my arm in this kung fu grip and she wanted me to swear I’d stay away from Graham. I said no, and then I just . . . lost it. I started screaming at her to stop, and she was trying to back away from me, but I followed her.” I watch a replay in my mind. “Then I had to talk to Mr. Dean for an hour.”
She drops her chin on her hand. “Huh. Who knew all you needed to do was yell at Chelsea and she’d run away. I seriously didn’t think Shannon had the story right at first, but then other people kept telling me about it—mostly because they wanted me to confirm or deny.”
I can only imagine the rumors she’s been told. “Remember the days when you complained about being invisible? See what I’ve done for your social status?”
She laughs. “Yes, thank you, Lem. I’m forever grateful.”
“Seriously, though, sorry you got caught in the middle. Everyone’s treating me like I’m Godzilla, ready to burn the school down. They run in the other direction. I’m not sure if that’s an improvement or not.”
“A lot of people were sort of . . . impressed by you standing up for yourself against Chelsea. I am too. More people mentioned that to me than they did about Meg.”
“Really?”
“Nobody ever goes against her, but you did. And you’re still breathing. That’s a total win.”
“For now.”
“I don’t think she’s going to mess with you again—you’re this rebel without a cause now.”
“Well, I can’t just be regular crazy . . . that would be boring.”
She flashes me a familiar smile. “This is a good thing. It really is.”
“Yeah, I guess. I wish my dad saw it that way.” I pick at the torn skin around my thumb—a reminder of the horrible meeting. “He knows everything. I sort of lost it on him too.”
Her eyes pop wide. “What did Papa Lavender say? Wait, what did you say first?”
“He said nothing. He isn’t speaking to me, and I’m pretty sure he hates me since I told him Meg left because of him.” I detail all of it, the whole ugly scene. And then I share the biggest secret I’ve been keeping—that Meg called.
“Holy hell,” she whispers. Her hand lands on my wrist. “Did he interrogate you for hours?”
“He doesn’t know. I didn’t tell him.” In my defense, I add, “She made me swear not to.”
“So . . . what are you going to do?”
I roll my stressed, aching shoulders. “I don’t know—panic, like usual? She was so different, Iz. She really doesn't want to come back, and I’m not sure I should make her. She said she was trapped. She hated feeling like she had to be perfect.” I pause. “I can relate, in a strange way. Not the perfect part, but like you’re so tired of being someone you’re not.”
“I know what you mean. Or, at least, I know how it feels to see yourself as different than everyone else sees you.” She pulls off her bracelets and plays with the pile. “It’s why . . . it’s sort of the reason we didn’t talk for a while. I was trying so hard not to be scared, and you were terrified of what people were saying about you. I was afraid to get sucked down, if that makes sense. I didn
’t want to go back to being invisible. Never talking to anyone, and getting swept down the river with your situation, so that no one would talk to me.”
I recall what Graham said to me that cold night we broke up. He didn’t want to get pulled into my shadow.
“I think I understand. Now I do, anyway. When I was in that bathroom with Chelsea, I was ready to pee my pants, but I started thinking about Meg, and how she had to run in order to get away from this . . . persona . . . she despised. I don’t want to be like her, always agreeing for the sake of agreeing. Always doing what she’s—I’m—told.” I recall Meg’s serrated voice on the phone in contrast to the blandness of her room, like they belong to two intensely different people. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even know I was going to start screaming at Chelsea until it was already happening. And then it felt so good to yell. To let it all out. Not that it’s helped my reputation.”
“You believe worse things about yourself than everyone else.” She hesitates. “Okay, so yeah, people do believe some pretty insane stuff about you, but still, you have an identity. They know your name, even if they don’t know you. Maybe you can start with that and go from there. Make Lemon Lavender into who you want.”
“There’s no such thing as bad publicity?” I say, quoting Lisa.
Isabel sticks her tongue out. “That’s not what I meant.”
“Kidding,” I reply. “Go all ‘Fearless Isabel’ on me. I’m listening.”
She tucks her leg under herself and props her elbows on the table. “I’ve been doing a lot of analysis based on my own experience, and I think that we all get a starting point. I was known as the smart science girl, but that’s not all I am. You’re Lemon Lavender. You have a name associated with a ton of rumors, but that’s not all you are either. Just because people think some bad stuff doesn't mean you can’t change it. But you have to be willing to be someone rather than no one . . . someone you want to be, not who you think you should be.” She stares into space, choosing her words. “It’s like losing it on Chelsea. Even though you didn’t plan it, it ended up transforming the way some people look at you. I know you didn’t do it for that reason, but you got a chance to show the real you. Let me put it this way—on its own, a bottle of Diet Coke is a bottle of Diet Coke. But add half a pack of Mentos, and it explodes.”
My face crinkles. “I guess I’m supposed to be the Diet Coke in this scenario?”
She nods. “And when you add something awesome to what you already have, it makes it more interesting. It lets you define yourself. That’s the real point, Lem. You get to decide, not them. And maybe it changes the conversation about you, maybe it doesn’t. But at least you own yourself instead of being hijacked.”
Isabel sums up what I’ve already started to realize—being blank leaves the door open for thieves. But it doesn’t seem as simple as that.
“I just don’t think it’s over. Maybe I have a temporary hiatus from Chelsea’s bullying while she thinks up her next move, but there’s also Madeline. I’m sure she’ll make me out to be even more of a demented maniac in her next video. It’s two against one, and the last thing I need is to get in more trouble.”
“No, it’s two against two. And we’re fighting for you. Isn’t that worth everything?”
I consider her perspective, but it’s so hard to see a way I can live with this hanging over my head.
“I can’t change anyone’s mind about me, Iz. I think my best bet is to hope they forget over the summer. Maybe by next year, they’ll just go back to making fun of my name.”
She leans in. “You can’t control what anyone says. There’s always going to be gossip, whether it’s about you or someone else. I know I can’t understand exactly what you’re going through, but allowing people to get to know the real you can help. Just be Lemon—the person who thinks slushees should be their own food group and hates gym with a passion and knows how to sand the fuck out of some furniture. And if anyone doesn’t like that, who cares?”
I sit back, amazed. “Wow. Them’s fightin’ words from Isabel Gilbertson. I’m impressed . . . and a little terrified. I always knew Fearless Isabel would be a badass superhero.”
She responds with an impish smile. “Saving womankind, one day at a time.”
“Still, I don’t feel like just being Lemon is enough.”
“It is enough. And plenty of people think so, even if you don’t believe it yet.”
I laugh. “Besides you, there’s no one who thinks that.”
“Graham does.”
Whatever, my eyes reply.
“Yeah, well Rob Frost has a nice shiner that would prove otherwise.” She pops an eyebrow up. “They got into fisticuffs the other day after school.”
I blink. “He said they aren’t friends, but Rob seems like he’s always around.”
“They might’ve been before, but not for the last month, after the lemons in your locker. Graham ditched him a while ago . . . it just took some convincing for it to stick.”
I digest this for a moment. I remember how concerned he seemed in the hallway, and Mr. Dean said he defended me. “Do you think . . . I mean, he said he didn’t tell Madeline about Meg.”
“It wasn’t him, Lem.”
“He’s the only other person I told. But I don’t think he would. Even now.”
She shakes her head. “Mike overheard Madeline say she found out from some girl whose sister lived in the same dorm as Meg. It came through her tip line.”
An ice cold shiver runs through me for several reasons, but my thoughts land back on Graham. “I. . . I really think I screwed up.”
“Maybe, but lots of things can be solved by an apology.”
“I don’t even know what to think right now. I’m not in the clear with all this . . . I’m afraid it’s going to get worse if I try to make it better.”
“Don’t think, then,” she says. “Let it breathe while you figure out you.”
thirty-two
THE MOON IS ALMOST full, and it isn’t as cold when I sneak out of the house that night. My shins ache, and my breath is ragged, but I push forward, since it keeps the thoughts away. I do a loop around the neighborhood, stopping at times to dissolve the stitch in my side. When I get back to my street, it isn’t that late, but I know I should try to get some sleep before my alarm goes off.
After letting myself in, I cross the threshold to my room and almost jump clear through the ceiling as a shadowed figure moves on my bed. When I realize who it is, I clutch my heart and fall against the doorframe.
“Mom! You scared me.” I turn on the bedside light and immediately regret it. Her face is ashen, and she has my pillow in a death grip. “What happened? What’s wrong?”
She grabs my cold hands and yanks me close. “Lemon, where were you? I thought I heard something and checked on you. You weren’t here.”
“I just . . . went downstairs to get some water.”
She stands to grip my shoulders. It scares me how withered she is, as if her skin will slide right off her bones.
“I thought you were gone. I thought you left.”
She pulls me into a hug, and I rest my head against the soft cotton of her nightshirt.
“Mom, where would I go?”
“I don’t know,” she replies. “I don’t know where you would go.”
She sits again and claws her hands through her hair. I kneel in front of her, unsure what to do.
“I wouldn’t leave like that.”
She swipes her eyes. “Promise me you won’t go anywhere without telling me. Promise me, Lemon.”
My insides curdle—I really scared her.
“Okay, I promise. But Mom, I’m not leaving. I’m not going to disappear like Meg.”
At Meg’s name, she droops. Her nose is raw; she dabs it with the crumpled tissue in her hand.
“Why does she hate us so much?” she whispers. “What did we do wrong?”
I stare at the carpet while considering her question. I can’t tell her what Meg said, but I d
on’t want to completely lie either.
“She doesn't hate you. I think she’s confused, maybe, about what she wants.”
Mom nods absently. “I watched that video. Your father wouldn’t show it to me, but I found it.”
My eyes seal shut. It’s one thing for Dad to have seen it, but I can’t imagine Mom’s reaction.
“None of it is true, you have to realize that. It was meant to hurt me, but you and Dad . . . also got hurt.”
I roll off my knees and sit with my back against the bed. In the full-length mirror, I can see both of us, our bodies hunched over, wondering and worrying.
“But she had to leave for a reason, Lemon. Some reason . . . ”
If Meg really means what she says, then she won’t come home for a long time. Anger is fuel to get you lots of places, even when there aren’t many options. Admittedly, I don’t know what she’s capable of, but I can see months turning into a year, a rift turning into an impassable chasm because of too much time and resentment passing by. I explore a future without Meg, imagining Mom on holidays and birthdays—physically present, but also absent, like a ghost flickering in and out of focus.
This isn’t working at all, none of it.
“Mom? Don’t you think we should talk to someone? Like, maybe we could call Aunt Vee?”
In our reflection, her head rises a fraction.
“I think we need help,” I continue. “We need someone to help us figure this out. We can’t keep distracting ourselves.” Not with renovations. Not with running.
“Lemon . . . I’m not sure . . .” Her fist tightens around her tissue.
Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine Page 21
