Juniper Lemon's Happiness Index Read online

  No one is there.

  But a chair is drawn.

  And walking quickly away from it is Brand Sayers.

  Did Brand see what I’m reading and bail?

  Is that what YOU would do if he saw I was onto him?—spook and run?

  “Auden,” I mumble vaguely.

  “What’s that?” Nate cranes into my eye line like he didn’t quite hear. I shake myself and meet his gaze.

  “W. H. Auden.” I clear my throat, sitting up a little. “It’s, uh, poetry.”

  “I didn’t know you were into poetry.”

  “My sister read it.”

  The words slip out. For an instant I regret them, but Nate doesn’t look uncomfortable; he looks thoughtful.

  “Juniper,” he starts. “About your sister. I just . . . I wanted to tell you—”

  “Hey, guys.”

  Kody heaves off her backpack and claims the seat beside me, Lucy lunchbox landing after her. “Ooh, book. Homework or fun?”

  Nate pulls back. He seems eager to drop his awkward sympathy, so I let him, instead closing the book to show Kody the cover.

  “As I Walked Out One Evening. Poetry?”

  “I found the check-out slip for it. Camilla had it in June.”

  “Whoa.” Kody’s eyes widen. She glances at Nate, but he just raises his brows. “Find anything interesting?”

  “Some good poems so far. Not so much on which spoke to her.”

  I close the book and set it down to start my bento. No sign of YOU yet, either.

  But if he’s there, I’ll find him.

  ∞

  By English I am trolling the pages of As I Walked Out One Evening one by one, checking for creased corners, pencil ghosts, underlined words, and margin notes when Mr. Bodily’s back is turned—anything that could be part of a trail left for Camie. At this point I don’t really expect much, but it isn’t like I’ve got something better to go on.

  I work gradually from front to back, one stolen minute, one page at a time, until suddenly binders are closing and class is over.

  “Juniper.”

  I look up through the bustle. Mr. Bodily motions for me to meet him at the front of the classroom.

  Hmm. Perhaps my ninja reading was slightly less ninja than I imagined.

  “Uh,” I tell Nate, who lingers to see if he should wait for me, “I’ll see you at Booster.”

  “Cool. Don’t forget, meet at Pippa’s today!”

  I flash a thumbs-up. When Nate waves and joins Kody, I close As I Walked Out One Evening inside my notebook, stack both beneath the book I should have been reading, and walk to the front of the classroom.

  “You wanted to see me?”

  “Yes.” Mr. Bodily is erasing the chalkboard. He dusts his hands, then drags up a stool and sits on it. “How are you doing, Juniper?”

  “Uh . . . doing?”

  The question catches me off guard. It’s been weeks since the strawberry milk thing; does he mean that, or just how I’m doing in general?

  He’d be the first teacher to ask.

  “I’m all right.”

  “I couldn’t help but notice The Scarlet Letter didn’t appear to be holding your attention.”

  Guilty.

  I shrug.

  “And did my eyes deceive me, or were you sneaking glances at another book as we discussed the riv-et-ing story of Hester Prynne?”

  His subtle smile is contagious: I feel my lips contradict themselves while my eyes give me away.

  “May I ask which one?”

  He’s already caught me. Might as well.

  With a wobbly smile I remove the poorly concealed anthology from my notebook.

  “Auden?” Mr. Bodily’s brows go up. It’s probably not every day he catches someone reading poetry under the table. “Well,” he laughs, “at least it’s literature. You like him?”

  I squash my lips together. I wish I’d spent more time reading the lines than searching between them. “What I’ve read so far.”

  “He’s a good one. Any favorites yet?”

  “‘Prothalamion,’” I vamp, recalling the wedding one I read at lunch. “What about you?”

  “Me?” Mr. Bodily folds his arms, pensive. “‘Funeral Blues,’” he says after a moment. “It wasn’t always my favorite, but it’s gotten me through some hard times. Perhaps you would also find it meaningful.”

  Without intending to, I stare. I didn’t realize Mr. Bodily had lost somebody. He’s what—twenty-two? Twenty-three? It’s hard to imagine someone so young having suffered a significant loss.

  Then again, look at me.

  Maybe that’s why he’s been more sensitive than other teachers.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  I hesitate a moment, wishing I could ask him who, what shape hole the person he’s lost has left in his life—there are so few in my circle I can relate to—but suddenly this feels personal. Too personal.

  I say, “My next class is in G Hall. I better get going.”

  Mr. Bodily says, “Okay. Have a nice weekend.”

  ∞

  After school I head to Pippa’s, the first on a list of places Nate and I will be soliciting for contributions to Booster causes. I arrive before Nate does, so I order a drink and sit down to look up “Funeral Blues”—on page 43, according to the table of contents.

  I take a quick sip of coffee and flip to it.

  Then I shiver so hard, I nearly lose the book.

  The first four words are Stop all the clocks.

  How—I didn’t even turn in that Pilgrim/Havisham response. I stashed it between the cards of my Index. There’s no way Mr. Bodily could have seen it. Coincidence?

  Or is grief just like that for everyone?

  I grab the blank card holding my page and scribble down:

  TIME

  The first words of “Funeral Blues” by W. H. Auden are “Stop all the clocks.”

  Havisham 1.

  Pilgrim nothing.

  I write so fast I smear the ink with my hand. The blurs remind me of another rush job on an index card.

  I wonder . . .

  My eyes trail up toward the bulletin board by the register. It, like the one in 3 Hall, is as crowded as a city telephone pole.

  Could my card still be there?

  I get up to check. I don’t recall exactly where we stuck it, but I’m encouraged when I start peeling up layers to find fliers from as far back as April.

  Lost dog. Spring concert. Zombocalypse tournament . . .

  Then—

  My handwriting.

  I unbury the rectangle, removing just enough tacks and staples to work it free, and smooth the corners to read over the first side.

  In moments I am grinning from ear to ear.

  “Did I miss something funny?”

  I look up to find Nate at the counter, a paper coffee cup in hand.

  “Oh.” I laugh. “Uh, hey Nate. No, I was just remembering something.”

  “Remembering what?”

  I shake my head and show the card. “About my sister.”

  “Oh?” Nate arches a brow. He sits at a table and folds his hands like I should go on.

  I press my lips together. I don’t want him to feel uncomfortable, but he did offer his support before . . .

  I decide to take him up on it.

  “Well, we were here last Valentine’s Day, and”—a laugh escapes me as I steal the seat across from him—“and I wasn’t in a very loving mood . . .”

  I slide him the card. Nate looks over the side facing up:

  Things I just LOVE about Valentine’s Day

  1. the classy, original verse each year. Roses are red. Violets are blue. This poem’s a lie. Violet’s PURPLE, FOOL.

  2. couples kissing in line.
>
  3. couples frenching in line.

  4. couples exchanging Juicy Fruit, oxygen, and other worldly goods in line.

  5. like is that boy a dementor ’cause I think he’s sucking out her soul (like a horse sucking bubble tea through a straw)

  6. when they share a milkshake Lady & the Tramp style and/or SIT ON THE SAME FREAKING SIDE OF THE TABLE WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU

  7. the special few who feel moved to serenade their valentine with song, despite being five-screeching-cats tone deaf

  8. WHEN THE GIRL CALLS BRAIN-MELTINGLY OFF-KEY SONG “CUTE” UGH GAG.

  “Oh my god.” Nate wheezes and holds his sides. “A horse sucking bubble tea through a straw?”

  I grin again. “I was trying to write a speech for health. I’d had this massive headache and there were these gross couples everywhere and they were impossible to ignore when—” I jab a finger at #7. “So I started this list instead. Camie—she was here studying with me—caught on, and she swiped it and said—”

  ∞

  “Valentine’s Day’s about love, Juni! Write down some positives and maybe you’ll have a better time.”

  I laughed darkly. “‘Positives’? I have a headache, a speech to write, a test to study for, they’re out of my coffee and I can’t. Focus. On anything. But Marty Mc-freaking-Slurpface over there. What do I have to be happy about?”

  Camie considered me as if accepting a challenge. I knew that look.

  That look was dangerous.

  “Okay.” She stole one of my Index cards. “I’ll make you a deal. No one can match your mind for patterns or peppy pessimism—”

  I harrumphed.

  “—but let’s make things interesting. I challenge you to a race: a positives race. We each take a card, and on the count of three, fill them up as fast as we can with good things about today.”

  “Not fair. You have bigger handwriting.”

  Camie rolled her eyes (which actually made me smile). “Three things, then. C’mon. It’ll be a snap.”

  “For you, maybe.”

  “If you win, you can grouch all you want. I’ll even buy you a shake.”

  “And if you win?”

  “If I win . . .” Camie smiled, a mix of mystery and charisma you could never say no to. “You have to use your powers of observation for Good for the next three months.”

  “Three months? Why three months?”

  Her lips curled slyly. “That’s how long it takes to form a new habit.”

  I gaped at her. “You evil genius.”

  “So? You game?” She took her pen and twirled it between her fingers. “Or are you afraid you might actually enjoy yourself?”

  “Tsh. I’ll do it just to prove that I won’t.” I turned the LOVE list over.

  “Ready?”

  “No!”

  “On the count of three. One . . . two . . . THREE!”

  ∞

  “Camie won, naturally.” I flip the card over so Nate can see the reverse. “I only got one.”

  Noise-isolating ear buds

  Nate grins. “To block out Tone Deaf, right? And, uh—what did you call him?” He flips the card back. “The bubble tea kid.”

  “McSlurpface.”

  “Yeah.”

  We both laugh. It feels good to share the memory with someone.

  This might be the most I’ve talked about Camie with another person since she died.

  “So did you manage?” Nate asks me.

  “What?”

  “Your three-month penalty.”

  I smile. “Yeah. I mean, I made some adjustments—I did both positives and negatives, that just felt more honest to me—but I got out an old shoebox and filled it with cards like this and did one every day. I didn’t always get three good things, but I made the effort.”

  “I bet your sister was pleased.”

  Snort. “Thrilled. Camie called it my ‘Happy Box.’ After a couple weeks, I started rating days one to ten just to spite her: a number that fluctuated like the Dow Jones based on events. I called it my ‘Happiness Index.’”

  Nate grins. “I like it.”

  For a moment, I feel a swell of pride. But as I keep remembering, my own smile fades a little.

  “I meant the name as a joke—part sarcasm, part attempt to make the thing feel more dignified. But in the end, the joke was on me. I still do it.”

  “Do?”

  “The cards. One a day. The habit did stick, the sneaky genius.”

  I take a breath, and on the exhale shake my head. “Anyway. Thanks, Nate. I think I needed that.”

  “Anytime.”

  He regards me thoughtfully. For a moment he looks as if he might add something, but then he closes his mouth and shakes his to-go cup—empty.

  “Well, I don’t know about you, but I could use a refill. Should we go talk to Pippa now?”

  “Let’s.”

  Nate pays for a second cup. As he does, we chat with the owner, and she agrees to donate pastries to several school events: award ceremonies, staff meetings, Chess Club tournaments.

  Throughout the exchange, my eye strays to the bulletin board. My old V-day list is safe in my pocket, but even so, the place it used to be and now isn’t eats at me, a burning hole beneath the papers. It doesn’t feel right to leave it that way—to have taken something of my sister out of the world and left a new hole behind—so on a whim, I check myself for something to replace it.

  The first thing I find is a keychain: the miniature Dala horse on my backpack. It isn’t Bristol, but the classic red reminds me of her and of Camilla.

  While Nate is getting his coffee, I unclip the horse from its zipper.

  Then I hang it on the tack where the card used to be.

  - 105 -

  Two days later, my da Vinci ploy comes together.

  I tell Kody that my mom won some tickets at work, and Saturday morning we hand them over to a lipsticked official who stamps our hands and tells us to “Enjoy.”

  In the first room of the exhibit, an illustrated timeline of da Vinci’s life and work, I start looking for Angela. Beside me, Kody leans in to read something. “‘Da Vinci filled over six thousand pages with notes, sketches, and ideas. But he only ever realized a small percentage of them, and started many more projects than he ever finished. In the seventeen years he worked for the Duke of Milan, for example, he completed only six paintings.’ Whoa,” she says. “I thought I had commitment issues.”

  We move through hallways of lesser-known paintings (that is, expensive canvas copies of them) to the next room, an open space with blown-up journal pages and structures realized from their contents.

  No sign of Angela.

  In efforts to stall, I enthusiastically note every contraption with an interactive lever, rope, or crank and insist that we go pull it.

  “Is that a DEATH RAY?” I ask, eagerly pointing at an illustration of a mirror redirecting a sunbeam onto a ship. A moveable counterpart sits beneath it.

  Kody makes a face. “Okay, seriously—what was in that latte you had?”

  We continue through rooms of invented tools, weapons (not interactive), vehicles, and flying machines. I stop at every display, secretly sneaking glances between them.

  When we get to the bigger paintings—a life-size copy of The Last Supper and a whole wing in homage to Mona Lisa—I know we are nearing the end.

  Then we reach the video room.

  The change is immediate, the darkness plunging us into another world. Our eyes adjust, and the soft light of images stirs a feeling:

  I have been here before.

  I’ve been so busy keeping Kody occupied—looking for Angela—that I haven’t thought at all about the last time I was at the Portland Art Museum. It didn’t even occur to me that the gallery used for the Tuileries Garden exhibit last s
pring could be the same I have been walking through all morning. Nothing looks the same.

  We take two chairs in back. I close my eyes to da Vinci’s paintings and inventions, and when I open them I see long avenues and fountains and summer-yellowed trees instead.

  I see not Kody, but Camilla beside me.

  “Macaron?” she’d asked, proffering a fancy box as if popcorn.

  “What!” I’d stared at the confections in surprise. “I thought the gift shop didn’t sell food!”

  “They don’t,” Camie’d said.

  “So where’d you get those?”

  A cunning smile. “C’est un secret.”

  We’d done cookie cheers and eaten. I hadn’t thought of it again until just now.

  I wonder if that “secret” was that they were from YOU.

  “I can’t believe all I knew about da Vinci this morning was The Last Supper and the Mona Lisa.”

  The memory vanishes as Kody points to images of a diving suit, a piano with strange insides, a pyramid parachute brought to life from da Vinci’s sketches.

  “Full of surprises,” I agree.

  As the montage runs, a troubling thought occurs. Room after room of the exact hall I explored with Camie six months ago, and it took me this long to remember something. I mean, sure, I thought of Tuileries this morning—but not of the macaron Cam’d offered. That required cues: the heavy curtain doors, the rows of chairs, the video walls. What about the rest of the gallery? Did I lose other memories just because the cues weren’t there?

  The furniture changed and Camie’s footprint here was almost erased.

  Where else will I lose my means to remember her?

  When the images loop, Kody and I rise and exit through the thick black curtain. Outside is a carnival-style poster with the face cut out—this one of Lisa.

  “Want a picture?” Kody asks me.

  It takes a moment to put my enthusiasm back on.

  “Uh, yeah!”

  Kody takes one of me, I take one of her (“Imagine if Lisa had been ginger”), and then, just as I am putting my camera away—

  “Excuse me.”

  I turn, placing the curls and neon nails in a heartbeat.

  “Could I ask—oh hey!” Angela smiles at me, surprised.

  “Hey, Angela.”