Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine

by Elle Pallmore

  I gnaw the inside of my cheek. “Maybe,” I agree.

  He wipes the sheen of sweat from his forehead and stares at the carpet. “Believe it or not, I don’t always know what to do. Maybe if we’d—I—would have asked your Aunt Vee for help a long time ago, we could’ve talked about it, and your mother . . . well, she might’ve handled it differently. And you wouldn’t have been put in the position you were put in. I’m not completely immune to the idea that our situation, and our reaction, played a role in the choices you made. Not that I condone the lies. But . . . I could ask more about you. I suppose.”

  Stunned, I lean back in my chair. I can’t believe the words coming out of his mouth—I don’t think he believes them either, because he looks like he’s about to crumple to the floor. I realize we’re much more alike than I thought. Both of us take time to see the solution side of a problem, so we just keep rolling downhill in spite of the chaos. But every stone gets worn down after a while, smoothing the rough edges—it’s not the most elegant process, even if it works.

  After so much time battling Dad, he finally seems like he’s lost some sharpness. I have too. Maybe he needed to hear my harsh words as much as I needed to say them.

  His eyes narrow. “You’re looking at me weird.”

  “You’ve never really”—I search for the right phrase—“expressed this much before.”

  He fidgets with his top button, sweeping it in and out of the buttonhole.

  “I don’t like it,” he says plainly. “But I guess your sister left for a reason, and I’m not going to find out why if I’m not willing to talk to her about it. Or talk to you,” he adds. “About your stuff.”

  “You’re doing a good job, Dad. With the talking. For your first try.”

  His face reddens. “Oh. Well, thanks, Lemon.” He starts to go, but then reaches out, hesitant, and ruffles my hair. I’m a little too old for it, but still, it’s a gesture he hasn’t made in a long time. I almost want to cry, but then he’d really be uncomfortable. After a moment, I hear his feet pad down the stairs.

  With Dad gone, my thoughts meander. The mantras I’ve heard my whole life are tumbling pillars. Don’t argue. Deal with it. Don’t screw up. Those ideals kept me quiet and complacent while everything exploded around me. It’s only when I was pressed to the edge that Evil Lemon emerged. But I can’t swing and fight my way out of this, and I can’t sit quietly and wait for it to blow over either.

  For the next few hours, I stop saying nothing is possible and wonder what might happen if I start being Lemon Lavender. No hiding, no apologies. Just me.

  thirty-five

  “SO HOW DO YOU KNOW this girl?” I whisper to Isabel.

  We hustled to the library for our lunch period, anxious to get started on the plan I hatched over the weekend. I promised I’d start eating in the cafeteria again, but when I explained my idea during gym three days ago, Isabel insisted on helping. That means meeting in a more clandestine place.

  “From my AP Calc class,” she replies. “I heard she has mad skills, but it’s on the down low.”

  Isabel flips her notebook open to a page with a list of questions, which solicits a smirk from me.

  “Only you would make interview questions for a hacker.”

  She scowls. “If this is going to happen, don’t you want to make sure she’s a legit badass?”

  “Definitely. That’s the only quality I’m looking for.”

  “Then watch and learn,” she replies in her best Fearless Isabel voice.

  I make a show of zipping my mouth shut, which makes her laugh, cutting the anxiety I know we’re both experiencing.

  Just then, I notice Marisol enter the library. After a moment of looking around, she strides toward us on her Amazon legs.

  “Uh-oh, incoming,” I say. “We need to get rid of her.”

  “Just be cool,” Isabel says.

  I expect her to say hi and send Marisol on her way, but she gestures for her to sit instead. I make WTF eyes at her, but she mouths “legit badass.”

  Shocked, my gaze hops back to Marisol. “You’re the . . . ” I’m not sure of the proper terminology for hackers. Is it wrong to call them that?

  “Surprised?” she says with a flap of her mile-long eyelashes.

  “Not what I was expecting, but yeah, I can see it now.”

  Isabel appears momentarily contrite, but I figure she didn’t tell me because I would’ve argued that Marisol wasn’t the right person for this job. Now I’m sort of fangirling all over the place.

  “So you need help with something?” Marisol asks.

  Isabel nudges me, and over the next few minutes, I explain what I want her to do. When I finish, she sighs, fishes a stick of gum out of her purse, and pops it in her mouth. Not the reaction I hoped for, but it’s too late to say “just kidding.”

  “Do you think you could do it?” I prod. “If you wanted to?”

  She rolls her eyes while popping her gum. “Of course I can do it. It’s not that hard.”

  “But will you?”

  “Well, obvi,” she says. “I was just hoping for more of a challenge.” She explodes her hands. “Bigger impact.”

  Isabel taps her notebook with the end of her pen, forgetting the list of questions entirely. Marisol has that effect.

  “We’re not trying to destroy her . . . just take control of her weapon, so to speak.”

  “Right,” I say, agreeing with Isabel. “What she said.”

  Marisol places her sparkly, manicured hands flat on the table and tilts her head toward me. “I should’ve stood up for you, and I didn’t. I think a lot of girls feel that way, since Madeline could target any of us, at any time. I don’t know why I didn’t—I think most people are too afraid to disrupt the system. I can be a disrupter, though, for a good cause. I’ll follow your lead, whatever you want.”

  Isabel and I exchange glances. The plan is on.

  MARISOL, ISABEL, AND I talk logistics for the rest of lunch. I asked her how we’ll know if she was successful. “You’ll know,” is all she replies before leaving.

  The next day, there’s nothing; everything is quiet. By Wednesday morning, my nerves are shot, but I get to school and immediately realize Marisol was right. It happened, and it’s impossible not to know.

  For the first time in forever, nobody focuses on me as I walk to my locker before homeroom. Instead, their heads are down, immersed in their phones. I try not to smile as I overhear the outcry around me.

  “What the hell? I keep refreshing, and it won’t come up.”

  “Page Not Found—?”

  “Has anybody texted Madeline? Try it again, maybe the network is down.”

  By lunch, I can’t believe the frenzy over Lady Westmoore and its mysterious disappearance. The URL connects to an error page, and no one can figure out why.

  During lunch, Shannon and Lisa propel into overdrive, deluging us with the latest speculation—administration shut it down, a rival school hacked the page—but Isabel and I reveal nothing. We made a pact with Marisol that no one would know she got into Madeline’s account and deleted all the videos, essentially wiping out the channel, or that I’d asked her to do it. As long as we don’t say anything, there’s no way to link us to it, and probably nobody skilled or motivated enough—besides Marisol—to figure it out. Like Mr. Dean told my father, the Internet is like the Wild West, and I’ve stepped into the OK Corral, guns blazing.

  When I thought of the idea to take down Lady Westmoore, I expected it to be a big deal, but I didn’t anticipate the outrage. Some people act as if they can’t survive without it, and once Madeline brands herself as a victim, even claiming it’s a federal crime, the fervor explodes and rumors fly like shrapnel. The tables have turned, though, because no one can rely on her videos to tell them what they should think. I relish the utter chaos—the loyal LW followers are like sheep without a shepherd, and without a shepherd, they begin to scatter. Instead of one rumor to follow, there are too many, and they have no idea what opini
on to have.

  Toward the end of the day, the conversation shows signs of twisting. Outrage evolves into cynicism and saving face. Nobody wants to admit how much they need Lady Westmoore, so they rally against it instead. I overhear one girl in the bathroom tell her friend she never bothered to watch it anyway since it’s so anti-girl power. A group in my Western Civ class preaches how they’re glad it’s gone because you can’t believe anything Madeline says. Isabel reports via text that she’s hearing similar things, even a few people talking about starting their own channels to report real news. I know it’s all talk, though—if Madeline creates a new LW, they’ll trickle back, but the interruption in her service is a golden opportunity. I’m finally getting a chance to catch my breath.

  After my last class, I walk to my car with a smile on my face—Dad left me the keys on the kitchen counter this morning, ending part of my grounding. I take a satisfying breath, notice how the sky is a big band of blue. The sun bounces off the hoods of cars, blinding me momentarily as I navigate between them.

  As a result, I don’t see Madeline waiting for me until it’s too late.

  I expect her traditional bored expression, but this time, her bright-red lips are pursed into a sneer. Ripples of anxiety flutter through my stomach, but I act nonchalant as I unlock my car door. Instinct tells me to dive into the seat and drive away, but I’ve gone as far as orchestrating the destruction of a major weapon in her arsenal, so I have to see it through.

  “I know it was you,” she hisses.

  I concentrate on throwing my bag onto the passenger seat. “What have I done now?”

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

  I lean on my door, keeping it as a safety barrier between us. “Lady Westmoore? I heard about that.”

  Her pupils zone in on me. She’s searching for cracks in my demeanor, a place to wedge her hand in and yank me down.

  “It’s not like you’ve done anything revolutionary. You realize I have all the video files backed up, so I can just restart my channel. But even without it, I still control Westmoore. I control what they think and who they think it about, so let’s not pretend this ends here.”

  I won’t admit it, but she’s right. People will always have judgments to make, and I don’t doubt she has the power to bully me old-school style. I also don’t have much faith that her followers will quit either—if it comes down to pleasing her, they’ll continue to hang on her every word. With a sigh, it dawns on me that maybe taking down LW was a waste of time, because it’s me who needs to change. It’s me who has to stand tall instead of shrinking into the shadows. I can’t stop it, but I can be bigger than it.

  With all my might, I channel Isabel, Marisol, my Aunt Vee, even Meg and Mom, who are courageous in their own way. All these strong women I know. I’m not giving in this time. I arrange my face into a relaxed mask, as if we’re merely talking about the weather.

  “Why do you care what I do so much, Madeline?”

  “You? Please . . . I don’t care. It’s everyone else that wants to know—I only supply the demand. Nobody gave a shit about you before, but look at you now. I turned you into someone. You should be thanking me.”

  She crosses her arms, satisfied, like she’s done me a great favor, but I’m beginning to stumble toward the truth. I thought I was being punished for what I’d done to Chelsea. At least, it started that way, but Madeline’s reasons are different. None of it is personal for her, it’s business—the entertainment business, to be exact. She doesn’t care if it’s me or someone else, as long as there’s a story she can exploit. I lead the people to her, and the more views and clicks she gets, the bigger the tiara on her head. In reality, I’m just the bait, and it’s time I jumped off the hook.

  “No, I don’t think so. I think what I’m going to do is stop being scared of you. Like you said, people are always going to talk, and I can’t do anything about that. So you really don’t matter.”

  She laughs, but it doesn't sound genuine. I’m not sure she has one genuine thing about her.

  “You’re even more delusional than I thought. I can say whatever I want about you, and people will believe it. I will always matter—don’t forget that.”

  I straighten my spine and gather my courage. “Do you realize how ridiculous you sound? Spread lies about me all you want, but what comes after that? The next video and the next? Another lie, another fake story in a desperate attempt for attention? How long until your audience gets bored? Especially if I go about my business, laughing at every rumor you start like you’re the one who is crazy?”

  Her grin is more of a grimace, revealing sharp incisors. “Whatever your worst secret is, I’ll find it. You have no idea how much damage I can do. I hope you’re ready for it, because after today, you are done.”

  A plane jets overhead, the engine blocking out sound, allowing me to study Madeline instead of listening to more of her threats. Up close, I notice every flaw, the lines on her forehead, the scatter of pimples across her jaw. She’s still beautiful, but she’s also human.

  I come out from behind the car door, leaving nothing between us. “How long should I be scared?” I ask. “For the next year? And when high school ends, are you going to make it your life’s mission to document every little thing I do? It’s pretty sad you have nothing more interesting going on. You can choose to be a terrible person, Madeline, but how many friends will you have left? How many do you think you have now?”

  She takes a giant step toward me; her face is inches from mine. I consider that she might hit me, but her arms hang useless at her sides.

  “More than you’ll ever have,” she replies.

  Diesel from the departing buses turns the air bitter. We can go on trading barbs forever, but I’m so sick of it. Sick of her. Sick of cowering in fear.

  “Maybe, but I’m okay with that.”

  If she could sprout fangs, I’m pretty sure she would lunge at me. She starts another tirade, but my phone buzzes. It takes a minute for me to realize it’s mine, since I haven’t had it with me for so long. It’s a message from Mom.

  They’re home.

  My chest tightens. Two simple words that mean so much. I look up from my screen, and Madeline is still going, her pink gums flapping. I shake my head, confused. Why am I still standing here? I cut her off mid-sentence.

  “I have to go. Believe it or not, there are more important things than you.”

  I get in my car and start the engine. With a screech of tires I pull away, leaving Madeline, her mouth open, standing alone in the parking lot.

  thirty-six

  IN THE FOYER, A RAGGED duffel bag leans against Aunt Vee’s unmistakable Michael Kors suitcase.

  The house is quiet and I tentatively take a few more steps into the family room. Hushed voices drift from the kitchen; I follow them to find my parents and aunt at the kitchen table.

  “Is she here?” I whisper.

  Mom’s eyes are red, but she smiles. “She’s sleeping. Long flight.”

  “Is she . . . mad?”

  Aunt Vee grabs my hand. “Don’t worry about that. She’s home, and that’s the most important thing.”

  Mom leaves her chair and hugs me. “We’re going to work it out.”

  I glance at Dad. He keeps his eyes on the table, but he nods.

  I don’t know what to do with myself after that. None of us do. We’re mostly silent, as if keeping a vigil and waiting for Meg to emerge from her room. I don’t know if she’ll talk to me again, but I sigh with relief. This is it—the restart we need.

  After a while, Mom works on dinner, and Aunt Vee goes to take a nap in my room. Dad loads the dishwasher with coffee mugs. The initial shock has worn off, and they’re all tired from the fading adrenaline rush. Except me. I decide to go for a run.

  Outside, the April afternoon sun is warm; I unzip my hoodie and tie it around my waist. Ever since Mom thought I was missing, I promised myself I wouldn’t go out at night anymore. Today is going to be a different experience—n
ot a requirement to empty my brain, but a let’s-see-if-I-actually-like-this run. I raise my arms overhead and stretch for a minute, working out the tense muscles that clumped together as soon as I got up this morning.

  Just as I’m about to take off, Graham’s car careens to a stop next to the mailbox. Through the windshield, we stare at each other, uncertain. I retie my hoodie around my waist, cinching the arms tight. After a beat, he gets out, shedding his light jacket before meeting me on the sidewalk.

  “Are you going somewhere?” he asks.

  “I was going for a run, but it can wait.”

  “You hate running,” he replies, incredulous.

  “I know. I used to. Or maybe I still do. It’s sort of an experiment.”

  His eyes crinkle at the corners as he studies me. “I texted you earlier.”

  “You did?” I turn toward the house, then back to him. “My sister came home today, so I’ve been distracted.”

  “That’s great to hear. I know you were worried about her.” He steps back. “I should probably go, then. Since you have family stuff going on.”

  I don’t want him to leave, not for anything.

  “No, it’s fine. We’re all kind of looking for distractions, so . . . ” I’m still not sure why he’s here. “Was there something you wanted to talk about?”

  He nudges a crack in the sidewalk where a dandelion pokes out. “I saw you talking to Madeline after school. I wanted to see if you were okay. I’ve wanted to see if you were okay for a while now.”

  I walk inside his shadow so he doesn’t have to squint down at me. “She was angry about her videos disappearing, but I’m fine.”

  “You say ‘fine’ a lot.”