Juniper Lemon's Happiness Index

by Julie Israel

  It takes several minutes, and it isn’t obvious at first, but then it happens:

  I start to see him.

  It isn’t obvious at first; I never actually see YOU’s face. Not even the back of his head, a silhouette. But he’s there. In the pictures taken after the rest of the club left and Camilla stayed on, I see him. I find him at Times Square. The Empire State Building. On the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. There he is at Grand Central Station; again stopping off for a hot dog, roasted chestnuts, a butter-glazed pretzel from a street vendor.

  He’s in Camilla’s eyes, her rosy smile: that glowing, intimate expression only one person summons.

  He’s the one holding the camera.

  And once I see it, I can’t stop seeing it: YOU is everywhere. He’s there, with Camilla and Bristol, dozens of other places throughout the previous year: on hikes. At the grill. Shopping Saturday Market, sharing Dutch Bros, on volunteer projects—almost as far back as Chiapas.

  Who is that smile for, Camie?

  - 173 -

  The next several days are more of the tense, loaded silence that was Thanksgiving. Winter break would’ve been a difficult time anyway, but things have been extra strained since Mom caught all of Booster Club in Camie’s room and we had it out about her.

  No effort has been made to continue that conversation—probably because Mom doesn’t want to, and Dad doesn’t know how. Things have been tenser even between them since that night; I overheard Dad coax Mom into showing him the obits, and when he’d asked her why she’d kept them, she’d spat back, “What else should I have done? Recycled them?” She’d cut them out because she couldn’t get rid of them; she’d hidden them because she didn’t want to talk about them.

  “We have to talk about it sometime.” Dad had gently reminded her that Dr. Prasad, the therapist we’d tried once, would see her anytime—alone, or as a family.

  Mom had said only: “I can’t.”

  And so we haven’t. And we don’t.

  And instead of hanging around the house and its perpetually crushing silences, I spend as much time out of it as humanly possible: at the library, Kody’s, Angela’s. But of course the winter break means holidays: family time. Kody’s and Angela’s families have always been welcoming, but I don’t want to impose, and being around them—especially Kody’s now bratty, now adorable little brother—makes me hurt for what I’m missing.

  So on Christmas Eve—when my friends are celebrating, and my usual haunts are closed, and I just can’t bear to be in the house any longer—I take my keys from their hook in the kitchen and announce I am going out.

  “Late shopping?” Dad asks.

  “No. Just out.”

  He stares at me long and hard. I can tell he’s conflicted, weighing my needs against Mom’s, eager to avoid a repeat of the Blowout. “It’s Christmas Eve, Juniper,” he says at last, quiet. “Family time. You should be home.”

  I cast a glance at Mom on the living room sofa. She sits stooped, staring across the room at the fireplace where only three stockings hang this year. A glass of untouched wine before her winks with constellations of colored tree lights.

  “I don’t think I’ll be missed,” I say.

  And I shoulder my bag and go.

  ∞

  I get on the freeway going north and just drive. I travel in a daze, knowing that no matter how far or how fast I go I can’t leave my problems behind me. After about an hour I start seeing signs for Hatton, and decide on a whim to run an errand I’ve been meaning to get to, anyway.

  I take the exit and begin following signs to Fullbrook.

  I’m relieved to find the bookstore open when I park along College Way. Despite the winter lights and holiday displays in the windows, the shop doesn’t appear to be doing any business. When I pull the door and enter I actually have to look around for a salesperson.

  “Hi there!”

  A door closes somewhere in back. A tall, scruffy man with thick black frames and a smile appears and crosses the store to greet me.

  “Is there something I can help you find?”

  “Yeah, I—”

  But I’m at a loss for what to say. All I know is that Camilla’s secret boyfriend bought Les Misérables here. How am I supposed to ask this bearded hipster (“WILL,” according to his nametag) if he’s seen the guy I know next to nothing about?

  Before I can even try, WILL says, “Hey, have we met before?”

  That throws me. “I . . . doubt it.”

  WILL: (trying to place me) “No, I’m sure I know you from somewhere. Were you in Intro to Psych last year?”

  I shake my head.

  “Brontë sisters?”

  I shrug. WILL looks thoughtful, then snaps his fingers. “Jan term: the Hitchcock class.”

  At last I smile. “I don’t go here.”

  “What!” He grins. “Where do you go? Are you in school, or—”

  “Fairfield.”

  “Fairfield High?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Ah-ha.” WILL nods, a look of understanding coming over him. “So, are you here to see the campus?”

  “No, I . . .” I hesitate, debating what tack to take, and then decide the truth is the most straightforward. “I found a book someone bought here. It has this thoughtful, really beautiful inscription in the cover, but it doesn’t say who it’s to or from”—okay, the strategically modified truth—“and I guess I’d like to figure out who bought it so I can get it back to them.”

  “What book? Out of curiosity.”

  “Les Misérables. Oh, and I don’t actually have it with me,” I realize belatedly. “But would that be possible? I mean, if I brought in the receipt, could we look up who bought it?”

  “Mm . . .” WILL looks off to the side, doubtful. “There are certain records, but even if the buyer used a credit card, we wouldn’t be able to disclose their name. Legal reasons.”

  My shoulders drop. “Right.”

  I bow my chin a moment, spinning the gears, trying to come up with another angle. Before I have anything—

  “Got it!”

  WILL claps his hands together. Thinking he has found a loophole, I straighten attentively.

  “You’re the Bicycle girl! From Shawn’s thing? With the band?”

  “Oh god.” I hold my face, half in laughter, half mortification.

  “I knew it,” says WILL. “I knew I’d seen you before! I’m pretty good with faces.”

  “You are,” I realize.

  And if WILL was at Shawn’s that night, maybe he saw something . . .

  “Do you remember seeing her?” I show him one of Camie’s senior portraits, a photo I still keep in my wallet.

  The same one in the obit.

  WILL looks at the picture, frowning.

  “Uh . . . yeah,” he says after a moment. “You know her?”

  “Do you?” It comes out more accusatory than I’d intended.

  “No. I only met her at that party.”

  “You talked to her?”

  “Uh, briefly, I think. Why?”

  “What’d you talk about? Did she say anything about meeting somebody?”

  “Meeting somebody?” WILL’s frown deepens. He looks as though he’s beginning to feel uncomfortable.

  “Please. If you can remember anything—anything she said—it would be a huge help to me.”

  WILL considers me, eyes screwed tight. “She’s your sister?” He nods at the photograph.

  “Yes.” I don’t trouble myself correcting his choice of tense.

  Rather than comment on my answer or ask why it is I’m asking him these questions instead of her, WILL seems to decide something. He exhales at the floor.

  “Honestly, I don’t remember much of what I talked about with anyone that night. I mean, Fourth of July, that was what—
six months ago?”

  My disappointment must physically weigh me down, because WILL shrugs and adds, “Sorry.”

  The bell at the front of the store clangs, announcing the arrival of a girl with an armload of books. WILL calls to her, “Hi! Be right with you,” and asks if there is anything else he can help me with. I tell him no. He wishes me an automatic Happy holidays, and heads to the till.

  ∞

  It’s just getting dark as I drive back into Fairfield. I sit a moment at a light that’s turned green, debating, and instead of taking the turn for home I go straight, toward school. A couple minutes later I pull into a space outside 3 Hall, turn off the engine and just sit there, the only person in the only car in the lot.

  I can’t go home yet.

  I drum my fingers along the steering wheel. When that makes me feel too trapped I unbuckle my seat belt and lean back, pinch my forehead, loll my head around from side to side. All I can think is that there’s nowhere to go, there’s nowhere to go, there’s no—

  —reason the lights should be on in the band loft.

  Why are there lights on in the band loft?

  ∞

  When I try them, the doors leading into 3 Hall are locked. Inside is dark, and when I cup my hands and peer through the glass I can’t see anybody.

  But the light in the band loft burns steady.

  I walk back a ways and try the exterior door of the choir room, which is really more of an emergency exit and never used except on concert nights and muggy afternoons.

  It opens.

  I tense, waiting for an alarm. When there isn’t one, I stare.

  “Hello?” I call in, and instantly regret it.

  But several moments pass; nothing happens.

  So with a final glance around, I slip inside.

  A dim light spills from the staircase between the band and the choir rooms. I approach and find the door to the band loft wide open, a bright yellow square at the top of the stairs.

  “Hello?”

  Reflex. Can’t help it.

  I start up the stairway. When I reach the top, I knock and ask more quietly, “Is anybody here?”

  No one answers, so I step through the doorframe. Instead of a person, I find a mess: empty bottles, soda cans. Wadded fast-food bags, wing-stained paper plates, Cup Noodles with plastic forks sticking out, and a tower of sushi trays stacked so high, it leans. The room reeks of pizza and taco sauce, and looks like the backseat of someone who plays Xbox more regularly than he washes.

  I walk through it, gawking.

  Then I see the bedding.

  The blankets, pillow, and mattress Brand said he uses for naps sometimes—all of it’s out on the floor.

  Slept-in.

  The bottom cupboard he’d put the bedding away in is open, too, keys left dangling in the lock.

  Thinking of Brand, my eyes lift to the shelf where his guitar was. Sure enough, the case is open, and I recognize the black-and-white Fender inside it as his. Beside it is a plastic sack with oranges, several boxes of instant rice and mac and cheese, and—

  A large, open package of gummy bears.

  Suddenly I don’t want to be here; don’t want to have to explain myself to him, or Brand to explain himself to me. I backtrack through wrappers that crunch like fallen leaves and hurry out.

  Back in my car, I close my eyes and grip the steering wheel. The night’s grown dark, the air’s turned chill, and though I find it oddly tranquil, I know I can’t stay much longer. It’s getting close to dinner. As much as I don’t want to, I had probably better—

  A knock at the window.

  “JESUS CHRIST.”

  I release the wheel, eyes wide at the shaded face outside. Brand smirks at me, his devilish smile faintly blue in the December night. He motions with a gloved hand for me to roll down the window.

  “What?” I demand, still on edge.

  “Car trouble?”

  I realize what he must be seeing and that he’s trying to help me.

  “No,” I sigh, relenting a little. “I just . . . needed to get out of the house for a while.”

  Brand grimaces. “I hear that.”

  A lamp flickers on in the parking lot. Brand and I match gazes in its orange ray, each as if waiting for the other to say something. I ask, “What are you doing here?”

  “Me?”

  Brand holds up a white paper Lauer’s sack, something from the deli. Fried chicken, by the smell of it. I think of all the fast-food bags, the instant meals and takeout strewn across the band loft and wonder how long he has been staying there.

  If the grocery store fried chicken he’s holding is his Christmas feast.

  If he is eating alone tonight.

  Tomorrow.

  “Just picking up dinner,” he says. “The old man isn’t big on cooking.”

  I nod. I’d like to ask him some of what I am thinking, even invite him to join us for dinner tomorrow, but I can’t think of a way to do that without revealing I have seen his hideout or making him feel like a charity case.

  Not that Christmas dinner with the Lemons would be a real improvement.

  “Hey,” Brand says suddenly, rubbing his hands together. “What are you doing for New Year’s?”

  “What?”

  “New Year’s. Got plans?”

  “Uh . . .” Beyond staring at the ceiling and talking to no one because I can’t even talk to my parents anymore? “Not really.”

  “Good. There’s something I wanna show you. Pick you up at ten?”

  “Oh. I’m, uh, kind of grounded right now. I don’t know if . . .”

  “So sneak out.” Brand’s eyes search mine, their faint china blue illumed strangely in the harsh orange light. A cold wind drafts through the open window and I get a waft of leather and forest and cigarettes.

  “And dress warm, Lemon,” he finishes, leaning back and knocking on the roof of my sedan. “The forecast says snow.”

  “Brand,” I call after his back.

  He turns.

  “I’d say merry Christmas, but . . .” Nope. There’s just no getting around it. “It would feel kind of shitty and hollow.”

  A small smile.

  Brand holds out his arms in regal gesture, the fried chicken still clutched in a hand, the other lifting an invisible hat as he sinks into a bow. “Then merry fucking Christmas,” he says. “From the heart.”

  I smile back. “Merry fucking Christmas.”

  - 174 -

  Merry fucking Christmas:

  174

  Happiness: 0

  Camilla (+—+—+ –) x ∞

  Portrait of Christmas in Past Positives

  4:00 a.m.: recon with Camie—sneak into living room with flashlights to snoop out stuffed stockings and Santa presents. Sneak cookies. Back to bed.

  6:00: Cam’d bounce on my bed singing JU-NI-PER, JU-NI-PER, JU-NI-PER, PRE-SENTS to the tune of “Jingle Bells” until I rolled out and/or hit her with pillows. If slow to rise, “Jingle Bells” followed by annoying Top 40.

  Family presents in pajamas.Relatives’ presents first. Aunt Jane: HATS. Always hats. Queen of England, Sunday best, Luncheon with the Ladies of Tea and Dainty Pastries hats. Gramma Lemon: Dala horses.

  On opening a horse: annual rewatching of When Camie Got Bristol video. [Script. Six-year-old Camie: “A HORSE, A HORSE!” *gets up and runs around, gallops it through the air* Mom: “Careful, honey! That’s a special horse—she’s older and more fragile than your other ponies. She’s collectible. You have to take good care of her so you don’t scratch the paint.” Camie: “Okay!” *runs back to couch, plunks down, begins picking at discarded gift tag* Dad: “What are you doing, Cam?” Camie: (peeling off sticker) “My horse is special and I’m . . . I’m gonna give her a star.” Zoom in: Camie plants star sticker on horse’s painted underb
elly. Cam: (grinning toothily) “See?” Mom: (under her breath) “Damn it, David, I told Sandy she was too young for this!” Dad: *laughs*]

  Warm cinnamon rolls from Lauer’s. Coffee for Mom and Dad. Hot chocolate for me and Camie.

  Santa presents last. Camie = screamer.

  Try on clothes. Model. Trade.

  HAT WALK. Cam insisted we parade our Aunt Jane creations each year, not only around the house, but out in the neighborhood. It could be surprisingly fun: We’d get honking cars and huge thumbs-up, shouts like “Which way to the Hatter’s?” and “GLORY HATTELUJAH!” and once, cookies from an amused Santa.

  Make dinner. Everyone helped: Dad did the roast and vegetables; Mom the cranberry bread and bread pudding; Camie the sweet potatoes; I made pie.

  4:00 or 5:00 p.m.: eat. Dinner followed by pie and more coffee/hot chocolate, respective food comas.

  Card games. Cam = reigning Rummy champ.

  Cam and I ended the evening with a last hot chocolate and a Christmas movie. Took turns picking. Last year I chose The Nutcracker. Camie’s favorites: The Holiday, Elf, The Muppet Christmas Carol.

  Never made it to the end; always fell asleep in blankets on the living room sofa.

  - 180 -

  On New Year’s Eve a rock clangs against my window at promptly 10:00 p.m., successfully startling the bejesus out of me. I lift it open and lean out.

  “Could you be any more cliché?” I hiss down at Brand in the grass below. “If you’re trying to be discreet, next time use a pinecone—or maybe some of those gummy bears you like so much.”

  “I’m on time, aren’t I? What more do you want, roses?”

  I roll my eyes and shut the window.

  “I thought you were sneaking out?” he says when I walk out the front a minute later. “If I’da known you were gonna use the door, I would’ve knocked.”

  “My parents and I aren’t on great terms right now.”

  Life at home has hit an all-time low since Christmas Eve. My walking out on “family time” (even though Mom was in the exact daze I left her in when I got home, with the exception of less wine in her glass) appears to have fouled whatever rapport Dad and I had left.