Juniper Lemon's Happiness Index Read online

  Which makes me think that she might actually know something.

  “Juni?” Poundpoundpound.

  “Yeah! I’m awake!”

  “There’s my annoyed ray of sunshine. Four minutes now. Hop to.”

  “Unnnngh.”

  Rubbing my eyes, I retrieve the list and stumble out of bed. I spent the better part of last night racking my brain, replaying endless memories for signs of YOU or his identity. How long had he and Cam been dating? Where and when had they met, spent time together?

  Why was their relationship secret?

  I leave the names on my desk with Camie’s letter—and then dress, shove my hair into a choppy ponytail, and grab a jacket.

  It’s only as I’m lacing up my shoes in the doorway that it hits me: I forgot to do my Index card last night.

  Of all the things to space on—

  I turn back for it. If I have few physical things to remember Camie by, I have even fewer rituals with which to honor her. Recording positives in my Happiness Index each day is one of my only ways of keeping her alive.

  “Juniper, let’s go!”

  “Coming!”

  In a moment I have the whole collection out from under my bed: a slim black shoebox, closed, originally for ballet flats, now for my daily practice. I lift the lid and skip past the Before cards for the numbered After ones. Sixty-three, sixty-four . . .

  Sixty-five!

  I snatch the offender out. It may be a hole, but at least it’s one that I can fix by the end of the day.

  “Juniper!”

  With a last glance at the letter, I grab my bag, shut the card inside one of my books, and hurry out.

  ∞

  The school year has barely begun when the next hole appears. First bell rings and the trig teacher, Ms. Jacobson, takes roll.

  Then it goes like this:

  “Juniper Lemon?”

  I raise my hand.

  “You must be—ah.” Her smile falters.

  I had thought myself prepared for this. I really had. I mean, some teacher always sees “Lemon” on the roster and asks if I’m Camilla’s sister. But this year, I figured, anyone that knew Camilla would also have heard what had happened to her. Evidently Ms. Jacobson had heard; it just took her a moment too long to remember.

  The look in her eyes says everything “ah” does not: I’m sorry.

  I’m sorry I brought it up.

  I’m sorry for your loss.

  I’m sorry nothing I do or say can change what is and has been.

  My eyes sting and I feel a sharpness under my ribs. I spend the rest of class hating the way Ms. Jacobson, after that briefest moment’s silence, just picks up and goes to the next kid on the list—“Darrin Mills?”—as if that tiny hesitation hadn’t been there.

  As if she had never been there.

  Another Camilla-shaped hole.

  ∞

  I don’t make it to choir.

  A funny thing happens after trig: I stop at my locker; I change out my books; I approach the music room with minutes to spare, but when the doors loom up in front of me, I walk past them. And keep walking.

  And walk out.

  And when the bell rings, I am sitting on the bleachers by the football field, half curled into my knees.

  How can things that aren’t there hurt so badly?

  For a long time I just sit there in their grip, their collective pressure weighing me down. Then I get out a notebook.

  Holes

  A sister.

  A lined card.

  A lover in a letter.

  A blank night, a blackout:

  the hours I can’t remember.

  Inside, the bell rings, startling me from the page. Has it been a whole period already?

  Sure enough, in moments students are pouring out of 3 Hall. First open campus lunch is always the most popular of the year.

  Lauren and I couldn’t wait to eat off campus. As freshmen, we’d met at the flagpole on our very first day and then walked over to Pippa’s.

  “What should we order?” she’d asked when we stood before the menu.

  “Something celebratory,” I’d replied. “What food can you toast the new school year with?”

  The answer, of course, was something toasted. We chose bagels.

  “To high school,” Lauren had prompted.

  “To choir and going for a solo.”

  “To straight A’s so my mom will pitch in money for a Nikon!”

  I’d laughed. “Cheers.”

  We’d then raised our bagels, toasted each other’s intentions, and eaten. Last year, we did the same.

  This year, Lauren isn’t at the flagpole.

  I spot her walking instead with two other girls from choir toward a sub shop. One of them shows the others something on her phone and they all laugh.

  What gives?

  I start to text Lauren before I can stop myself.

  A summer of silence and now—

  No no; stop. This isn’t how you fix things.

  Delete delete delete.

  I’m OK. You know, just in case you were wondering when I didn’t show up for my favorite—

  Juniper.

  I try a different route.

  Lauren, I could really use someone to—

  Pathetic!

  I hit CLEAR and start again:

  WHAT KIND OF BEST FRIEND ARE YOU???

  ∞

  Finally, I just hold down the backspace until the screen is blank. I know better than anyone:

  You never know when you won’t be able to take something back again.

  Instead of joining the lunch crowd, I exchange my phone for Great Expectations and withdraw yesterday’s forgotten Index card from it: 65.

  And with the pressure in my chest redoubled, I begin to write.

  ∞

  By fifth period I am counting down the days that remain in the school year.

  At least nothing can feel worse than what I wrote on my Index card.

  Fortunately, when Mr. Bodily strides into his classroom, he squanders no time on roll call or introducing AP English. Instead he distributes a list of discussion questions and tells us to pair off and start talking.

  “Hey . . . Juniper, isn’t it?”

  I turn in my seat. A boy I don’t recognize in flannel and jeans regards me with olive eyes and brows that rise into his front flip.

  I pull myself together. “Uh . . . yeah?” 65 peeks out from my book and I nudge it away.

  And you are?

  “Nate.” The stranger sticks out a hand, smiling. “Savage. Resident new kid.”

  Nate Savage? Call American Eagle. I think this boy fell out of their catalog.

  “If you’re new here, Nate,” I propound as we shake, “how exactly is it that you know me?”

  Nate turns his head and squints a little, a sidelong smile like he can’t quite decide whether or not I am joking. “I sit next to you in trig.”

  Oh.

  “Oh,” I say, unable to think of anything better. “Uh . . . yeah. Sorry. My head was kind of somewhere else this morning.”

  Nate nods, thoughtful. He reaches into his backpack and drops his own copy of Great Expectations on the desk with a thud. “And here I thought you were just ignoring me.”

  “Ignoring you?” Oh god. How out of it was I first period?

  “Yeah. I spent two minutes trying to offer you a Tic Tac before I figured you were morally opposed to wintergreen.”

  “Oh my god, I am so—”

  Wait. Morally oppos—?

  A joke, Juniper. A joke.

  Nate’s smile winds into a grin. In spite of everything that’s happened today, I feel myself starting to laugh. And not a graceful laugh, either: several flatulent bursts that drag
into a snort so ridiculous it makes Nate laugh, which makes me laugh even harder in turn.

  Both of us are holding our stomachs when Mr. Bodily approaches.

  “What’s so funny over here?”

  Nate and I look at each other.

  “Are you kidding?” Nate wheezes, stepping in and slapping his knee when I am helpless to reply. “Pip’s crash course in table manners. Herbert is like . . . a passive-aggressive Queen of Genovia!”

  “Queen of Genovia?” Mr. Bodily raises his brows.

  “You know—The Princess Diaries? Julie Andrews ties Anne Hathaway to her dinner chair with a scarf?” Nate mimics her stretch for the salt and I cover my mouth. “This Dickens guy should’ve done stand-up.”

  “A modern comparison.” Mr. Bodily nods appreciatively, then circles around and slides into a neighboring desk. “It is refreshing, Mr. Savage, to hear this classic framed in pop culture references. An idea for your first paper, perhaps?”

  “Uh,” Nate laughs, but his mirth shrinks back a little.

  Bodily smiles. “Kidding! Who talks papers on the first day of class? I may not grade on a curve, but I’m not that evil.”

  I’m not sure which is greater: Nate’s relief, or Bodily’s amusement at it as he gets up and jaunts to the next table. Camilla mentioned a zany student teacher once; I wonder briefly if this is him. The thought warms me. Sharing things my sister once experienced makes me feel closer to her now.

  For once, I realize, I don’t mind the idea of living in her shadow.

  ∞

  After school is the Club and Activity Fair, a lunchroom maze of balloons and poster boards rigged up by Fairfield’s clubs and sports teams to recruit new members. I don’t normally go because I already have musicals and choir, but I don’t know if I’ll ever feel like singing again, let alone for a year and a grade. I need a new activity, and besides that, a new cause to fill my free time: Dad cut me off from volunteering last week, saying that now that summer’s over, I’d need to focus on school. No more picking up whatever open shifts I could grab at the animal shelter.

  At least they didn’t mind my enthusiasm.

  At the head of the stairs from 2 Hall, I stop to survey the scene before me. I don’t scan for long before I spy a row of flags: International Club. Last year it would’ve been Camie sitting behind them, handing out tickets to the latest foreign film downtown and chatting and laughing with people. This year, it’s Lawrence Torres, a computer geek with turquoise frames and a gift for picking up languages—among other things.

  “Excuse me, are you just gonna stand there all day? Some of us have lives to get on with.”

  I step aside, speechless, for Morgan Malloy. Camie always stood up to Morgan when she saw her bullying someone, especially on the bus we all once rode together—once turning her insult around so fast that the whole bus laughed at her for three stops, and again when Morgan got off.

  The bully got her license after that.

  She’s also hated Camie since.

  “Thanks,” Morgan sneers as she passes.

  I scowl after her. Ironically, it’s only because I’m grumbling at her back that I see her take a box to the yearbook table—across from which I discover what may be the only unmanned, unattended display in the cafeteria.

  General Student Booster Club.

  A hole.

  I cross over to it, immediately drawn to the sparse display board. On it are pictures from different cause-supporting events: students making cookies for the bake sale, posing with scavenger hunt clues around town, decorating the gym for the annual Shaker. Half the photos look like they’re from the eighties, which makes sense considering Booster is about as popular today as pickled beets or Monday pop quizzes. I wonder how long it’s been since they’ve even had someone to run the table.

  Booster, an oversized font declares. We put the “fun” in fundraising!

  The only other text, apart from a few scribbled captions, is to say that officers will be elected in Mr. Garcia’s room, A-23, at 2:45 this Thursday.

  And to help yourself to a Lucy Killman bookmark .

  I follow the arrow down to the table. A spread of shirtless boy in skintight pants greets me, obscuring the few shots actually of Lucy. Gah! Staff has even resorted to ab-tastic movie swag. If they need the six-pack and smoky eyes of actor Rush Hollister to sell Booster, they must really be desperate.

  But the bigger the ruin, the bigger the fix-up.

  This could be a real chance to make something better.

  I swing my backpack off a shoulder, shuffle out some books for my planner and a pen, and mark down A-23, 2:45 on my calendar.

  I’m about to put it all away when a loud series of POP!s makes me jump and spin around. At a distant table, box cutter poised where three balloons used to be—

  Brand Sayers.

  Brand Sayers: a senior everyone at Fairfield knows by name, if not acquaintance. Hobbies include arson, destruction, detention, and his band. There are only two things in the world Brand Sayers cares about: his electric guitar and his haircut, short sides with messy bangs across his forehead like a bird’s wing. Everything else is kindling and knife-fodder.

  Exhibit A: the spent balloon skins he’s now plucking from his jacket.

  As if he senses me watching, Brand looks up just then and catches my eye.

  Then he tosses his tawny hair and smirks at me.

  Smirks.

  At me.

  I’m so thrown, for a moment I lose sight of what I’m doing. I walk straight into another kid, and both our books and papers go scattering across the floor.

  “Oh my gosh—”

  I stoop to help the stranger pick up his things. First I see the copy of Great Expectations, and then, as I reach for it, “wintergreen” on a box of breath mints.

  “You change your mind about those Tic Tacs?”

  My gaze hits a familiar smiling face.

  “Yes,” I answer, the apology dropping from mine, “because the only way to improve a flavor as hopelessly offensive as wintergreen is to drop it on the floor of a high school cafeteria.”

  “Oh-ho!” Nate takes his dictionary-sized novel from me, clutching it with raised brows. “Watch out, Charles—a fellow comedian!”

  I catch his eye and grin.

  “Hey lovebirds.”

  We look up. Brand Sayers, apparently finished with his work on the far side of the cafeteria, now leers over us from the GSBC table, a cluster of balloons in one hand, box cutter poised to puncture them in the other. He looks from Nate to me, lips curled.

  “Get a room.”

  And then one, two, three; the trio he is holding is a bouquet of wilted plastic.

  “What is that guy’s problem?” Nate asks when Brand takes up a tune I recognize—something by Queen—and moves away.

  I shrug.

  “Hey,” a new voice prompts behind us. “Are you okay?”

  I turn, expecting a teacher—someone following Brand’s trail of destruction.

  But the hand that extends to Nate belongs to somebody else.

  “Let me help you up,” she insists.

  With a side glance at me, Nate takes it.

  “I’m Morgan, by the way.”

  “Nate.” He collects the last of his books and offers me a hand up in turn. Morgan frowns as I accept.

  “Are you looking for a club, Nate?”

  “Think I might’ve found one, actually.” He nods at the barren Booster board.

  Morgan scoffs. “Booster?”

  “You’re applying for something, right?” Nate turns to me, ignoring her question. Morgan’s face goes crimson.

  “‘Apply’ might be a generous word for it . . .” I chew back a smile as I indicate the sign and lack of forms to fill out.

  “Is this the application?” Nate lifts one of the bookmar
ks and tilts it from side to side as though Rush’s abs are holographic. “If so, count me in.”

  Beside us, Morgan glances darkly at me and mutters something like “Lost cause,” and then returns to the yearbook table.

  Nate looks relieved. “Geez, I thought she’d never leave. Did you get all your books?” He nods at the haphazard stack in my arms.

  “Think so.”

  “Good.”

  Nate’s thousand-watt grin returns, lighting up the room. It’s hard to bask in that brightness and not be affected.

  Beyond us, Brand Sayers still floats from table to table, dispatching balloons in time with the melody of “Don’t Stop Me Now.”

  I swear he looks at me right where the song should say you.

  ∞

  Despite my best efforts to be quiet, I have barely locked the front door and started up the stairs when Dad sticks his head out of his office to greet me.

  “What’s the score?” he calls up at my back.

  The score. Like “the weather,” “the verdict,” and “the report,” this is one of Dad’s many euphemisms for asking how I’m doing these days. I’d only started rating “Happiness” on my daily cards sarcastically, but now that Cam is gone, that 1–10 number makes it easy for Dad to check in on me without upsetting anyone.

  I reflect on the day’s events. “Three.”

  “Three,” he repeats. Even though I haven’t turned around, I can hear the rise, the note of interest in his brows.

  Then, perhaps deciding not to push his luck, Dad says, “Welcome home,” and retreats into the study.

  I follow his lead, returning to my room and my list from this morning.

  From: Juniper Lemon

  To: Heather Han

  Subject: favor

  Dear Heather,

  How is Oregon State? I hope you’re liking college so far!

  I, uh . . . found something that suggests Camie was in a relationship with someone. For a while. This may be what I was asking you about in June, when I thought something was up with Cam, but do you know anything about that? I think she would’ve wanted whoever she was seeing to have what I found, but I can’t give it to him (or her—assuming “him” based on her dating history) if I don’t know who they are.