Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine

by Elle Pallmore

  I text Graham, letting him know I’ll be there, and after lying to Dad that Isabel and I accidentally swapped composition notebooks and I need my notes for weekend homework, I finally escape the house.

  When I get to the Gas & Sip, Graham is already there, leaning against his car with my slushee in hand. Under his open jacket, he wears a black T-shirt printed with a white skeleton. Clearly, he hasn’t put much effort into a costume. I wonder what Chelsea thought of that.

  “Nice bones,” I say as he hands me my cup.

  “Thanks,” he replies. “My mom picked it out.”

  I drop my head. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

  He laughs. “Probably not.”

  The traffic in and out of the parking lot is constant since it’s a Friday night. I scan faces, hoping we won’t be seen by anyone from Westmoore. I keep a healthy distance between us, as if our seeing each other outside of school is random, though I really want to launch myself into his arms.

  “Do you think we can sit in your car?” I ask.

  Without a word, he leads me down the row of cars and opens the passenger door. After settling into our seats, he turns over the engine and adjusts the heat. I raise my fingers to the warm air streaming from the vents.

  “How was the dance?” I ask, hoping it sounds casual.

  He shrugs. “It was . . . a dance. I thought about you the entire time.” He groans and squints his eyes closed. “Do the things I say sound as embarrassing out loud as I think they do? I don’t usually show what I’m thinking so easily, but it happens all the time with you. Hours later, I’m banging my head against the nearest hard object.”

  “I like that you say what’s on your mind. I don’t have to guess.”

  He drops his slushee in the cupholder. “It’s your turn to be embarrassing.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think what you said was embarrassing, so it doesn’t count.”

  “Okay, let me think of something else.” He pulls my hand away from the vent and warms my fingers between his own palms. “So, my mum really did pick out this shirt. I didn’t realize I had to wear a costume tonight, so she went out and bought it today. That definitely counts as embarrassing, so it’s your turn.”

  “Uh-uh. I don’t want to.”

  “You have to give me something. Otherwise I’ll believe you’re more perfect than you already are, and I’ll be too self-conscious to ever speak to you again.”

  Perfect. If he only knew how imperfect my life really is.

  “Fine.” I squeeze my eyes shut and keep them closed, daring myself to tell him the truth. “I obsessed for the last three hours that you and Chelsea are soul mates and you’re going to chuck me over for her. I planned to change schools and everything.”

  I open one eye to see him laughing so hard, sound isn’t coming out. Between coughs, he says, “That is really embarrassing.”

  “You suck.”

  When he recovers, he adds, “We’re even. And I promise not to be Chelsea’s soul mate.”

  “Good,” I say, heart beating wildly. I swivel in my seat so I can face him. “How about you tell me something not embarrassing. Like, tell me something a lot of people don’t know about you.”

  A tiny spark lights his face while he thinks about it. He eases back the sleeve of his jacket and lifts his wrist toward me. “This tattoo . . . I told you the translation, but not what it means to me.”

  He presses my fingertips against the ink. Serva me servabo te. Save me and I will save you.

  “A few years ago, my mum got really sick.” He pauses, thinking for a beat before continuing. “She had cancer, but they found it early, and she went through treatment right away. It was horrible though, thinking about what might happen. But the whole time, she fussed over us, me and my dad, like we were still important, and this thing inside her shouldn’t be our entire focus. She was there for us, making jokes, being so strong, even though she was the one who was sick.” His voice deepens when he says, “I never said so, but I got this tattoo for her. It’s a reminder that I want to be there for the people I care about. No matter what.”

  In the darkness of the car, with the heat swirling around us and our voices dropped low, I’m stunned that he’s shared something so private, so meaningful. I’ve never felt such a powerful force of connection, not even with my own family. Not even when Meg first went missing and we stayed up all night worrying. We’ve always been so singular, throwing up barriers as we wade in our own thoughts, never communicating them. Even now, it strikes me how unwilling we are to talk to each other, despite being immersed in the same situation.

  “I feel like . . . it just really means a lot that you told me. Is your mom . . .?”

  “She’s great, totally recovered. Fingers crossed it stays that way.”

  “Wow,” I say, with a sigh of relief.

  “And she absolutely lost her shit when she saw what I’d done to myself. Someday I’ll tell her what it means, but not yet. It’s too soon.” He lowers his sleeve. “What about you? Tell me something most people don’t know.”

  “That’s a lot of things,” I reply. “But none of it is all that fascinating.”

  “You don’t like attention, do you? The first time I saw you here, I thought you were going to faint.”

  “I was just . . . surprised. I never would’ve guessed I’d run into you. The benefit of this place is that I never see anyone from school.”

  “Well . . . I may have followed you—” He breaks off. “You have to stop staring at me like that, because I refuse to confess anything else tonight. Besides, you’re changing the subject when you’re supposed to be telling me something not embarrassing.”

  I think about my mother and wonder if I should risk it. I pluck the resident ninja Lego man from his second cupholder and spin his head. “I can’t think of anything.”

  “You’re even beautiful when you lie.”

  I glance over, willing myself to trust. In the passing weeks, Meg has become this giant deception with a beating heart; I imagine it as a living being, locked in a cell and starving for attention. I try to ignore the rattling chains, but they’re loud.

  At the same time, my father’s face appears in my mind, warning me. He’s always warning me, though, always making me feel that what I’m doing is wrong. For once, I want to wiggle out from under that weight.

  “There is something, but it’s really hard to talk about.”

  He takes the Lego man away, removing the distraction. “This car is a vault. Nothing you say will go beyond it. But you don’t have to say anything either. Not if you don’t want to.”

  I focus on his eyes, darker than their usual hazel, and consider how I have so many secrets to drag around, making me so tired. I drop my shoulders, as if lowering the burden.

  “Um . . . so, remember when you dropped me off at my house last week? It was my mom who opened the door. Obviously, she looked pretty out of it.”

  He nods, allowing me to continue.

  “She’s . . . been kind of . . . not herself lately. I have an older sister, and when she left for college, my mom fell apart. Well, not at first—I think she was in shock—but she definitely did when Meg dropped out of school and disappeared. She doesn't get out of bed much, and when she does, she’s like the walking dead. I don’t really know what to do, except to take care of all the things she used to do. Not that I have a choice, since my dad sort of expects me to make it seem like nothing is wrong. Like, if the laundry isn’t piling up and we have dinner every night, it’s all okay. Just ignore the other stuff.”

  Graham leans closer, brow furrowed. “I have so many questions. Is your sister . . . is she alright?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I think so. At first, we weren’t sure. She’d only been at school for a week when her roommate called to ask if she’d come home, because she hadn’t seen her for two days. My dad had the campus police in a chokehold over the phone five minutes later.”

  “What did they say?”


  “Basically, that she’d probably come back on her own. But she didn’t.” I drop my slushee into the other cupholder and shove my hands between my knees. “She only called once, after she left. That was the last time we heard from her.”

  “That’s so . . . I’m sorry, Lemon.”

  “My mom isn’t getting any better either. She’s just fading . . . like she’s gone, but still there. And it isn’t fair, not to her. I’m not saying she shouldn’t be upset, but I wish she’d realize that it isn’t the end of the world. Not her world, anyway.”

  “What about your dad? Isn’t he worried?”

  “Yeah, but he thinks it’s weak to ask for help. We all act like nothing’s wrong, like it’s totally normal for my mom to sleep all day. And at the same time, no one knows about Meg. We tell anyone who asks that she’s doing great at school. He’s angry all the time because there’s nothing he can do about any of it.”

  “What about you?” he asks. “You’ve talked about your parents, but what about you? How are you handling it?”

  I think, because I’m not entirely sure anymore how I am.

  “I guess I’m worried about my mom, and I do what I can to help her, even though I get mad at her. And I hate being around my dad. He treats me like I’m going to make the same mistakes as my sister, so he lords over me. He can’t see that I’m different—he doesn't really see me at all, I guess—not the real me. I don’t know if he’s upset because I’m not the way Meg used to be, or because I’m all that’s left.”

  Graham runs his hand down my arm, finds my palm, and laces our fingers together. Such a simple act of compassion. I soak it up, realizing how much I need it.

  “I wish I could do something to help. I think you’re amazing the way you are.”

  “Just listening means a lot,” I reply. “Isabel is the only person who knows the full story. And now you, I guess.” I breathe in. “My dad would kill me if he knew I told anyone.”

  He pulls me close so our foreheads almost touch. “You can trust me. I won’t ever say anything.”

  I believe him, and being this close, I can’t resist him either. Closing the last inch of distance, I press my mouth against his. My fingers curl into his shirt as his hand travels up to my elbow and diverts to my hip, roaming the bare gap of skin between my shirt and jeans. I’m whirling, spinning, thinking about centrifugal force—something Isabel told me about—how intense rotation is used to separate liquids. Only it’s me being pulled away from myself and thrown into another dimension where there’s only mouths and intertwined breath and a building need for more. Time ticks away, possibly two minutes or two hours—I’m not sure. It’s usually confusing to feel so out of control, but with him, it’s like we’re tumbling together, curling over one another inside a bright, blue wave.

  From somewhere, a horn honks in two quick successions, snapping the euphoria with a defined crack. Graham and I jump apart, still breathing hard. We both look to the source of the interruption: a shiny black SUV parked next to us. Two girls and three guys I recognize from Westmoore get out, laughing. They’re in various states of costume, with missing masks or coats thrown over top, so I know they were at the dance.

  I instantly shrink in my seat, hoping they won’t notice us as they head into the Gas & Sip, but Rob Frost, a senior, does a double take at Graham and turns back. He plunks a white plastic cowboy hat over his black buzz cut, lands two hands on the top of the car and starts rocking it back and forth.

  “What’s he doing?” I ask, bracing my hand against the door.

  “It’s just Rob being Rob. You know him, right?”

  I shake my head no, because I only know of him. Everyone does. Rob Frost, soccer king and all-around douche canoe.

  Graham lowers his window just as I say, “Don’t.” It’s too late, though.

  He looks at me, his face guilty. “Sorry,” he mouths.

  Rob draws a set of fake orange pistols. “This is a stick-up,” he jokes. As his eyes drift past Graham and see me, he stares a beat too long. His smile changes from silly to smarmy in an instant.

  As he holsters his guns, he says, “Heading to a party in East Branch. You want in?”

  “Nah, on my way home,” Graham replies.

  “Right. Guess you’d rather be alone with your girl.”

  He looks from Graham to me, and when Graham doesn’t contradict him, he raises his eyebrows. He knows Graham was with Chelsea hours earlier, but now he’s not.

  “Well, you crazy kids enjoy your evening.” He bangs his fist on the top of the car twice before joining the rest of his group inside the store.

  Alone again, we both sit, unmoving. Then I swear—loud.

  “What?” Graham asks.

  “Uh, hello . . . he just saw us.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he says, sliding his hand into mine. “But I think it was probably a good thing we—”

  “—stopped,” I finish.

  He exhales. “As fun as it was.”

  Flustered, I check my phone for the time—and for angry text messages. “My dad gave me an hour, and it’s already been that. I really have to leave.”

  He checks his own screen, reading a message neither of us heard. “Looks like I have to bring milk home, so I have to run inside. I’ll talk to Rob. Tell him not to say anything.”

  “That is not a good idea.”

  “Okay, I won’t. But can you wait for me? I don’t want to end the night like this, with you feeling weird.”

  I sigh and stare at the looming SUV. “Graham, I need to go.” Before this gets worse.

  “Five minutes. Two minutes, tops. They’ll be gone, and we can say a proper good night.” He tucks my hair behind my ear. “I’ll make it worth the wait.”

  I still feel the echo of his mouth against mine. I’m so weak.

  “Okay, but don’t try to explain anything to Rob.”

  He squeezes my hand before leaving the car. I watch him pass through the glass sliding doors and disappear to the far end of the store, toward the refrigerators.

  Restless, I finish my slushee, and after a minute, squint, searching for the top of his head between the displays of chips and soda. I catch a glimpse of him talking to one of the SUV girls. He backs up, like he’s trying to get away, then stops. More talking.

  I can’t sit still any longer, and I also don’t want anyone else to notice me in Graham’s car. Like cockroaches, there are bound to be more Westmoore kids showing up if some are here already.

  I step out, scanning the lot and gas pumps for anyone I know. I shudder against the cold as I find my keys in my coat pocket. When I try to see Graham again through the windows, he’s in line, behind two other people. I will him to look outside so I can at least wave goodbye, but he doesn’t.

  I walk to my own car, sending him a quick text, when Madeline Crenshaw appears as if conjured out of smoke. She seemingly floats in my direction—staring me down the entire time—and stops at the trunk with a casual lean.

  “Hey, Lemon. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  I’m not surprised she knows my name, but she’s never lowered herself to talk to me before. I pocket my car keys, then take them out again, unsure what to do. Stay and talk, or get in and back over her.

  “Hi Madeline,” I reply.

  “Where’s your costume?” Her voice is light and lilting, but I know she’s wicked to the core.

  I glance down, as if suddenly realizing I’m not wearing one. “I didn’t go to the dance.”

  She steps closer, causing her gold dress to make a shimmying sound. Around her neck, a snake necklace glints in the light. I realize she’s supposed to be Cleopatra, but she must’ve ditched the black wig, since her ice-blond hair is pinned tightly to her head. As she assesses me, her gaze feels like a drill slowly grinding deeper, made even more menacing by blue eyes covered in a triangle of sapphire eyeshadow and heavy liner. She hitches a painted black eyebrow at me.

  “I was just leaving,” I say as my trembling fingers drop my keys. Wh
en I sweep down to pick them off the asphalt, blood rushes to my head, making me momentarily dizzy.

  Madeline licks her lips as her weird eyes dart down the parking lot. “Is that Graham’s car?”

  I avoid looking in the same direction. “I guess.”

  “You guess?” She closes the distance between us a little more as I fidget with my jacket zipper, yanking it up and down. “He took Chelsea to the dance, you know.”

  “I heard he was taking her.”

  She shrugs. “Most everyone did.”

  I angle my head toward the store. Graham is at the register. Outside, Rob leans against the ice machine, lazy and watching. In his cowboy get-up, he really does appear like he’s waiting for a duel. He tips his hat at me, and I instantly know, the way you just do sometimes, that Rob is the one who told Madeline about me and Graham.

  She snaps her fingers. “Lemon? Still here, ya know.”

  I reluctantly face her again. She etches the letter M into my grimy car trunk with her finger and says, “Are you waiting for Graham?”

  “No. I was just about to leave.”

  “I thought maybe you were waiting for him. And if you were, maybe you shouldn’t be.”

  For a second, I can’t remember why I’m here. It started out with wanting to see Graham, and that need overruled the smarter choice—waiting—to avoid this exact situation. But now it appears as if I’m hanging around, trying to lure him away. With Madeline catching me red-handed, I’ve torn the lid off something bigger than I realized, and now there’s no way to shove it all back into the past.

  She slides in front of me. “There’s a lot of nasty gossip that flies around Westmoore. I’d hate for you to get caught in the middle of it. Like, if maybe you were trying to take something that didn’t belong to you.” She pauses, folding her arms, thinking. “A girl with a recognizable name like yours—that would be quite a story—lots of clicks. It always shocks me how the losers get the most traffic . . . my tip line just explodes. All my little spies with their phones, eager to bring me something new.” The red eyes in her snake necklace flash as she takes another step. “There’s no loyalty. I guess because they’d rather it be you than them.”