Lemon Lavender Is Not Fine

by Elle Pallmore

  “There’s nothing to tell,” I say, but I can already see her writing the script in her mind, a black widow spinning its web, waiting for me to fly into it. The only reason she hasn’t pulled the trigger already is to protect Chelsea’s reputation. “I’m leaving.”

  “That’s a good idea.”

  I evade her eyes as I get in my car. She hovers the entire time, and before I can slam the door, she catches it with her hand and says, “I’m glad we ran into each other. We should talk more often, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I mumble.

  “Plan on it.”

  I turn the engine, waiting for her to move so I can get the hell out of here. She lingers just long enough for me to know she holds my fate in her hands. Finally, after giving me one last lashing with a bat of her fake eyelashes, she lets go of the door, allowing me to reverse out of the parking space. She grazes her fingertips along my window as I go, smearing a final warning across the glass. I’m nearly out of the lot when I see Graham step through the sliding doors in my rearview mirror. I keep going.

  As the bright lights of the Gas & Sip drift away, I hold onto the wheel, hoping it’ll stop my hands from shaking. I’ve been living in a delusion, kidding myself by thinking I could ever be with Graham. Straining to see the road against oncoming headlights, I focus on driving straight, but all I can think about is Madeline’s fingerprints streaking across the glass next to my head.

  twelve

  DREAD COILS INSIDE me all weekend and into Monday morning. Madeline’s warning left no need for interpretation, but I don’t have to wait long for her to confirm it. When I open my locker before homeroom, a small scrap of paper flutters onto my sneakers. I peel it open and read the words printed in pink glitter pen:

  We’re watching.

  —M

  My attention rushes left and right, expecting to find her nearby. She’s nowhere to be found, though, so I crumple the paper and throw it at the bottom of my locker.

  The message only reinforces what I’ve been thinking all weekend—I have to tell Graham I can’t see him anymore. I was going to do it on Saturday morning, after a restless night in which I dreamt about Madeline in a creepy Egyptian mask. I sent Graham a text, planning to ease into it, but we got into a conversation, and the moment wasn’t right anymore.

  Then, as we texted late into Sunday, I kept remembering how we’d confided in each other. He’d actually listened, and he didn’t judge me based on Meg’s decisions or what he’d seen of my mother. He also didn’t look at me as Lemon Laugh-at-her—the girl with the infamous name who isn’t remotely remarkable. He makes me feel like a sky full of fireworks, and it isn’t so easy to give that up for the life I had before: a rotation of school, home, my mother’s coma, my father’s demands. For once, I want to be selfish, to live in a world where some of the glitter that dusted over Meg also finds its way onto me. Not the awards, but the feeling that I have an amazing something of my own.

  But as I stand at my locker, the weight of Madeline’s threat yanks me back into reality, so I’m tied up in knots again, torn between what I know I should do versus what I want.

  And for the rest of the day, Graham doesn’t make it any easier.

  To him, our waiting period is over and we’re free to act like a couple, but with Madeline watching, his every touch is a shrill alarm. I jump when he slides his arm around me after English Lit and almost stumble over my own feet when he lands a kiss on my temple in an extremely crowded hallway. A few times, he tries to put his hand in mine, and I find an excuse to tug it back—adjusting the zipper on my bag or tugging the bottom of my sweater. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.

  I present both sides of the situation to Isabel after school the next day. For the first time in months, we sit in her room for an uninterrupted bonding session. Since I’m responsible for cooking Thanksgiving dinner in a few weeks (thanks to Mom and her refusal to be a human being), I truthfully explained to Dad how I won’t be able to pull it off without help. He agreed to let me out of the house for a few hours to talk to Isabel’s father, an authority on all things cooking.

  After I write seven pages of notes on roasting a turkey and get Mr. Gilbertson’s reassurance that it won’t be a complete disaster, Isabel whisks me to her room so we can catch up. I immediately flop on her bed while she starts a playlist on her music app. A few minutes later, she’s caught up on my conflict. And she isn’t happy.

  “Lem, this is kind of risky, don’t you think? I mean, remember last year when Madeline created a daily log on the status of that sophomore’s acne? She tortured her for months. That girl did nothing wrong . . . she was a really nice, smart, pretty girl, but Madeline wouldn’t let it go.”

  “Didn’t she transfer?”

  “Yeah. She was in one of my classes, and then one day, she was gone. It’s like Madeline made her disappear. She could do the same thing to you if you aren’t careful.”

  My eyes wander around Isabel’s room. I’ve always loved being here. Love the poster of Marie Curie and the ultra-modern orange metal shelves holding all her favorite books. Love her grandfather’s old chair, looking wise in the corner, which she upholstered in an oversized houndstooth print, and the geode on her nightstand, split and sparkling with purple crystals. It’s a collage of Isabelness, her personality encapsulated. But even this calm sanctuary doesn’t ease the headache hammering between my brows.

  I roll over and slant my hand through the rays of sun shining through the sheer white curtains. “What do you think I should do?”

  “Madeline is giving you a chance to back out without any mental or bodily injury. Maybe you should take it.” She finds a bottle of green nail polish in her nightstand drawer and shakes it. “Either way, you have to tell Graham.”

  “I’m not,” I say, then cringe, knowing what’s coming.

  Isabel stops painting her toes to throw a pillow at me. “Lem! He should know why you’re breaking up with him.”

  I scrunch the pillow under my head. “Before, when Chelsea was after me, we weren’t really together, so there wasn’t any point in bringing it up. Now, with Madeline’s creepy note, I’ve thought about telling him, but in my mind, it comes off like I’m paranoid.”

  “I hear that. He’ll probably just convince you it’s no big deal. When it is a big deal. A big-ass deal.”

  “Exactly. They never take this stuff seriously.”

  Immediately, I think of my father, who’d look at me like I shape-shifted into a Yeti if I even brought up girl-on-girl harassment at school. How many times have I heard him lecture me that I have to handle my problems if I’m ever going to be a responsible adult?

  “And anyway,” I continue, “it’s my fault. You warned me, and I warned myself, but I didn’t listen to either of us. Now I have to deal with it. So use that giant, gorgeous brain of yours, and tell me how the hell I’m supposed to make this go away.”

  She shakes her head. “It shouldn’t be like this. Why do some girls have to be so mean, when we’re already at a disadvantage? We should be sticking together, not tearing each other apart.”

  “Who knows? It’s just reality.”

  She stretches her legs, assessing her freshly polished green toes. “As far as I see it, you have two options. The first is to let Graham go, and the drama will go away with him. Essentially, you’d be giving M and C what they want, but you’d be safe. Or the second is to stay with him, no matter what happens. That could be an absolute shitshow, but you’d have your man. Either way, you have to tell him what’s happening.”

  I work my jaw until it aches. I’d rather go through a wood chipper than see Graham’s features turn from incredulous to amused after I outline the details of Madeline’s stalkery note.

  “I don’t like either option. Both involve talking about it.”

  “Sorry,” she says, “but we aren’t cavemen. Language was developed long before your objection to it.”

  I throw the pillow back at her, which she expertly dodges.


  “What if it’s a secret?” I propose. “Like, what if I tell him we can’t tell anyone about us. Or maybe I don’t tell him. I just keep it a secret.”

  “And how are you going to manage that?”

  “We only have Lit together, and I can avoid him in the hallways between classes. We can see each other after school, as long as my dad doesn't find out, and we can still text and stuff.”

  “Lemon. You can’t pretend you’re not having a relationship with the person you’re in the relationship with. I mean, I’m impressed from an intellectual standpoint, but it’s still completely cray.”

  Despite Isabel’s doubt, I’m convinced there has to be a way to stay with Graham and not let anyone find out. Madeline will be appeased, Chelsea will leave me alone, and Dad will never have to know about any of it. It’s the perfect plan.

  A minute later, Isabel sighs, breaking my thoughts. “Can we talk about my crisis now?”

  I swing upward, suddenly energized. “I would love to hear about your crisis.”

  She winds her long curls around her fist. “My parents want to meet Mike. My mom keeps insisting I ask him and his parents over for dessert on Thanksgiving, even though it’s a zillion years away and we only went out once. Every day she wants an update, like the whole fate of the earth rests on how many chairs to put out and how many damn pies we’ll need.”

  I take in her hitched shoulders and faraway expression. “But you don’t want to ask him.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to, but doesn't that symbolize that we’re sort of . . . I don’t know . . . something? It was one dance.” She lets her hair go. “I dangled the idea out there, like as a joke, but he didn’t jump in and say he wanted to come over. He didn’t really say anything.”

  “Maybe he didn’t understand what you were asking.”

  She traces the pattern on her bedspread with her finger. “Or maybe it’s too big of a thing. Meeting parents implies we’re like, boyfriend and girlfriend, which we aren’t.”

  The playing song ends, leaving us in a moment of dead air.

  “Do you think it’s too big of a thing?” I ask with caution.

  “I don’t know. I just feel like . . . ” Her eyes drift down.

  “Iz, you can be completely honest. Just say it.”

  “I think we like each other, and we had fun at the dance, but I don’t think either of us likes each other enough to have our parents meet. It’s just that neither of us wants to say it out loud.”

  I edge closer and squeeze her ankle as a tear splotches onto her jeans.

  “I’m really sorry. I didn’t realize . . . I thought you and Mike were totally on.”

  She swipes her cheek. “I really wanted him to like me, but I think it was because I just wanted someone to like me. I mean, no one ever does, so I really wanted it to be him. And for me to feel the same.”

  “I think it’s better not to force it, you know?”

  She hugs her knees to her chest and covers one foot with the other. “We’ve only got one more year of high school, and I haven't been kissed, like really kissed. What’s wrong with me? Am I truly hideous?”

  “God, no. Don’t even start down that road. You’re smart, and you look like a supermodel.”

  “Then why?”

  I don’t have a good answer. There’s nothing wrong with her, but like me, she isn’t flashy. She doesn’t wear short skirts and a lot of makeup like Marisol or flirt shamelessly like Chelsea. We aren’t cheerleaders or jocks or anything else that draws attention. Neither of us fills any superlative, like best-looking or most outgoing. We’re just regular girls.

  “I don’t know, Iz. I wish I did. But you’re the best person I’ve ever known. You matter, even if some boy doesn't realize it because his head is too far up his own ass to notice you.”

  She gets very quiet, and I know she’s slipping into thinking mode. I give her some space by scrolling through her phone to play different music. She snaps a tissue out of the box on the floor and blows her nose. Without looking up, she says, “I don’t want to be scared anymore, Lem. I don’t want to be so afraid all the time.”

  I didn’t know she felt that way; it strikes me like a punch to the chest. She’s been my best friend since elementary school, my one ally, and I’ve somehow overlooked all the emotions swirling just under her surface. She’s always been so focused on school, and when we hang out, we don’t talk about boys in a serious way since neither of us has ever had a relationship before. Guilt creeps over me. I wish I knew all the right words to say. I don’t have them, so I ask, “What are you afraid of most?”

  She falls against her pillows. “Everything! I love hanging out with you, but we’re so secluded from everyone else. I was relieved when Mike asked me out, because, finally, it was happening. In my head, I organized the rest of our lives. I thought we’d live happily ever after and I’d never have to go through that awkward first-date stuff again.”

  I laugh, trying to lighten her mood. “I think I’d have to stage an intervention if you ended up marrying Mike Dettmer.”

  It works for a second; she actually smiles, revealing her braces. “It’s just, I don’t think I’ll ever be able to ask someone out without knowing the outcome, but people do it all the time. The natural cycle of life is acceptance and rejection, yet I can’t seem to get my shit together and do it.”

  It’s true, we don’t really open up to people, let them see us, but that’s different than being afraid, isn’t it? We keep to ourselves, and I don’t see anything wrong with it.

  “How do you think it happens?” I ask. “Not being afraid?”

  “I’m not sure. I find myself watching people. Girls like Chelsea, who go after what they want, balls to the wall. And maybe she’s not so wrong.”

  “She’s your role model?”

  The pillow comes flying back toward my face.

  “I’m serious, Lem. Girls like her—not her specifically, but girls like her—they do what they want and they don’t think about the rest. She’s . . . fearless.”

  “Yeah, she can be fearless because she’s the one terrorizing the rest of us.”

  “You’re missing the point. I don’t want to be like her, I just want to go through my day not being so afraid of what everyone thinks about me.”

  “I can’t really imagine what that would be like.”

  She stares out the window. “I figure there are thousands of us at Westmoore, right? Every day, making choices and decisions without knowing the outcome. It’s like science . . . you conduct an experiment and analyze the results.” She looks back at me, eyes wide. “What if nobody ever did the experiments?”

  I realize she expects an answer. “Um, I guess you’d never know the results?”

  “Exactly!” she blurts, as if we’ve stumbled onto a great epiphany.

  “But, what does that mean . . . exactly?”

  “I think I need to try something new,” she replies. “I need to be fearless. For me. And I think I’m going to need help. Someone to push me to stop worrying.”

  The idea of this sort of scares me. I already consider her pretty damn spectacular, so I’m entirely certain Fearless Isabel will be a badass of epic proportions. But that takes change. And change is something I’ve never loved because it’s a giant hill I can’t see over. There’s no knowing what’s beyond it.

  I’m not sure how I can help her be fearless, but I say, “Whatever happens, I’m on your side.”

  She lets out the breath she’s been holding. “I’m on yours too. No matter what.”

  thirteen

  TWO WEEKS LATER, AS I’m reviewing the groceries I bought against the ingredients in Mom’s recipe book, Aunt Vee calls. I can barely hear her during the bad connection. We take to shouting at each other, which doesn’t seem to help. I get every third word, a list that includes Amsterdam, volcanic ash, canceled flight, dinner.

  “Here?” I yell.

  “Yes—there for Thanksgiving. I can’t wait—you and Meg!”

&
nbsp; I go silent with panic.

  “Lemon—still there?”

  “I . . . can’t wait to see you either.”

  She tells me when she’s supposed to arrive, but then we’re disconnected. I hang up as my father comes in from raking leaves outside.

  “Was someone on the phone?” he asks, casually tossing his work gloves on the table. Each glove has an embroidered heart on the palm; they were a birthday gift that Meg made in sixth-grade. I remember because everyone made such a big deal about the perfect curves of the hearts, the accuracy of her stitches. The other side, across the top, has Best and Dad sewn into the suede.

  I look away from the gloves and cringe, because he wants me to tell him Meg was on the phone. I hate hitting him with the truth.

  “It was Aunt Vee. She’s coming for Thanksgiving.”

  Dad sinks into a kitchen chair, hope punctured.

  Hesitantly, I ask, “What are we going to do about that?”

  “We’ll tell her Meg stayed at school. She had a big exam and couldn’t get away.”

  I busy myself with scanning the food spread across the countertop. I can’t fathom how my mother cooked Thanksgiving dinner for so many years without losing her mind. She never let us help—she did everything, and we showed up at the table like the magic turkey fairy left it for us. It truly reminds me how much my mother has changed, and all because of Meg.

  “Do you think she realizes the holidays are coming up? I mean, that would be the time to contact us, right?”

  “I don’t know, Lemon. I wish she would.”

  His inflection doesn’t exactly inspire optimism, but he’s right, we don’t know. And I don’t have any business expecting her to come through.