Juniper Lemon's Happiness Index

by Julie Israel

  “What?”

  He nods across the room. “Unlike from here.” I follow his gaze to the window. The glass is frosted and milky with fog.

  “Psh. Fireworks are overrated.”

  We finish the coffee. Brand opens his closet and comes back with two plastic water bottles, hands one to me.

  “Do you miss her?” I ask.

  “Huh?”

  “Your mom.”

  Something about the question seems to bother him.

  “The difference between my mom and your sister,” he says after a moment, “is that your sister didn’t choose to leave. Yeah, I miss her. Sometimes. Other times I’m angry. Mostly, though . . .” He shrugs. “I’ve said goodbye.” He looks meaningfully at me, and for a long moment we hold each other’s eyes. Then—

  “Oh, hey.”

  He jumps back up, nods at the alarm clock on his shelf. 11:53. “Almost time. You want a beer or something?”

  “Or something? What all do you have in there?” Brand is rummaging back through his closet.

  “I like to keep it stocked. For . . .” He casts about, jerks his head toward the door with its bolts. “Unforeseeable conditions. So? Drink?” He pulls a few bottles, listing names.

  “Hmm. Closet beer. Tempting, but no.”

  “No?” He wrestles deeper, disappearing up to his shoulders in T-shirts, and in a moment reemerges with two brown bottles. “Cream soda?”

  I blink at him. “Did Sponge tell you that, too?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Vanilla cream was Camilla’s favorite. She used to drink it with . . .” I smile to myself, remembering.

  “With what?”

  “Lemon.”

  Comprehension dawns in the form of a half smile, half frown, like I have made a regrettable pun.

  “I’m afraid the only Lemon here is you,” says Brand, “but if you want one of these bad boys, it’s yours.”

  I laugh. “I’m pretty sure that is the only time in the history of the universe anyone has called vanilla soda a bad boy.”

  He passes me one and we twist off the lids with our shirts. We sip them a minute and then, voting to brave the snow for a chance at glimpsing fireworks, lift the window again and lean out along the sill. It’s a close space for two, so our arms, and sometimes hips, brush.

  The heat from Brand’s leg somehow tickles up my spine.

  11:58.

  “Has the accident, like,” Brand starts, “ruined drinking for you forever?”

  He shifts to face me, making my skin buzz. I look at him; at the open soda in my hands.

  Even as I do, I can still see the blood on them.

  I set the bottle on the floor. “I’m sure I will drink again. Maybe even before I turn twenty-one. That’s what scares me: that I might one day drink without remembering her, without feeling her loss. Right now I can’t even imagine that. But one day . . . one day, what if time erodes that pain? What if it’s like the sea sanding the edges from a piece of glass?”

  “What if you’re happy?”

  “What if my pain is all I have left of her . . . and I lose it?”

  “Hey.” Brand straightens and puts his soda on the sill.

  Then he reaches for my hands and pulls me upright.

  “Pain,” he says, squaring me to look him in the eye, and my bloodstream sparks and spins at his warm touch, “is like the good times: something that comes and goes. There’s nothing you can do about that. The important thing”—he draws a breath, and it’s almost like he took it from me—“is to live each moment for what it is.”

  Outside, a rocket screams. Brand’s thumb grazes my cheek.

  Then the rocket explodes and we are connected, mouth to mouth and hip to hip and hand to hair, and his breath is hot and his lips are soft and his taste is stars, stars, stars, the vanilla tingle left from the soda fizzling and crackling like the colors in the distant sky.

  When we part I am spiraling, dizzy, one of the whirling white pieces in the wind.

  “Happy New—”

  I kiss him again.

  180

  Happiness: 9.8

  Kiss kiss kiss kiss (+ + + + + + + + + + + + +

  + + + + + + + + + ) and I kind of got yelled at (–), but kiss kiss kiss KISS KISS

  KISS

  - 181 -

  The next night I am washing the dishes as punishment—one of many in a line that await me for breaking my grounding again—when the doorbell rings. Dad goes to answer it, and when I hear the voice that greets him, my dishrag falls into the sink with a splash.

  “Hi, I’m Brand. I thought I should introduce myself before I picked up Juniper for our date tonight.”

  Date?

  “Date?” I hear Mom echo in the living room. I strip my gloves off and hustle out into the entryway.

  “It’s very nice to meet you,” Dad is saying to a figure sharply dressed in darks, “and I’m sorry that you’ve gone to the trouble, Brand. But Juniper is groun—”

  “Can’t stay out too late.”

  Dad and I both turn, surprised, to Mom. She’s standing in the hallway, hugging her arms, and pulls her shrug more tightly to her.

  “Home by midnight, Juniper?”

  I gape from her, to Brand, to Dad. Mom and Dad exchange a series of looks.

  What is happening?

  “Definitely,” Brand agrees.

  His grin is like a wire, a rush of yesterday and soda fizz stars. In spite of myself and our audience I grin back.

  I should take advantage of Mom’s generosity before she changes her mind.

  “I’ll just . . .” I attempt to contain my smile. “Go grab my bag.”

  I head upstairs as neutrally as possible. When I’m around the corner I jump up and down and silently squee, and then hurry to my room to pull on boots and a sweater.

  On my way back, bag in hand, I pause by Camilla’s door.

  I wish I could share the events of the New Year with her.

  “Ready?” Brand asks when I come back down. I nod, a little more subdued.

  “Juniper?”

  I stop by the door. Mom is watching us with a strange expression.

  “Yeah, Mom?”

  “Just . . .” Something wells behind her eyes—pride? Pain? It’s hard to tell, but she looks kind of like she’s seeing me off to school for the first time. “Take a coat, honey.”

  I do.

  Brand shows me to our ride—not his car, but Keegan’s, as Brand has stayed with him since yesterday—and Keegan says hello and starts the engine. We buckle in and pull away.

  And when I see Mom at the window, I cry a little.

  ∞

  Neither Brand nor Keegan enlightens me as to where we’re going until we’re practically there—but once we park in a by-the-hour lot in Portland and they open the trunk to remove their instruments, it’s pretty clear that it involves music.

  “You’re playing a show,” I guess.

  “Not quite.”

  “Auditioning for The Voice.”

  “Colder.”

  “Can I at least trust there will be no public serenade?”

  “We’re here!” Keegan announces.

  I look up at the building we have stopped in front of: black bricks with the neon purple sign 8-Ball Pizza.

  My brows go up. “8-Ball? I thought you said you weren’t playing!” I’ve been here a few times; most recently with Camie to see a coworker’s band. I know it mostly as a stop for rising underground groups.

  Brand smirks. “You said ‘a show.’ I said ‘not quite.’”

  He guides me to the door. A reader board with flashing bulbs declares Open Mike Night in bold letters overhead.

  A flicker of doubt passes over me. “This isn’t an attempt to get me back into singing, is it?”r />
  “Lemon, Lemon, Lemon. Always thinkin’ about Number One. I’ll have you know that this”—Brand gestures at himself, at Keegan and their instruments, the venue—“is about making you fall for me, and it is entirely selfish.”

  I bite my lip as he holds the door for me.

  It’s working.

  He grins and adds, “Just don’t tell my fan girls.”

  Inside, we’re greeted by Derrick and Tyler, the bassist and drummer of Muffin Wars, respectively. When I see them plugging in, the secret is at last revealed: The band is opening for tonight’s event. Brand and Keegan join the sound check in progress, and then—after some good-natured ribbing about whether or not to expect any guest vocals tonight (“Thanks, but I’ll leave this one to the professionals”)—the four begin warming up.

  “This is ‘Bitter/sweet,’” Brand says into the mike.

  He wasn’t kidding about the “fall” part. The song they play is slow but sly, full of hips and dark allure, and from the moment Brand starts singing I’m pulled under, strung by his smoky voice from word to savored word: kick, relish, kiss.

  I don’t miss the references to rain boots and gummy bears—especially when Brand looks right at me as he sings them.

  By the time the song is over, a crowd has gathered in front and it cheers and bursts into applause. Brand grins, prompting several shrieks and wolf whistles. Not kidding about the fan girls, either, apparently.

  When they strike up a dialogue with the audience, I slip quietly toward the back of the space for a better look. I want to remember this night.

  I snap some pictures with my phone, then edge back even farther for a wide shot. When I glance behind me to be sure I won’t hit something, I see not the wall, but its contents, and lower my phone. Even the last time I was here I was taken by the sprawling collection: a collage of photos, fliers, and album art, a gallery of the bands who have played here. Some who’ve made it big.

  I explore the wall instead, taking it in. When I find a duplicate flier for tonight’s event—Open Mike Night, ft. Muffin Wars!—I take it down and replace it with a Camilla print from my bag. Tonight it’s more out of habit than in hopes of reaching YOU; I didn’t even bring a Message horse, and besides, I’ve started to accept that YOU may be choosing not to answer them. Still, the campaign means something to me.

  The band is about to start again when I hear:

  “Lauren? What’s wrong?”

  I turn to see a girl with long black hair at a table facing quickly away from me.

  But I recognize the slightly older girl across from her.

  Heather recognizes me at the same moment. I can feel Lauren sweating from here but don’t care, and will not be deterred from questioning one sister by a little awkwardness with the other. Why didn’t it occur to me that Heather would be home for the holidays?

  “Juniper,” says Heather, startled as I stalk up to them. I’m so focused that I almost don’t notice the shopping, Voodoo Doughnuts box, and Powell’s bag at their feet—exactly what I’d be doing with Cam if she were home this break. “This is a—I mean, wow, it’s good to see you.”

  “Is it?”

  I can’t keep the resentment from my voice—or avoid a pointed look at Lauren.

  Lauren starts, “Juniper, I—”

  “It’s okay, Lauren. I get it. You don’t have to apologize. But if you don’t mind, it’s actually Heather I’d like to talk to.” I tilt my head at the entrance, indicating Heather and I should take a walk. With Muffin Wars’ new song starting up, it’s difficult to hear.

  Heather and Lauren exchange glances.

  “I’ll be right back,” Heather shouts.

  I signal the same up at Brand on stage—one minute—and then Heather and I are pushing out into the night to stroll the block.

  When the music is distant, “Why didn’t you answer my e-mails?” I ask. I’d sent the same to both her old and new school addresses to be sure she got it. “Do you know something about the person Cam was seeing?”

  Heather doesn’t deny it. Instead, she seems to study the pavement with interest.

  “I . . . suspected Camie was dating someone,” she sighs at last. “But I didn’t know who, and you didn’t, either; I figured—well, if neither of us knew, I think it’s pretty clear she would’ve wanted it kept secret. What good would come from uncovering that secret now? And would it really mean more to her than their privacy?”

  I consider. “But what if I didn’t need to know the guy’s identity? What if I knew just enough to know where to find him, or someone who knows him, and then they could deliver the letter instead?”

  “‘Letter’?”

  Heather stops walking.

  “You didn’t say what you’d found was a letter.”

  I stop, too. “Well, what else do you ‘deliver’?”

  “I don’t know! I thought you meant, you know, a song or a poem she’d written about them or something. For all I know you could’ve meant pizza.”

  “Yeah. She really wanted him to have her last slice of supreme.” I roll my eyes, but know it isn’t helping, so I add, “It was a breakup letter.”

  “A breakup letter?” I wonder at her indignation: if it’s because I didn’t say so before, or because her best friend kept that serious of a relationship a secret from her. “Okay.” Heather resumes walking, so I follow. “I think I’m starting to see where you’re coming from. I can tell you what I know, but I warn you, it isn’t much.”

  “Anything.”

  “All right, well—I was downtown one weekend for a class last winter. Maybe February?”

  “Travel Spanish,” I remember.

  “Yeah. Anyway, I was early, so I stopped in at this little café on my way. Camilla was there; she was waiting down at the counter where they call your order.”

  “And?” My impatience is a grabbing child.

  “I went over and said hi, asked her what she was doing there. She said she was meeting a conversation partner for French. But she seemed fidgety, too; more than from lack of caffeine. When the barista brought her order, she practically jumped on it—cut the guy off mid-sentence. You know: ‘Lattes for Camilla and—!’” Heather cuts the air like that’s all there is.

  “For who?!”

  “I don’t know! She grabbed the coffees—both of them—with a ‘Thanks!’ before I could see what was written there.”

  I could kick something. Another dead end.

  “But,” Heather adds, “in her hurry to get them, she dropped her keys. Her hands were full, so I went to help her, and—guess what?”

  I urge impatiently.

  “They weren’t her keys.”

  “What? How do you know?”

  “They were on an FHS lanyard like hers, but the keychains were different. One was U of O: Oregon Ducks.”

  “What?”

  Camilla hated football. But more importantly:

  U of O and the Ducks are from Eugene.

  Just like Nate.

  “And I’m thinking,” Heather continues, “why would she have somebody else’s keys—particularly somebody from Fairfield’s—unless they had driven there together? Or maybe he had a postbox nearby? I don’t know. Whatever the case, those were not some random language partner’s.”

  “And she didn’t want you to hear the name,” I realize, “because she must’ve thought you’d know them.”

  Or could find out who it was.

  Heather slows to a stop and folds her arms. We are back in front of 8-Ball already.

  “I’m sorry I can’t tell you something more helpful.”

  “No, I’m glad you did. Any information is good information.”

  And it may have been more help than you know.

  Heather smiles at me—a saddened, downturned smile.

  Then, without warning, she reaches forward a
nd hugs me.

  “It’s really good to see you, Juniper.”

  I don’t realize until that very moment, with her arms around my back, how much the feeling is mutual; how Heather, Camilla’s best friend and my familiar senior all these years, is like a sister by proxy.

  I feel suddenly choked up.

  “You too,” I say tightly. “Tell Lauren—” But I don’t know what she should tell Lauren, so I just shake my head.

  We go inside and go our separate ways.

  - 210 -

  At the end of the month and finals four weeks later, Heather’s tip has led me exactly nowhere. Or, if you want to be really specific, it has led me in a big fat circle and back a step. The Ducks fob she mentioned made me reconsider Nate—and when I got a look at his keys by suggesting lunch off campus one day, I actually found one. A U of O keychain.

  Right at the end of his school lanyard.

  In an instant, evidence aligned: Nate listening to my Camie stories. That Mom had seemed to recognize him before the bake sale. That it was him who suggested we search Camie’s room for YOU. What if Nate only did that because he is YOU, and knew exactly what to look for, and wanted to take it before I could find it (but not before throwing us off with Les Misérables)?

  Then we stood in line for burgers and my theory hit a pothole:

  A student ahead of us was wearing a Ducks shirt.

  Anyone could have Ducks swag, I realized. And if Heather saw the mystery keys last winter, why would Nate have had the lanyard already? He didn’t go to school here. He was still living in Eugene.

  Answer: He wouldn’t have.

  Right?

  So that idea was shot.

  With my YOU leads exhausted and events to plan at Booster on Thursdays, it’s hard to feel I’m doing anything real for my sister anymore—so after break I turn my efforts to a new project: a Camilla collection, inspired by the wall I saw at 8-Ball. I’ve got a desk drawer full of odds and ends from all the Places She Was I’ve visited; and because Mom’s re-granted access to Cam’s room—I think she realized how much she’d lost touch with me when Brand showed up New Year’s—I have access to her things again, too.

  Now I’ve got folders of Camie’s photos as well as heaps of tokens from places visited: coasters, tickets, brochures, fliers, passes, receipts; broken-down Voodoo and pizza boxes, Dutch Bros stickers, unused chopsticks and boba straws; relics I have pulled from our rooms like album art, stamp cards, sheet music, and old notes passed between us on the road or at cafés. I haul them all to the art studio at school, and Ms. Gilbert lends me the loft again to figure out what to do with them.