Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine

by Elle Pallmore

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine

  Copyright © 2019 Elle Pallmore

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights.

  Cover design by: Elle Pallmore

  Editing by: Ebook Launch

  Table of Contents

  Coming Soon From Elle Pallmore

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thirty-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  author note

  about the author

  one

  MY BEST FRIEND, ISABEL, told me that our fight-or-flight response developed thousands of years ago, when people lived under constant threat of attack. A girl my age might’ve been peacefully perched on a rock, gathering beetles for breakfast and humming the latest tribal hit, when a saber-tooth tiger bolted from the brush, ready to shred her into bite-sized pieces with its razor claws. That’s when instinct takes over—fight (it’s a tiger, so good luck with that), or flight (the better option, even if it means leaving a limb or two behind).

  Fast-forward ten thousand years: there aren’t any hungry tigers in my kitchen, but there is my father, who is eerily similar to a wild animal when he’s angry. Which, these days, is all the time. Fighting is useless, because I always lose, and my older sister already ran away, stealing the flight option right out from under me.

  To top it all off, it’s Monday, ushering in a fresh week of hell. So, yeah. Welcome to my life.

  I haven’t been in Dad’s presence for more than three minutes, but he’s already seething about the colored marshmallows scattered across the table and floor. I was so busy tracking him and his bad mood that I yanked the new cereal bag too hard, causing it to explode. As I skim the mess into a pile, Dad’s teeth are bared, steam billowing off them after inhaling a hot gulp of coffee. He closes his eyes and swears. Because he can. Because I’m the only Lavender daughter around for him to criticize.

  Without waiting for me to finish cleaning up, his heels crunch across the floor. The cabinet bangs open and shut. He plunks a clean mug in front of me, so hard I think the porcelain might shatter, and grunts.

  No surprise there.

  Since Meg took off, Dad has replaced word communication with a complicated language of guttural sounds and angry maneuvers. The mug means he wants me to bring coffee to the zombie upstairs, otherwise known as my mother, who is currently under the blankets of her bed in a self-induced coma. His grunt generally says something like: Lemon, your sister broke your mother, now go and fix her with this coffee. Only with a lot more expletives weaved in.

  “She won’t drink it,” I remind him. “She never touches it.”

  Dad wrestles with the twist tie on the bread bag, gives up, and rips into it. He paws out the last slice, shoves it into the toaster, and slams the lever down. My eye twitches in two short bursts as he swoops the mug away and chucks it on the counter, where it does a Lindy Hop slide against the coffee machine. He fills it, sloshing a decent amount over the rim, and brings it back to me, breaking his all-time high for grunts in one morning.

  I stare at the mug again, watching a drip slide down the side.

  I’m not sure how my mother ended up being my responsibility—it just sort of happened. Along with delivering coffee and toast, I’m supposed to get her out of bed and into the shower, where I have to be sure she doesn’t drown or drop shampoo in her eyes, or whatever else might happen in her fragile state.

  Of course, she won’t drink or eat, so showering is a whole other unclimbable mountain. Sketchy hygiene is the least of my worries, though—there’s the fact that she’s getting thinner and doesn't seem alive most of the time. And I’m being blamed for it.

  “Lemon,” Dad says, uttering a rare word, except it’s more of a warning.

  “She’s not going to get up, and I’m not going to stand over her like a creepy stalker while she sleeps.”

  Immediately, I want to cram the sound back into my vocal cords. I’m still not used to Dad even noticing my existence, so I usually forget he can actually hear what I say.

  He strangles the toaster lever. Since he can’t throttle me, he often settles for intimidating small kitchen appliances.

  “Don’t. Argue,” he cautions.

  Silenced, I pick at the marshmallows still collected in my hand, watching rainbow colors melt into my skin. I don’t dare sigh, don’t even blink with an attitude. I glance at the clock on the microwave. Only a few minutes before I get to leave for school. I’m looking forward to school. That’s what Dad has done to me.

  The bread jumps out of the toaster with a violent, metallic pop. Dad throws the slice on a napkin, scrapes it with butter, and tosses it to me like a Frisbee.

  “Take it to her,” he snaps. “I have to get to work.”

  He grabs his laptop bag, wrenches the front door open, and slams it behind him. The copper pots on the rack above the kitchen island clink and sway. Before they settle, I hear Dad’s car shriek out of the driveway and accelerate down the road, scalding the pavement.

  In the sudden quiet, a faucet drip pings the sink. I watch the wad of butter slide off the hot toast and seep into the napkin. If I could sigh big enough to melt, I’d puddle onto the floor and glide under the refrigerator, where no one would find me. But, since melting isn’t an option, I dump my handful of cereal into the sink and gather up the mug and toast. Time to see if the zombie is hungry.

  Upstairs, I poke my head into my parents’ bedroom, which is starting to resemble a Pottery Barn-decorated crypt. Mom is spun like a caterpillar inside a five-hundred-thread-count cocoon. Dust motes swirl in the weak light trying to beam around the edges of the closed curtains. It seems even the thin brightness is too much, because her head is sealed between two pillows.

  “Mom,” I whisper, gently nudging what might be her shoulder. The cocoon moves, but she doesn’t answer. I nudge again, adding more pressure. “I have coffee. Time to get up.”

  The shape shifts an inch, emitting a muffled sigh.

  “Mom,” I say louder. “Coffee.”

  I stack the toast on top of the mug, then use my other hand to peel one of the pillows away, but she’s got a death grip on it. I’m only able to see a concave cheek and the mushroom cloud that’s her messy bun.

  “Coffee,” I shout into the crease. “I brought this for you.”

  At my voice, she lurches, her whole body lifting like a submarine emerging from the ocean. Her cocoon rolls, and as she turns to the other side, keeping the pillows against her head, a wayward elbow clips th
e bottom of the mug. The entire thing swivels in the air and lands upside down on the floor, along with the toast. Somehow Mom has escaped any and all spillage, but rivulets of coffee drip off my chin and pock the knees of my equally soaked jeans with an audible splat.

  If I haven’t already welcomed you to my life . . . hi, there. Try not to back away slowly.

  Resting on the balls of my feet, I talk myself out of punching the mattress. Because honestly, I’m just too tired, which makes it so easy to envy my mother’s oblivion. All I want is to go back to my room, curl up, and hide until Dad comes home from work. Mom won’t know I didn’t go to school. Mom wouldn’t know if I was on fire. Time would stop for just a little while. I wouldn’t be Lemon Lavender, Meg wouldn’t have disappeared, and life could pause long enough for me to catch my breath.

  But there is no pause button. There’s only the rest of Monday, looming large before me. With a sigh, I regroup. Get it together, Lemon.

  First thing to do—clean up the coffee waterfall. Second, sneak in to school, because I’m already late and Dad cannot find out.

  two

  HERE’S THE THING ABOUT being named Lemon Lavender—no one ever, ever forgets you. My name is burned into the mind of every teacher and principal and classmate I’ve ever had, regardless of my efforts to be a ghost.

  So when I bound into Westmoore High during the homeroom announcements and scuttle along the speckled oatmeal floor to pass the main office, it’s shocking that I’m about to make a clean break-in. That is, until I come face-to-shoe with a pair of brown Oxford loafers sporting very serious tassels.

  Seeing as how my name is a flashing neon sign, Vice Principal Hawkins immediately knows three things: who I am, that I’ve been late four times since the school year started last month, and that he’s already called my dad once to complain. (Dad’s head spinning around like that girl in The Exorcist isn’t high on my list of things to repeat, hence my ill-fated break-in attempt.)

  As I rear back, Hawkins plants his hands on his hips, impatient for an explanation.

  “Um, hi,” I say, brushing hair out of my face. “My shoe was untied.” Both my shoes are laced, so I pull at one, undoing the bow.

  Hawkins closes his eyes for a weary second. “Miss Lavender, please come with me.”

  Without a choice, I retie my sneaker and follow him into the main office, then through another door. I sink into the chair opposite of his desk while he pokes around a mess of papers and old Styrofoam cups, trying to find the keyboard underneath.

  Waiting, I stare at the crooked, supposed-to-be-inspirational poster hanging behind him. A humpback whale jumps out of the ocean, launching over the word Perseverance. I want to punch the poster.

  Hawkins’ eyes lower to his computer screen. After the second time I was late (also Mom’s fault), I got wise to his preferred interrogation method. He looks me up in the system, tells me how many days I’ve missed homeroom, then plays dumb as he makes a stupid joke about my name. It’s become a major time suck, as if I want to spend minutes that feel like centuries with the Easter Bunny version of my father. My only option is to try and fast-track him.

  Hawkins leans back in his creaking chair, trying his damndest to give off a mob-boss vibe.

  “Miss Lavender, it seems you aren’t on the attendance roster for homeroom, and yet here you are, alive and well.” The corners of his eyes crinkle in mock surprise, like he can’t fathom how this is earthly possible, even though he just found me slinking along the school floor. “I know you weren’t accidentally skipped over. I can’t imagine any of your teachers missing such a . . . colorful and a-peel-ing name.”

  I fold my hands in my lap and force my eyes to keep from rolling. “Yes, I was late. I take responsibility, and it won’t happen again. I should really get to homeroom so I can make it to first period on time.”

  I rise out of my chair, but he clucks his tongue and points me back down. “I think you promised you wouldn’t be late again last time. And when I talked to your father two weeks ago, he assured me your tardiness was an anomaly. I don’t believe your father is a liar. In fact, knowing your father to be an involved and responsible parent, I doubt he knows about this morning, nor would he be happy that I found you crawling past the main office in a most undignified manner.” He pauses to squint at me. “So tell me, Miss Lavender, why are we here?”

  “Here?” I repeat. “In Westmoore, Pennsylvania?”

  My eyes drift from his face to his ear, where an old pinprick is still visible. I can’t imagine a younger version of Hawkins with a piercing, and I don’t want to. It’s like a rabbit hole . . . go down it, and you start thinking up wild scenarios, like Hawkins wearing a bandanna in a hotel bar, riffing on a guitar with a Nirvana cover band. I don’t need to go there.

  “No,” he sighs. “You’re having trouble getting to school on time, so there must be a reason. I’d like you to tell me why you’re here, in this situation.”

  If only it were that simple, except it isn’t. Not at all. Because the list of things I can’t tell him is longer than the list of things I can. I’m not allowed to explain that my mother dumped coffee all over me or that she’s a zombie, because then I’d have to tell him about Meg. Not that he’d believe me anyway. Meg is still worshipped in the halls of Westmoore—perfect student, award-winning athlete, most likely to cause angels to sing in her presence—which adds to Dad’s rule that we keep her shenanigans a big secret. We don’t spread our business out on the street. He reminds me of this in some metaphor or another on a daily basis.

  “Miss Lavender?” Hawkins says. “I’m waiting for an answer.”

  Dad’s voice echoes in my head. Deal with it, Lemon. Don’t screw up, Lemon.

  I clear my throat. “I’ve been up late looking through college catalogs and studying for the SATs. Higher education can be very competitive.”

  Hawkins engages me in a staring contest, using his skeptical eyes to shame the truth out of me. I stare back with all my resolve until he teeters on the edge of my wildly inaccurate story. He clamps his hands together as if he’s about to pray, and I know he’s remembering how I’m an average student without any extracurricular activities or general zeal for school, but I’m also a Lavender. A shiny, glimmering Lavender. I give him my best Disney-princess stare, and after a beat, he wavers to my side.

  “Your sister was very dedicated. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a student so dedicated to her future. A true Westmoore success story. And I’m sure you want to follow in Meg’s footsteps to Princeton.” He leans forward. “Do you want to know the secret to doing that?”

  In reality, I’ve never wanted to be like Meg, and nobody has expected me to. At least, not until she disappeared and I became her pseudo replacement. I nod anyway—anything to get this punishment moving along.

  “The secret is to arrive at school on time. Without a solid foundation, you can’t build a house.”

  “Uh, right,” I say. “Makes sense.”

  I want to punch that house. Right off its solid foundation.

  Hawkins slobbers on about the importance of timeliness and its impact on my future while I silently beg for him not to call Dad. Just as the bell rings, he finishes his speech by saying, “I’m trusting you, Miss Lavender. Don’t let me down. I don’t want to have any more of these meetings.”

  Inwardly, I’m breakdancing, spinning on my head. This is about to be over—spotlight off. Mic drop.

  “Absolutely. No more of these meetings.” I raise my right hand. “Consider me cured of lateness.”

  I gather my bag while sneaking a glance at the clock on the wall. Classes are still changing. If I get out now, I won’t have to walk into first period after it’s already started, avoiding even more attention.

  As I lift myself out of the chair for a second time, Hawkins adds, “I do feel I need to issue you a detention for today. I believe you about not being late again, but perhaps an hour to think about it after school will drive the point home.”

  I
sink back down as he grabs a pink form off the stack on his desk. He isn’t going to call home, but I’m not getting off free of charge either. The second hand on the clock spins while Hawkins takes an eternity to fill out my detention slip. I’m definitely going to be late for my first class. Spotlight back on. Cue the awkwardness.

  If Monday were a person, they’d be pure evil.

  three

  I GRIP MY HALL PASS and run in the direction of English Lit, hoping against hope that Mr. Parsons hasn’t started class. The door is still open when I skid to a stop just outside the room; I hear a loud laugh, lots of people talking—no lesson yet. Exhaling a breath of relief, I cross the threshold and sweep a quick glimpse upward to see if Parsons wants my pass.

  He isn’t there, though. In his place is the most beautiful student teacher in the universe.

  My eyes lock on him, and the plan to glide to my desk unnoticed disintegrates when I involuntarily screech to a dead halt. My sneakers squeal while my top half continues forward, forcing my arms to spin like twin helicopter blades for balance. The wild flailing works, but after I save myself from a face plant and stand upright, absolute horror rolls over me.

  I can’t look up. I can’t. But I have to.

  When I dare to glance at him, his hazel eyes smirk with amusement, unsure what to make of the girl who nearly bellyflopped into the room. I blink several times, bringing everything into sharp focus. Sound returns, and I suddenly hear the ping! of a text message. A snort follows. I realize I’m standing there like a weirdo—a weirdo who wants to slink to her desk but can’t, because she’s totally frozen by him.

  Someone at the back of the class wolf-whistles. My face gets hot as I remember the short-lived yet soul-killing nickname I endured throughout middle school: Lemon Laugh-at-her. It faded by high school, but I’ve suffered through years of pointing and random, obnoxious hilarity at my expense—just in case I somehow forgot the joke. Hence my fear of entering classrooms alone . . . and moments like this.

  I try to say “I have a late pass,” but it comes out as “Schwa . . .”