Sweet Dandelion

by Micalea Smeltzer

  Clearing his throat he wipes the back of his hand over his lips, rubbing away crumbs. “Are you nervous about school tomorrow? Is that why you can’t sleep?”

  I stifle a humorless laugh, flicking a stray hair from my eyes. “No.”

  His head droops.

  He doesn’t want to ask. To talk about that day, or mom, or what I remember from those final moments, which admittedly isn’t much. But even though the memories are foggy my body still knows.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  He winces, because he knows my words imply I’m not okay. Not right now, maybe not ever. I’d like to think there’s some mystical day in my future where I will be okay, but I’m also old enough to know this trauma isn’t something I’m going to forget. It’s simply something I’ll learn to live with.

  Slowly, he turns to look at me. A cookie crumb is stuck in his scruff. Normally I would laugh and make fun of him for it. Not tonight.

  “Maybe the counselor at school will help you.”

  It’s such a naïve assumption, but I love that he has hope.

  “I doubt it.” I want to be realistic with him. “I mean, this is a school counselor. They can’t be that great, right? Otherwise they’d be doing something else?”

  He sets his unfinished cookie and glass of milk on the coffee table.

  I finish mine.

  He brushes a crumb off his sleep pants, but one is still stuck in his prickly stubble. “Do you want me to try to find a therapist for you? Someone who specializes in this kind of thing?”

  I let out a snort. “None of the therapists helped in the hospital. They … they wanted me to talk about it. To relive it. Sage…” I close my eyes, blocking out the terrible memories. “I can’t do that.”

  His brows furrow, lips drooping. “I wish I could take it all away. I wish none of this ever happened. I wish mom was still here, those kids, everyone…”

  He doesn’t voice it, I don’t either, but wishes are nothing more than a figment of a child’s imagination.

  “Come here, Dani.” He opens his arms, allowing me to dive in.

  He hugs me tight, resting the side of his cheek against the top of my head.

  I know getting stuck with me has been a burden on him. How could it not be? He’s a young guy and for the last nine months his life has revolved around me. Not dating. Not friends. Just me.

  “I know this is rough,” he clears his throat, emotion clogging his vocal chords, “but you have me. You can always come talk to me, D.”

  I know he means it, but I can’t. My brother is too good, too kind, to ever have the horrors that haunt my thoughts darken his heart.

  At some point I drift off to sleep, and when I wake up on the couch, the blanket is tucked in around me, with a pillow slipped under my head.

  Chapter Three

  My brother drops me off for my first day of school. I’ll be stuck riding the bus for the foreseeable future. I have my license, but driving hasn’t been one of those things I’ve wanted to conquer, especially not in a new city.

  “Text me if you need anything,” he calls after me as I get out of his car.

  “I will.”

  Closing the car door, I turn and face the school, exhaling a weighted breath.

  The three-story brick building with a banner inlaid proclaims it as Aspen Lake High School.

  The lawn is teeming with students, dressed to the nines for their first day. I feel like I stick out like a sore thumb in my ripped black jeans, baggy t-shirt, and yellow Vans. I didn’t even try, just threw on the first thing my fingers touched. At least I managed to brush my hair, which is a win in my book.

  Ducking my head to let my hair shield my face, I head inside, navigating the halls to the best of my ability. I should’ve paid more attention when Sage was taking me through the school.

  I bring up my schedule on my phone, careful to keep my head down and not make eye contact with anyone since I don’t feel like talking. My first period class is art. I’ve never taken art before, or found myself to be the most creative type but I got stuck with it since I was enrolled late and couldn’t pick my own classes.

  Heading down the corridor, eyes still glued to my cellphone I bump into someone. I nearly fall over from the impact, but a strong hand grabs ahold of me. My eyes settle on that hand, the long fingers, veins cording up into his arm, before I finally look at the guy.

  “Sorry about that,” he says, letting me go even though very obviously I’m the one who plowed into him. Straight brown hair is pushed back from his forehead. He’s pale and thin, but with some muscle. His eyes are an eerie blue so light they almost look white. He adjusts his messenger bag and I don’t know whether to flee or keep standing there.

  Finally, I blurt, “It was my bad. Sorry.”

  He tips his chin at me and returns to talking to two friends I didn’t notice either.

  I only spare them a brief glance before continuing down the hall at a clipped pace. Remembering the room Sage pointed out on his tour I practically run into it, grabbing a seat at the back table.

  In the next few minutes the room fills up around me. The teacher at the front, a plump older woman with blonde hair sits behind her desk, eyes narrowed as she appraises every student who comes through the door.

  Thankfully, no one sits down beside me. It’s a big school, but everyone seems to know everyone, at least in this room, but maybe it only seems that way since I’m the odd one out.

  The teacher gets up to close the door, but before she can another student breezes inside. It’s the guy I bumped into earlier and my cheeks heat as I realize the only free chair is beside me.

  “Thank you for joining us, Mr. Caron.” She closes the door and waddles back to her spot behind her desk. “Welcome to Advanced Drawing and Painting. You all should be established artists at this point and I’m looking forward to the masterpieces you create this year.” She clears her throat. “I’ll be passing out the syllabus and rules for the classroom for you to read over. The most important rule is to not be late.” Her eyes narrow on my table partner.

  “You love me, Mrs. Kline.”

  She harrumphs, but gives him an almost tender smile.

  I don’t think my tablemate is lying.

  She gets up, passing out the papers. She reaches our table and pauses beside the guy.

  “Don’t give me trouble this year, Ansel.”

  “Never.” He winks, uncrossing his arms to take the papers from her, easily passing me one without taking his eyes off the teacher.

  She doesn’t look convinced, but heads back to her desk nonetheless.

  “Don’t let her scare you,” my tablemate utters under his breath. “She’s a big softy.”

  I don’t reply.

  “I don’t recognize you.”

  Again, I don’t give a response.

  “What’s your name?”

  I sigh. I hate telling people my name, people usually laugh thinking I’m kidding.

  “D—”

  “Dandelion Meadows?”

  I close my eyes, raising my hand. “It’s Dani,” I tell the teacher.

  She marks me off on her roster.

  “Dandelion Meadows,” the guy, Ansel, muses leaning back in the chair. “Interesting name.”

  The chair squeaks against the tile floor when I move. “It’s a name like any other.”

  “Definitely not like any other.”

  Our conversation is hushed, but I’m sure Mrs. Kline will notice at some point.

  “Your name is Ansel,” I accuse. “That’s hardly normal.”

  “My dad is French, so my parents wanted me to have a French name.”

  “Can you speak French?” I level my eyes on him, trying to listen to what the teacher is saying, because God knows I’m not advanced when it comes to any type of art.

  “Quels sont tes parents?”

  “Hippies, they were hippies.”

  “Tu parles François?”

  “Juste un peu.”

  “Je suis i
mpressionné.”

  “Merci.”

  Switching to English, he holds out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Dandelion Meadows.”

  “Dani. Just Dani.”

  He smiles, his sharp cheekbones softening with the gesture. Sliding my hand into his, he gives mine a shake.

  “Welcome to Aspen Lake High, home of the Jaguars.”

  “Ansel. Dandelion.” Mrs. Kline narrows her deadly gaze on us. “Quiet or I’ll move you.”

  “It’s Dani,” I reply automatically. She doesn’t even hear me. Admittedly, I don’t speak too loudly.

  Ansel blows a kiss at her and tilts the chair back, lifting his legs onto the table and crossing them at the ankles.

  She shakes her head, turning back to the chalkboard where she’s writing down different styles of drawing and painting.

  “You seem to get away with a lot.”

  Ansel leans over, for a moment I fear he might fall from the chair but he’s completely unconcerned. “Don’t tell anyone,” his voice is a hushed murmur, “but she’s my grandma.”

  “Is she really?”

  “Yep.” His legs drop back to the floor. He seems unable to sit still for long. “I’m her favorite grandkid.” He winks.

  “Are you sure?”

  He lifts his shoulders. “Probably not, but close enough.”

  We spend the rest of the period on our best behavior, although Ansel continues to move non-stop, always shifting his legs or drumming his fingers.

  When the bell rings he slings his messenger bag over his shoulder. “See you later, Dandelion Meadows.”

  Before I can correct him he disappears as if he wasn’t there at all.

  Chapter Four

  I spend lunch in the library before trekking across school to spend my everyday period with the school’s counselor. Probably some stuffy old fart, balding with bad breath and too big glasses who will pretend to know how I feel, to insist I can talk about my feelings and promise this is a safe space.

  I pause outside the door. It’s near the administration offices, but off by itself. The blinds are closed on the window inset into the door.

  Tentatively, I raise my fist and knock. My heart thunders in my chest, the telltale feel of perspiration beginning to pebble my skin.

  The idea of someone expecting me to sit down and talk about my trauma fills me with a kind of dread I can’t explain.

  “Come on in.”

  Wrapping my hand around the handle, the doors emits a low whine as it swings open. In front of me I’m met with the nicest, most firm ass I’ve ever seen.

  Please do not let this guy be some nasty old man, because that ass is incredible.

  The counselor is bent over, fiddling with a filing cabinet.

  “Take a seat,” he instructs, cursing under his breath. “Just trying to fix this.”

  Something clangs and he whoops in victory, crawling away from the cabinet. It closes easily.

  I stand, staring at the counselor, Mr. Taylor. He’s knelt on the ground, a pair of navy dress pants hugging his legs and ass. His pale blue button-down shirt is fitted and my God this guy is ripped. He looks like he should be a personal trainer with a body like that, not a high school counselor. From his profile I can tell he has dark scruff, a sharp nose, and full lips. His hair is a tumble of black messy waves.

  When he stands up I squeak.

  My high school counselor is Superman. Give him the glasses and he’s got the Clark Kent look down too.

  He’s young, I doubt even thirty yet, and hot.

  God, I know I didn’t want a creepy old man counselor but this one … he’s too beautiful for words. Normal would’ve been nice.

  He brushes his large hands down the front of his pants and then sweeps one at the chairs.

  “Take a seat.”

  I’m pretty sure he already told me that once, but I was distracted by him bent over. It should be illegal for a butt to be that firm.

  Removing my backpack, I set it on the floor before taking a seat in the hard plastic chair.

  He sits down behind the desk. Neither is anything fancy, but the desk is neatly kept, though it is only the first day and I suppose that could change. There’s a diploma on the wall from the same college Sage attended.

  “I’m Mr. Taylor and you’re…” He looks down at a piece of paper.

  Before he can say that dreaded word, I utter, “Dani. It’s just Dani.”

  He uses the tips of his fingers to scoot the paper to the edge of his desk. “All right, Dani. Looks like we’re going to be spending the whole year together.” I pick at the edge of my fingernail, looking down. He might be easy on the eyes, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend an entire year talking about my feelings with him. “Do you want to talk about why you’re here?”

  I look up and one dark brow is arched elegantly as he waits for my response. I wonder vaguely how he does that. I can’t move only one eyebrow, if I tried I would like I was having a seizure.

  “I’m sure you know why I’m here.”

  There’s no way he doesn’t know who I am. The shooting was all over the news after it happened. It’s ironic though, that those who were quick to rush to the scene with their cameras to cover the horror never did any real thing to help any of us. They only wanted to profit off our pain, to use our trauma as a political tool instead of trying to rally us all together as what we are—people. There cannot be change without understanding.

  “Yes, Mr. Gordon briefed me on your history.”

  My history.

  The pain, fear, determination, and horror of everything is summed up in two simple innocuous words.

  “Then you know all you need to know.”

  It takes me several tries to swallow my saliva as my throat closes up. I feel the telltale beating of my heart speed up slightly. My fingers drum lightly against my legs.

  Mr. Taylor’s eyes flick down like he can see the tick, but I don’t think he can, not with his desk between us.

  I look around the room, at the standard school issue posters on the wall with smiling kids and stupid sayings on them that are meant to motivate but only sound ridiculous.

  “I know what I’ve been told,” he replies, voice deep. “But not how you feel, or what you think.”

  I wet my lips, staring steadfastly at the wall to my right. My pulse jumps from the feel of him staring at me. Waiting. Waiting for words, waiting for a reaction, just waiting.

  “Let’s start simple.” Out of the corner of my eye I see him get up. He walks around his desk and in front of me. His leg brushes mine that’s crossed over my knee and he sits in the chair to my left. “Dani?” He prompts.

  It’s for the simple reason he calls me Dani instead of Dandelion that I turn my head from the opposite direction and face him.

  Fear is crawling through my body like some sticky syrup clogging my veins, ready to suffocate me.

  “How are you doing?”

  The standard reply would be good. Or fine. It’s what everyone answers with whether it’s true or not.

  I press my lips together, hoping he can’t see how badly I’m shaking, but I’m sure he does. It’s obvious after all. I’m quivering like a leaf, or as my Mom would’ve said, swaying like a dandelion in the wind.

  “Bad.”

  “Bad.” It’s not a question. “Why?”

  My eyes scan the room once more, looking for the thing that’s missing.

  “There’s no window.”

  My admission comes out of me in a barely audible whisper.

  He looks around the room, as if he didn’t know there wasn’t one. For someone else I’m sure it’s not a big deal. My fear of not having window access is silly, even to me, because that day the cafeteria had plenty of windows, but in an open space we were nothing but sitting ducks anyway. Ripe for the picking.

  “Well,” he stands up, holding a hand out for me, “let’s go somewhere with a window then.”

  My brows furrow and I stare at his hand. It’s big and tanned, t
he kind of hand that looks capable and strong, like he could build a house with his bare hands if he wanted. “Really?”

  He tilts his head. “If you’re uncomfortable in here without a window, then yes, we’re going somewhere else.”

  “O-Okay,” I squeak in surprise, placing my hand in his. He hauls me up and releases me before grabbing my backpack and swinging it over his wide shoulder.

  “Come on,” he opens the door and waits for me to leave, shutting and locking it behind us with a key, “we’ll use one of the conference rooms today.”

  Today. Meaning in the future I might not have this luxury.

  I breathe a little easier as we walk down the bright white hallway, past cherry red lockers. He leads me into the main office, past Principal Gordon’s office housed inside it, nodding at the secretaries as we go.

  He reaches a door and swings it open, flicking on a light in the process. Inside the room is a wall of windows, a hedge of trees coming up about halfway. There’s one long table with at least twenty chairs. I pick the one farthest away from the door.

  He follows me inside and places my backpack by my feet before sitting down in the chair across from me. Behind him I look out the window at the front lawn, breathing a little easier.

  “Better?”

  I nod. “A little.”

  My heart still hasn’t calmed down and I can’t figure out if it’s to do with the claustrophobic office of his or just him.

  “You don’t have anything to write on,” I accuse, pointing to the empty table space in front of him.

  He shrugs, leaning back in the chair a bit, but not as far as Ansel did in art class this morning.

  “I won’t be writing anything down.”

  “You won’t?” Surprise colors my tone.

  He shakes his head, threading his fingers. Dark hairs sprinkle his knuckles. “I’m not here to judge you, Dani, or try to figure you out. I’d like to help you, but you have to be willing to let me.”

  “I don’t know how to do that,” I admit, picking at the stubborn piece of polish still stuck to my finger. I need to repaint them, but I haven’t felt like it. Yellow is my favorite color, and my usual go-to, but right now it doesn’t feel like what I need. Maybe a purple or a blue, something soft but gray in tone.