Juniper Lemon's Happiness Index

by Julie Israel

He’s fine. And come on, screw Brand! Dance with ME. I’m pretty freakin’ hot in this dress you know.

  Angela:

  she totally is. if i were into ladies id be on her like PB on J.

  Sponge:

  Okay, but is anyone going to say how great *I* look?

  Me:

  Why aren’t any of you dancing??

  Silence as the troops regroup. Kody says:

  Because you should BE here! Hurry up and get over yourself and stop sucking the fun out of everything. Geez.

  I smirk.

  Well when you put it THAT way . . .

  I’m tempted to fall back on the bed and block out the world with a pillow. Should I go? If I don’t, am I just delaying the inevitable?

  The next message is from Nate.

  Juniper. We all worked hard on this. You should be here enjoying the fruits of your labor.

  When I don’t answer, he adds:

  Don’t let a boy ruin your fun.

  A corner of my mouth quirks.

  That’s exactly what Camie would say.

  I draw a deep breath, sit up despite my turning stomach, and text back:

  Okay. Save me a dance.

  The entrance to 3 Hall is open when I arrive, and through it pours the rich, smoky milk of Brand’s voice. I follow it in a trance to the gym, and there, in the dark and freckled diamonds, I find him haloed by the lights on stage.

  You’d never know, to look at him, the kind of shit that Brand’s been through. He utterly lends himself to the music: lips open, eyes closed, left hand working the neck of his guitar while the right one strums in time. He undulates to the beat, feeling the song with his body. When he plays, it’s like he’s in another world.

  I realize I am, too, as an archipelago of drums ends the song, and the crowd dissolves into whooping and screams. I stop and clap with the rest.

  “Thank you,” he says over the room, a dream that echoes through surrounding speakers. “Thanks.”

  “There you are.”

  A hand on my arm brings me back to earth.

  “Hey!” I hug Kody in greeting. “God, you weren’t kidding. You are smokin’!” Her dress is actually two pieces, a black crop top with a green skirt that makes her eyes and red hair pop.

  Kody appraises me when we pull apart. “So are you! God, I love that dress. Vintage?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” I fluff the ends of the skater skirt. “It’s Camilla’s.”

  I hadn’t planned to wear it. But with Camie’s door open again, raiding her closet felt second nature. I could almost hear her saying Go ahead. Take one out for a spin.

  If Kody’s weirded out by this, she doesn’t show it. She just loops her arm in mine and says, “Well. Good taste must run in the family,” and steers us through the crowd as the band takes up a new beat, slower, for swaying. If not for her pulling me along, I’d probably just stand there as the floor emptied out, watching Brand sing into the mike like a lover’s ear.

  We thread our way to the banquet tables. At a fruit and chocolate platter, Kody splits off for some water. I spy Angela eyeing Sponge in a hot-pink suit that looks made to pair with her yellow dress.

  “You should ask him to dance.”

  Angela startles. “Juniper!”

  She hugs me, then asks, “Who?” I fold my arms, and soon enough her eyes trail back to the punch bowl, where Sponge and Nate are chatting. “Do you think he likes me?”

  “Are you kidding? I think he planned his whole wardrobe around yours.”

  Angela bites her lip. I turn her toward him by the shoulders.

  “Just ask him if he wants to dance with the other best-dressed person here.”

  She squeals. “Okay. Okayokayokay.” Fans herself, calming. “I’m gonna do it.”

  With a breath, she starts over. I punch another victory jab. Even if Sponge were YOU, he’d deserve another shot at happiness.

  “Avec toi? Mais oui.”

  I glance up to see him bow and kiss Angela’s hand. From the far end of the table, Nate also watches them go, hands in his pockets.

  As Sponge and Angela begin to sway, my gaze wanders back to the stage. That’s when I find another set of eyes on the pair: Brand’s.

  They trace a long, burning line across the dance floor to me. Kody must notice the way they narrow then, ’cause she steps closer and squeezes my arm—a protective gesture. Brand looks away, and doesn’t look back again.

  When the slow dance ends in a glimmer of cymbals, couples stop swaying to cheer and clap.

  “Thank you,” Brand says into the mike again. He turns from the applauding crowd, huddling for a moment with his band mates. The bassist nods at something, and then the drummer holds his sticks at the ready. Brand steps back to the mike.

  “We’re gonna play a little something newer now.” Looking pointedly at me: “Something we’ve never played live before. We’re premiering it here, for you.”

  The drummer punctuates this with percussion and the gym resounds with cheers. A countdown, and Muffin Wars blasts into a beat and sexy, foot-pumping electric. There are fan girl screams, and more than one shriek just for Brand (Ugh, was that Morgan Malloy?). All through the intro Brand watches me, even as Nate and Kody pull me into the crowd to rejoin a now bopping and rocking Sponge and Angela.

  Why do I have a bad feeling about this?

  The intro recedes, and Brand leans into the microphone.

  “We touched by chance one afternoon

  And neither of us was immune:

  The spark inflamed to fevered flu ’cause

  Boy, I had a crush on you.”

  Why does that—?

  No.

  No.

  “Your shining eyes, your golden hair

  You caught me watching from the stairs

  And waltzed right up and said you knew that

  Boy, I had a crush on you.”

  My gaze drifts helplessly to Sponge.

  Sponge has stopped dancing. His face is as blank as a white sheet of paper. Angela leans in, probably to ask him what’s wrong.

  He doesn’t answer.

  “We kissed, we danced, the seasons changed

  Our hopes and dreams and fears exchanged—”

  Sponge is gone.

  Sponge is moving.

  Sponge is headed for the sound equipment.

  “You were my butter, bread, and moon

  Oh boy, I had a cru—”

  There’s a loud, electric buzzing and the sound cuts. Sponge stands next to the mixer, cord in hand.

  The dance floor goes still. Confused faces turn toward the stage, looking to the band for answers. But, with the exception of Brand, Muffin Wars looks as mystified as they do; Derrick, the bassist, even looks angry.

  Sponge storms the platform and gets right in his face.

  “. . . some kind of sick joke?”

  The crowd murmurs and gasps as Sponge shoves Derrick in the chest. Keegan and Tyler rush to hold him back, but Derrick holds up a hand and placates them. When he nods at the exit, Sponge stops struggling and throws down his hands, and then the five of them—Sponge and the band—start toward it. Only Brand lingers a moment to hold my eye.

  I feel sick to my stomach then because I know what I must do.

  I follow them out.

  “What the hell is your problem?” Derrick demands out in the corridor. Brand is the last to shed his instrument to intervene.

  “You stole my poem!” Sponge lunges and is restrained. A look enters the bassist’s eyes: sorrow. Pity.

  “Look, Lawrence.” Derrick pinches his forehead as some alarm sounds at the use of Sponge’s real name. “Things haven’t been easy for me, either, but I’m seeing Phil now, and if you can’t handle that—”

  “I don’t give a shit about Phil
, Derrick. I’m talking about my poem.”

  “Poem?” Derrick blinks.

  “The one you were just singing?”

  The bassist’s brow creases. He looks around to his band mates for clues. Eyeing Brand I, too, wonder about the poem. How long have they been playing it? Has Brand had this up his sleeve ever since our fight?

  Reading Derrick’s confusion, Sponge stops struggling. Keegan and Tyler let him go.

  “You—” Derrick pales. “But Brand wrote those lyrics. It couldn’t—”

  “I didn’t write them.”

  All heads turn: Brand stands with folded arms, cool. He says, looking icily at me, “I got them from Juniper.”

  The heads snap to me as if called by a spotlight. The stares even feel bright and blinding.

  Sponge croaks out, “Juniper . . . ?”

  Kody, Angela, and Nate choose this moment to pile into the hall behind me. I am paralyzed from head to toe, mouth dry, stuck worse than in those dreams where you get up in front of your class to make a speech and then discover that hey, you never got dressed that morning.

  I say, like an idiot, “I can explain.”

  Sponge says, “But I threw that poem away.”

  I say, “I found it.”

  “In the trash?”

  At first I can’t answer him. Then I mumble something about independent study and found art projects, and Sponge stares and stares at me, incredulous.

  Brand says, “And what else have you ‘found,’ Juniper?”

  We lock gazes. Those hooded eyes, those thin lips, those high cheekbones that have become so familiar to me—everything is foreign now. Hard set, the way I always thought of Brand before I knew him. Can this be the same person who offered me tissues and gummy bears? I try to say “Please,” but can’t manage even that.

  Angela touches my arm. “What’s going on?”

  “Love letters?” Brand offers, venturing toward her but looking pointedly at me. “‘Dear Leo’? ‘Dear Oscar’?”

  Angela’s face goes slack.

  “Class notes?” He stalks a line from her to Kody. “Index cards? Reading responses scribbled out and annotated with, oh, let’s say, a pretty personal footnote?”

  Kody stiffens. Her green eyes are sharp, mortified, and when they meet mine I feel as though the breath has been squeezed out of me.

  “You found my note?” It comes out a whisper.

  What can I tell her?

  “Kody . . .”

  Her mouth twists. She looks angry, she looks disgusted, she looks like she’s about to cry. Whatever Kody is, she is so much of it that her face passes red and goes straight to white.

  She says, “That’s why you started hanging out with me?”

  “No! I—”

  But I can’t finish the sentence. However my motives may have changed, I can’t deny that her note was the reason I reached out to her.

  When I can’t meet her eyes I just nod into my chest. Kody stares at me, just stares, for a grueling eternity.

  Then she pushes past and down the hallway for the exit.

  Sponge adds, “Unbelievable,” and follows.

  Brand’s band mates, sensing that they’ve landed in the path of something ugly, exchange glances and silently clear out, returning to the gym. Nate catches my eye like he wants to say something—but then he, too, goes after Kody.

  A hand on my shoulder.

  Angela.

  Angela sighs. “I knew it was you, Juniper—the one who dropped the ticket in my locker. I knew it as soon as I saw you at the museum and Kody said your mom had ‘won’ tickets, too. I didn’t say anything because I thought you could use a friend.” She pats my arm a couple times, then goes after the others.

  At last I am alone with Brand.

  Brand says nothing; only looks at me with that grim and hardened countenance. I feel moisture in my eyes, fire climbing my chest.

  I shove him. “What the hell, Brand?”

  “You have the nerve to ask me?”

  The social worker.

  “I didn’t—”

  “Don’t. Bullshit me.” His snarl hits me like a backhand. He closes the space between us and for once, there is nothing romantic about it. “I trusted you.”

  “But I di—”

  “Do you know what’s going to happen now?” His eyes gleam, most savage of all. “They’re investigating my dad. If he’s found unfit to be my guardian—”

  “What?” I rear back. “Then you won’t—”

  “Get yanked out of Oregon to go live with my aunt? Lose the band?” He prowls away from me and wheels back. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”

  My stomach swims with all the things I want to say and can’t. Is this what it feels like to lose someone who’s still alive?

  “I didn’t tell anyone.”

  Brand’s eyes burn in the dim of the hallway.

  “Even so,” I add softly, wanting suddenly to touch him, but afraid to, “I’m glad somebody did.”

  Brand pushes back his hair and wipes his face. Instead of looking at me, he shakes his head and goes to pick up his guitar.

  This is it, I think. Now he’ll leave me forever.

  But before he does, Brand nods at something down the corridor. He mutters, “Ask him about your lost card.”

  I follow his gaze toward the exit. Outside, beyond the doors, Angela consoles a tearful Kody, and Nate is trying to calm Sponge.

  Brand is looking at Nate.

  - 245 -

  245

  Happiness: -10

  I have lost everyone (–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—-–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–——–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—––—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—–—– x∞).

  ∞

  Just two weeks after the St. Valentine’s Shitstorm comes another occasion I was expecting to be hard.

  In the late afternoon, after I have forced myself from bed, washed, and mechanically dressed myself, I leave the house and make a stop at the florist’s.

  Then I drive to Oak Hills Cemetery.

  I haven’t visited since we buried her. As I shut the door of the car and start up the path through the grass, a wave of guilt crashes over me. I should have come here sooner. I should have come here to see her not because I needed her or because today is a special day, but simply to be with her.

  To not be with her.

  To remember her.

  When I reach the grave I find it already laden with bouquets of flowers, pictures, and trinkets, probably from friends or people Camie worked or volunteered with. It doesn’t surprise me at all to see the little notes and charms like you sometimes see at street-side memorials.

  I crouch, leveling with the letters cut in stone.

  CAMILLA ALEXIS LEMON

  “Happy birthday, sis.”

  I lay the lilies I’ve brought on the ground and sit on the grass. Clouds wash the landscape in gray, but it isn’t raining. Yet.

  “I’m sorry it’s been so long. I know it might not seem like it, but I miss you. A lot.”

  I look around. I can’t help it; I feel stupid talking to a headstone. But this is where she rests.

  This is as close as I’ll ever again physically get to her.

  “So much has happened since July.” Where do I start? “It’s a different world without you. Mom and Dad are different. School is different. My friends are—well. I kind of screwed that up.” Nate’s the only one who seems to still want anything to do with me after the Shaker, but I’ve been dodging even him; if Brand is right and he found 65, that means he knows my secret, and that fills me with shame. Even if Nate isn’t YOU, I can’t help
thinking that I’ve been his pity project.

  I’m beginning to understand just how badly I’ve hurt Kody.

  “I’ve been screwing up a lot lately.”

  I look down where the stone meets the ground. A bitter smile twists my lips.

  “On the first day of school, like an idiot, I lost an Index. THE Index. The ONE card where I wrote what I—” My breath goes short. I can’t even say it. “I looked for it, Camie. I dumpster-dived for it. DUMPSTER-DIVED. Me. In a way, I guess you’d be proud. You always were telling me to get out of my comfort zone . . .”

  It’s true. Because of Camilla, I took a lot of risks I would’ve never taken otherwise: I joined choir. I auditioned for my first solo and musical despite paralyzing stage fright.

  I went to a party.

  I went to a party and talked to strangers and had a drink and had another and I wondered what it would feel like to be buzzed, tried it, wondered what it would feel like to be drunk, tried it, got very very drunk, blacked out, challenged Brand Sayers to a sing-off, sang and danced and had a drunken blast, belted Queen on the way home and she died.

  And just like that I’m crying again.

  I’m crying like I never stopped, like the last 245 days haven’t happened, like I just woke up in a hospital bed with a cracked throat and a throbbing head and horrible breath and blood-ratted hair and crimson caked under my nails and uttered, “Camie?” into the face of a stranger, and the stranger shook her head and said, “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, Camie. I’m so sorry.”

  I curl into my knees, curl into the ground, curl my fingers into my palms in the grass and sob.

  I don’t even care anymore. I’ve lost Camilla. I’ve lost Mom and Dad. I’ve lost Brand, who’s now staying with Keegan and not speaking to me; I’ve lost Angela and Kody, who won’t even take my calls, let alone return them. What do I care if a stranger sees me wailing at my sister’s grave?

  After a while—ten minutes, an hour—I feel warmth on the tops of my shoulders and lift my head from the ground. The sun has triumphed through the heavy ranks of gray. Somewhere, a bird sings.

  I raise my eyes back to the stone.

  I tell her, “I found your letter to YOU. I promised myself I’d find him, I’d deliver it, that I would do it as a final favor to you, but I’ve looked high and low for the guy and I can’t . . . I don’t know where else to look. You kept him a secret, you left nothing. All I’ve got to go by are a couple lines of poetry and freaking 3 Hall.”