I don’t comment. What would I say anyway? I’ll be alone the majority of the time, so I’m not particularly looking forward to it, but it will be fun to exchange gifts with Sage on Christmas day.
“I’m sure that’ll be nice.”
“Mhmm,” she hums, and starts rattling on about Manhattan, the other boroughs, and everything she can’t wait to do—mostly shopping.
We part outside when she heads to the student lot.
I board my bus, and sit beside a kid I think is a freshman.
I’m a senior, older than a senior, riding the bus.
My hands flex on my lap. I could tell Sage I’m ready for a car, I know he’d be thrilled and get me one in a heartbeat. We sold my first car before I moved here with him. There was no point in keeping it, especially when I wouldn’t drive it anyway. But something keeps stopping me from seeking the freedom a car would give me.
It’s at least ten minutes before the doors finally close on the bus and we pull away from the school. We bump along and I give my seat partner an apologetic smile when my body knocks his.
When I finally reach my stop, I can’t get out fast enough. My boots slosh through the gray snow as I trek up the street to the condominium building. Reaching the warmth of the lobby sends a shiver through my chilled body.
Catching the elevator, I finally make it to Sage’s apartment and let myself in.
I hate the empty quiet that surrounds me. I still haven’t grown used to it. Dropping my backpack on the floor, I turn the TV on for some background noise.
I have some homework to complete so I pull out what I need from my bag, spreading the books and papers over the coffee table so I can get it done.
Piles of homework are the bane of my existence so I do my best to not let it get out of control. Because we missed a whole week, the teachers overloaded us today, which is especially sucky considering Christmas break is next week.
Sitting on the floor, I sift through the assignments choosing the one I know I can finish the quickest.
Hours later, when Sage finally gets home, my stomach is growling restlessly but I’ve finished three of the five assignments due by the end of the week.
“Did you order dinner?” Sage unwinds the scarf from around his neck.
“No.” I stand, stretching my stiff limbs. “I’ve been doing homework.”
“Damn.” He looks at the explosion of papers and my laptop I had to grab from my room to start a paper. “I’ll call something in.”
“Thanks.” I rub my tired eyes, then start organizing my mess so I can move it to the bedroom.
“You can leave that if you want,” Sage says with a wave of his hand, pulling out his phone with the other. “I don’t mind.”
“Nah, I’m done for the night. I need a break and food.” I crack a smile.
Sage chuckles, dialing one of the various delivery places we eat from way too often.
Carrying everything back to my room, I dump it on the desk. I wrinkle my nose at the mess and organize it the best I can. Luckily, I won’t have to pack any of this stuff up until Wednesday morning.
Sage’s steps echo in the hall, pausing outside my room.
Looking up, I regard him as he leans his shoulder against the doorway. He looks around my room, at the limited decorations and lack of personality. Beyond the wind chime, there’s not much of anything that says this is my room.
He gives me a sad smile. “You should paint the walls.”
I look at the bare white walls, crinkling my nose. “What’s the point?”
His shoulders sag while guilt eats at me, because I’m responsible for that immeasurable weight he bears. “It’s home, D.” His voice is soft, my initial crackling on his tongue.
I press my lips together before I can tell him this isn’t home. I don’t want to break his heart.
It’s not that I even think of the house we grew up in all that often, but a home holds happiness inside its walls, it has a personality, a beating heart of the people who live there. Sage’s condo doesn’t have it. It’s pretty stark with only a few masculine touches. There’s nothing special about it. It’s a place to sleep, to eat, and watch TV. That’s about it.
I don’t tell him any of my thoughts though.
Instead, I say, “Maybe one day.”
Padding over to my dresser, I slide open one of the drawers and yank out some pajamas for after my shower.
I still feel Sage watching me. Easing the drawer closed, I hesitate to look in his direction but I make myself do it. His jaw works back and forth, the hazel of his eyes more brown than gold for once.
“Sage?” I prompt, wanting to drag him from wherever the depths of his thoughts sent him.
He meets my stare.
“What?”
He continues to blink at me.
“Sage, come on…”
He rubs a hand over his jaw, letting it fall to his side. “Your room back home was always a mess. It was an explosion of color and things you loved. Your shoes were almost always kicked off on the floor, dangerously close to tripping you or anyone who entered. There were pictures of you with friends, of me and you, mom and dad, there was life and personality. It was you. This cold, lifeless space, it isn’t you.” He tosses a hand at my room.
I look around, at the white walls, white bedspread, white furniture, and even the fluffy white rug. I picked the stuff out and he bought it.
“Your old room was yellow,” he continues. “God, it was that awful shade of bright yellow and I hated it so much. I asked mom once why she let you pick that color. You know what she told me?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer, he knows I don’t know anyway. “She said everyone deserves to express themselves in some way and color is the easiest way to do that. She told me Dandelion was the perfect name for you because dandelion yellow is the color of your soul.” I want so desperately to pretend I can’t see the tear making a track down his cheek. “White is … it’s empty. And it fucking terrifies me to think that this is a reflection of you now. What if your new color is white because your soul is empty? What if it’s my fault for not trying harder?”
“Sage—”
He thrusts his fingers through his hair and I bite my lip, because I know he needs to get this off his chest. He works day in and day out, in what I’m sure is a cubicle, but who knows. Since he hates his job I assume he hates talking to most of his coworkers. He still rarely goes out with friends. He comes home to me, to his broken little sister he’s been saddled with, and it kills me that he carries this kind of burden on his shoulders.
“I don’t know why mom thought I could do this.” His voice cracks as he waves his arm at me. “I’m such a fucking failure.”
“You’re not a failure, Sage,” I murmur, clasping my fingers together in front of me.
He lowers his head, brushing the backs of his hands over his wet cheeks.
“Fuck, I don’t know why I’m spilling this all out.”
“Because you need to.”
He lifts his head. “Dani…”
“White, to me, is a new beginning.” I look around the blank slate. “Yeah, it’s cold, sometimes clinical, but it’s symbolic. It’s starting over. It’s learning who I am now, who I’m going to be. White is the freedom to choose. But I think you’re upset about a lot more than the room.” I whisper the last part.
He sniffles, his eyes a little red now. “I’m stressed, worried, my sanity is non-existent,” he admits with a forced laugh.
“You know how I have Mr. Taylor to talk to?” I ask quietly, like he’s some frail injured bird I might frighten if I speak too loud or move too fast. He gives a single jerky nod of his head. “You need to see someone, Herb.” I hope using the nickname will soften the blow.
Surprisingly, he doesn’t dismiss my comment. “Yeah, I know,” he croaks, his voice raw. Schooling his features he says, “I … uh … I’m going to shower. The food is paid for, just the sign the receipt if it comes before I’m out.”
“Mhmm,” I hum, watc
hing him walk down the rest of the hall.
I plop onto my bed, suddenly exhausted. Letting out a mighty groan that should rattle the walls, I cover my face with my hands. It all feels so overwhelming. The past, Sage, Mr. Taylor, life itself. Nothing is simple anymore.
Getting up, I go in search of my phone, finding it on the floor near the couch. I bend, picking it up, and bring up my texts.
Me: I know things are complicated and I’m sorry for bothering you, but is it okay if I text you?
Barely twenty seconds pass before his response comes.
Lachlan: You can text me anytime.
Me: Are you sure?
Lachlan: Yep.
Me: Pinky promise?
He doesn’t respond right away, but when he does it’s with a photo of linked fingers.
Lachlan: Pinky promise.
A stupid, silly, treacherous smile curves my lips.
Lachlan: What’s up?
I lay down on the couch, crossing my feet.
Me: It’s Sage. He’s keeping a lot inside.
Lachlan: We all tend to do that.
Me: He needs to talk to someone … like I talk to you.
Lachlan: I can recommend some counselors he could see.
Me: Could you give me a list to give him?
Lachlan: Yeah, sure I’ll give you one tomorrow.
Me: Thanks.
Lachlan: It’s not a problem, Dani.
I tuck my phone in my pocket, and decide to set some plates out and two glasses of water. By the time I do there’s a knock with the take-out. I grab the two paper bags, sign the slip, and start divvying out the Greek food Sage ordered. If there’s one thing that can be said for our take-out habit, it’s that we do eat a variety.
Pizza will always be my favorite, though.
Sage emerges from the hall with damp hair and red-rimmed eyes.
“Thanks, D.” He presses a kiss to my cheek, giving me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be sorry. It’s a bad habit to apologize for things we have no point in apologizing for.”
“Stop being so smart,” he jokes, taking one of the plates, ruffling my hair with his free hand. I reach up and smooth it down, giving him some epic side-eye he misses.
We park our butts on the couch with our dinner and glasses of water.
Holding my cup up, I give him a small smile. “Cheers?”
He chuckles, shaking his head. He grabs his glass, clinking it against mine. “Cheers, D.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“I really don’t understand what we’re having an assembly for,” I grumble behind me to Ansel. We arrived at first period only to be sent to the gymnasium for a mandatory assembly. It wasn’t planned or we would’ve known about it. There’s a low rumble tumbling through the school from the murmurs of hushed conversation. “Do you know what it’s about?”
“No clue.” He looks around like there might be some sort of hint on the walls.
I hear whispers of excitement, like maybe there’s a surprise guest. I hear someone say something about perhaps a famous alumni visiting.
The dread sitting low in my stomach says it’s something more.
“I’m sure it’s okay.” He reaches for my hand giving it a small squeeze before letting go.
I hyperventilate as we enter the gym and the entire student body fills up the vibrant red bleachers. I freeze, and Ansel waits behind with me. There’s no way I can sit in that crowd of people. I’m doing better, but not that much better.
Ansel stays by my side, waiting for the seats to fill in until we can grab a spot in the front row.
The conversations around us are so loud I’m tempted to cover my ears with my hands.
Mr. Gordon enters the gymnasium along with the vice principal and Mr. Taylor. I’m so stressed I can’t even take in how good Mr. Taylor looks, with his fitted black slacks and charcoal button down. His badge hangs from the lanyard around his neck, swaying back and forth as he walks. He stops beside Mr. Gordon, so both he and the vice principal flank the man.
What is going on?
He starts speaking and I reach for Ansel’s hand squeezing the life out of it.
I hear words like active shooter.
No casualties reported.
Minimal injuries.
The police are handling it.
You’re safe.
But we’re not safe. It’s happening again. At a school only a few miles from here. It’s happening all the fucking time and no one is doing anything to stop it.
Why don’t they care?
Why won’t they save us?
I feel like I’m going to throw up.
“If anyone would like to speak with Mr. Taylor about this, his office is always available for you to drop by or schedule to see him during the day. In light of these recent events the school board has elected to begin the holiday break early. This will be your last day.”
He starts droning on about other things, but my ears are ringing making it impossible to hear him.
I think Ansel says my name, but I feel like I’m going to throw up.
Somehow, I manage to stand.
If I could run, I would, but I limp out of there as fast as I can before I can get sick in front of the entire school.
I burst through the doors into the hall, searching for the nearest bathroom. I know there’s one close.
“Meadows, are you okay?” Ansel’s voice is right beside me, thick with concern.
Slapping a hand over my mouth, I shake my head.
“Dani.”
I close my eyes.
Mr. Taylor.
“I’ve got this,” he says to Ansel, as I move down another hall mercifully spotting a bathroom. “I’ll take care of her.”
Stumbling into the girl’s bathroom, I collapse in the first stall, emptying my stomach.
Mr. Taylor’s presence looms behind me as he lowers his body, crouching behind me. His big hand presses to my back.
“Dani,” he murmurs, rubbing soothing circles.
“Go away,” I cry, my stomach cramping as it searches for anything else it can empty into the toilet.
“I’m not going anywhere.” His voice is stern behind me.
I gag, heaving, but nothing else comes up. Shoving my hair from my eyes, I tell him again, “Go away.”
“No.”
“Stubborn ass.” I try to shove his arm off me, but can’t reach him.
“I wanted to tell you, before Mr. Gordon called for the assembly, but he wouldn’t let me.”
I flush the toilet and don’t have the energy left to protest when he helps me stand. Washing my hands and face, I nearly crack a smile when he reaches into his pocket, passing me a lone peppermint like the ones he keeps by his bed.
I rip the wrapping off and stick it in my mouth. It’s not a toothbrush, but it’ll have to do.
The back of his index finger follows the curve of my cheek before he tucks my hair behind my ear. When he blinks at me in surprise I realize he didn’t mean to do that.
The door opens and closes to the bathroom. “Oh,” a girl jolts at the sight of Mr. Taylor. “Sorry, I’ll go somewhere else.”
“No, it’s okay. Ms. Meadows is coming to my office.”
“I am?”
He gives me a look.
“I am,” I clarify.
We walk side by side to his office and I plop unceremoniously onto the loveseat. I don’t have my bag, since it’s back in the art room, but I figure I can get it later.
Mr. Taylor pulls his chair out and around the desk, sitting in front of me. Leaning forward, he clasps his hands, blowing out a breath. Rubbing his hands nervously on his slacks, he watches me, not knowing what to say. I don’t know either, and silence reigns.
After a solid five minutes, he pleads, “Say something. I want to help you but I don’t know how.”
“That’s the thing,” I whisper, tearing my gaze from the window, “there’s nothing you can do to help. You might look like Superm
an, but you’re not him. You can’t save the world, you can’t save me, you can’t stop bad people from doing bad things.”
His face screws up with frustration. “There has to be something,” he begs. “Talk to me, please.”
“What do you want me to say?” I fight back. “That hearing that was like being shot all over again? That the memory of the screams echoed through my head, that I felt the warm wetness of blood beneath me, that I hate the fucking color red so fucking much and it’s everywhere in this Goddamn school?” My voice rises to a shout, thank God his office is on this lonely hallway.
He pales, his fists opening and closing like he’s having a hard time not touching me.
“So much evil exists in the world,” I continue, my voice lowering to a soft whisper, “but there’s good too, I know it, the problem is when the good guys do nothing to stop the villains. The shooting at my school changed nothing and this won’t either. I’m not trying to be cynical, just realistic. And you know what? It’s maddening living in a world where our lives are valued so little and if something brings you even a sliver of happiness it’s in some way wrong.” He knows I’m talking about him now, I can see it in his eyes. “It becomes selfish to want one thing that’s yours.”
“Dani—”
I sit back, crossing my arms over my chest. “Talk to Mr. Gordon, or whoever is necessary, I want to go home. I want my brother to come get me.”
He stares at me for a long moment, his jaw working back and forth. “Okay,” he finally says, standing. His chair rocks back and forth in his absence, squeaking slightly.
He rounds his desk, picking up the black-corded phone. I barely listen to his words as he speaks to the office.
When he hangs up the phone he tells me they’re calling Sage.
“My backpack is in the art room.” I still won’t look at him, I don’t want him to see the anger simmering inside me, ready to explode. I’m not mad at him, so I don’t want him to misinterpret.
I’m so fucking furious at the people who have the power to make a change, but don’t give a damn.
We’re all a bunch of helpless sheep, whether you realize it or not.
Sweet Dandelion Page 24