Juniper Lemon's Happiness Index Page 6

  He frowns, but makes a gesture of allowance. “As a teacher, you understand, I have to be objective about these things. What matters is the attack and its consequences.”

  I nod and drop my head.

  “But as a fellow human being, I think I should tell you that I heard what Morgan said. That it was terrible. And that I know Camilla would’ve been proud of her little sister for standing up for her like that.” I look up.

  Mr. Bodily is smiling.

  At this, something in me shifts. It’s like all my residual rage is suddenly pushed back, banished by this one little candle after so much darkness. To have someone remember Camilla with me—for a moment she’s not just a memory, some dream I’m forgetting. She is real: confirmed by this stranger’s validation, this piece of her he holds that fits with mine.

  I look down so he won’t see my twisted expression. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime. And Juniper”—Mr. Bodily lowers his chin as if looking over a pair of glasses—“I mean that. In the future, if you’re ever upset about your sister at school or someone like Morgan is giving you a hard time, please come talk to me before wasting another perfectly good strawberry milk.”

  That wins a small smile. “Okay.”

  ∞

  Exactly five minutes and seventeen seconds pass between the time detention starts and when Mrs. Davies, the pit bull–faced teacher who’s supposed to be supervising us, nods forward at her desk and begins to snore like a chainsaw with a sinus infection. Three seconds later Brand is sitting at the desk next to mine.

  “Like clockwork,” he says. “Shall we?” He gets up without waiting for an answer.

  “Shall we what?” I ask as he heads for the door.

  “You wanna find that card of yours, or not?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  Brand’s right. The clock is ticking: I only have until Tuesday morning before garbage is collected, and the weekend will be busy with watching Kody. This is one of my last real chances to search. Still . . . “I mean, we can’t just—”

  “Relax. She won’t wake until quarter to four.” He means Mrs. Davies.

  “But if we get caught—”

  “They’ll what? Give us more detention?” Brand rolls his eyes. “Live a little, Lemon.”

  “I live plenty.”

  “Sure you do. How’s Booster Club working out for you?”

  My face sours. I’d remind him that I skipped the first meeting, but dumpster-diving’s not exactly an improvement.

  Brand smirks and walks out the door.

  “You comin’, or what?” he calls from the hall.

  I glare after him. “At least I’m not a lifer in the fucking Breakfast Club.”

  With a last look at the hibernating Mrs. Davies, I slink past her and shut the door behind me.

  ∞

  “So why were you in detention?” asks Brand when we are again elbow-deep in papers and pizza crusts.

  I blow a lock of hair from my face, annoyed it keeps trailing down even after I put it up. “I may or may not have attacked Morgan Malloy.”

  “Oh?” Brand stops trawling long enough to light a cigarette. “And what might have prompted this factual or fictitious display of rage?”

  “She insulted Camilla.”

  “Mm.”

  “What about you? Why are you in detention?”

  “Me? Still doin’ time for your crime.”

  “Hey, you helped. And I thought you just got in-school for that—no after hours?”

  Brand smiles, the cigarette clamped between his teeth while he digs with his hands. “What can I say? I’m a glutton for punishment.”

  I tie off a bag that is mostly cupcake wrappers, nacho sauce, and citrus-smelling flakes of orange peel and swap it for one full of French papers, notes whose authors whine about how bored (B-O-R-E-D and B-O-A-R-D) they are, and a box worth of Scooby-Doo fruit snack wrappers. Then, as I’m peeling through the verbs and misspellings and gummy Velmas, something slips to the ground. I dip to retrieve it.

  A note.

  I can tell right away this one isn’t like the others; it’s folded down into eighths, long-form, addressed lovingly in flourish to “Leo.”

  I open it and read:

  Dear Leo,

  Every day something new about you amazes me. One day it’s that, in addition to being a painter, sculptor, architect, scientist, inventor, philosopher, cartographer, engineer, botanist, musician, mathematician, and general intellect you also wrote fables; another that you wore pink, which is so cool and ahead of your time but unfortunately makes me think that the rumors were probably true, and it would have never worked out between us; today that you were a vegetarian, and would purchase caged animals at market for the sole purpose of setting them free. YOU FREAKIN’ ROCK.

  If you have not been reincarnated into someone with one-hundredth your former intelligence, could you please manifest into some kind of sign—any sign—and point me to someone who has? At least ONE? I mean, my god. The only things the boys I know are interested in are Zombocalypse, boobs, and Instagram. Or other boys.

  Help a girl out here?

  Love,

  A

  ∞

  A laugh-cough escapes at Zombocalypse, boobs, and Instagram. I clear my throat.

  “You all right there, Lemon?” Brand exhales a stream of smoke.

  “Read this.” He takes the note and scans.

  “What is this—one of those write-in advice things? Dear Abby?”

  “Leo’s no Abby. I’m pretty sure she means da Vinci.”

  “Da Vinci? The fuck is she asking a dead guy for dating advice?”

  I rip the page back. “She’s not. She’s writing to him, not for advice—just admiration. Like fan mail.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She already knows what she’s looking for . . .” I frown at the letter. “She just needs some help finding it.”

  A half smirk plays at Brand’s lips.

  “What?”

  “Like you.” Smoky exhale.

  “Except I didn’t ask for your help,” I grumble.

  “What was that?”

  I smile and lift my shoulders.

  Brand goes back to his bag, and I start to go back to mine, but the letter to Leo won’t let go of me. Who is A? Doesn’t anybody sign their name anymore? Whoever the author, it seems a shame to just throw something like this away . . .

  I peek over my shoulder.

  When Brand isn’t watching, I fold the salvaged note down and slip it in a pocket of my jeans.

  “Hey.”

  I jump and spin around too quickly. But Brand is preoccupied, crushing his cigarette butt with his shoe.

  “So what’s the deal with Kody?” he asks. I release my breath.

  “Well,” I say, considering a French printout I can read about six words of, “I sat with her at lunch today.”

  “And?”

  I suck air through my teeth. “Started off okay . . .”

  Brand looks up for the but.

  “. . . and then Bitchicane Morgan happened.”

  “‘Bitchicane’?” He grins. “This Lemon’s got zest.”

  I shrug. “I did invite her to see Lucy Killman tomorrow—Kody, not Morgan—but she was planning to see it tonight, and I don’t know if she’ll hold out for me.”

  “Sure she will.” Brand hauls a closed bag back to the dumpster. “Be aggressive, Lemon Little. Call her house. Tell her what it would mean to you. Don’t take no for an answer.”

  “My name is Juniper. And I think I can handle a little adversity, thank you.”

  “Says the girl who, wearing gloves, just flung a chewed piece of gum away like a hairy tarantula.”

  “It was not a piece of gum, it was—”

  “Besides, ‘Lemon’ suits you
. It matches the face you make every time you see me.”

  I feel my lips start to purse and chew them back, determined not to validate Brand’s point. Unfortunately, this only adds to the impression I’ve just ingested something sour and am trying not to show it, and when Brand grins, my scowl gets the better of me. He leans against the dumpster with folded arms, awaiting—inviting—a retort.

  When I don’t make one, he says, “So? Kody?”

  I assure him, face as even and pleasant as possible, that I will figure something out.

  For the rest of the time we don’t talk—just rummage. At 3:40 we put our scavengings away, still no 65. I offer Brand wet wipes. He offers me a head start before he sprays his Axe to mask the smell of cigarette smoke.

  ∞

  I don’t have Kody’s cell number, but once home I find her landline in the school directory. When I call it and no one answers, I leave this message:

  “Hi Kody, it’s Juniper. Uh, sorry we didn’t get to finish making our plans today. But if you’re still on for Lucy Killman tomorrow, I’d love to see it together! Call me so we can work out where and when.” I leave my number, and emphasize that I’m looking forward to it. I figure at this stage a little guilting couldn’t hurt any.

  Then, because I think of Lauren and my murdered daydream that we’d all go together, I reach for my Index.

  69

  Happiness: 2.3

  Breaking the ice with Lauren (+), only to be forsaken two minutes later (–—–).

  Mr. Bodily, re: strawberry milk (ha!) & Camie proud of me (+++). Love letter to Leo (+).

  Detention (–).

  “Dead” and “slut” comments (–—–—–).

  Still no answer from Heather (–).

  Brand Sayers (?).

  ∞

  As I’m reading the card over, I remember the love note from A to Leo in my pocket and take it out. Then I open my desk drawer to reveal Kody’s card, the words “once and for all” in bold. I now have three notes that don’t belong to me—two of which are undeliverable, and one which no one was meant to read.

  What am I doing with them?

  I file 69 away. As I pass the gap between 64 and 66, it occurs to me that I only found Kody’s note because I’d been looking for 65. What if I’d never found Camie’s letter? What if 65 had been like any other day, and I’d never brought the card to school with me and lost it and had to go digging for it?

  Nobody would know about Kody.

  A shiver runs down my arms. I know. I know and that means something. It has to.

  I’ll see to it.

  I start to put the shoebox away, but just as I’m nestling on the lid my eye catches on A’s letter again and I have an idea.

  Inspired, I stop and I spider back to 69. Then, holding the open spot, I reach for the letter to Leo and add it in.

  With 68 goes Kody’s notecard.

  At the hole where 65 should be, Camilla’s letter. It doesn’t fill the gap, exactly—in fact, it kind of sticks out like an ugly bookmark—but it holds the space, and feels marginally better than nothing.

  I appraise my work. For some reason, the outliers remind me of the shards heaped in sacks in Ms. Gilbert’s studio: I don’t know what purpose they can possibly serve, orphan fragments that they are—but their existence, I am certain, means something.

  ∞

  At half past six, I hesitate outside Mom’s door. Normally when Dad had some kind of dinner function, we—me, Mom, and Camie, that is—would raid the fridge for leftovers, combine whatever we could scrounge into mugs, then microwave and share our creations (chicken spaghetti, meatloaf parmesan, mac and chowder) at the coffee table over sitcoms or Project Runway. Tonight is the first late meeting Dad’s had since . . . well.

  I lift my fist to knock.

  Stop again.

  Mom’s been shut in her room since she got home. Even if she isn’t sleeping, that makes me think that either she forgot about Mug Night, or she knows perfectly well what night it is, and just doesn’t want to do it without Camie. I don’t know which possibility hurts more.

  But maybe I’m being unfair. I should at least try . . .

  I raise my knuckles for the hundredth time tonight. The worst that can happen is that she’ll say no, right?

  I knock.

  On the second strike, the phone rings.

  Damn it.

  I press an ear against the wood and rap more loudly. “Mom?”

  Second ring.

  Nothing . . .

  On the third, I grunt and give up and hustle downstairs to grab the call in the kitchen.

  “Hello?”

  At first there’s no answer; just the kind of silence that accompanies a wrong number. Then I hear a voice that is muffled as if turned away: “Yeah, it’s ringing. It’s . . .”

  “Hello?” I repeat, hopeful.

  A shuffle. “Hello? Juniper?”

  Oh thank god. “Kody?”

  “Hi, Juniper. Yeah, it’s me.”

  “Kody, I’m so glad I caught you.” She doesn’t even know. “So, what do you think—are we on for Lucy tomorrow?”

  Say yes, say yes, oh please if you don’t I will show up at your house and things could get very uncomfortable.

  “Um . . . yeah, actually. Would the three o’clock be okay? It’s still a matinee, but late enough to sleep in, if you want.”

  “Three?” I’d watch it back to back all day if she asked to. “That’s perfect. At the mall?”

  “Yeah.”

  (“Ask her if she needs a ride,” says a loud whisper.)

  (“Mom,” says Kody.)

  (“I can drive you,” says the whisper.)

  “Do you need a ride?” Kody asks. She sounds harried, but I envy her. I’d give anything for Mom to play helicopter right now.

  “Nah,” I say. “I’ll meet you there. Thanks, though. Meet in front of the theater?”

  “Okay. Sounds good.”

  “Okay.” I put on a smile brighter than I am feeling before adding, “See you tomorrow!”

  “See you tomorrow.”

  - 70 -

  I arrive at the mall well before the 3:00 p.m. showing, but at a stroke of genius stall until twenty-five after: what I hope is just past the opening scene, too far in for a diehard fan like Kody to excuse, but not so far that she thinks I’ve bailed on her or I can’t blame my tardiness on ludicrous traffic.

  “Ludicrous traffic,” I say when I find her on a bench in front of the theater. “Sorry I’m late!”

  Sorry, not sorry. One showing missed = two hours more to work with.

  When I greet her, though, and she lifts her head up in response, Kody doesn’t look disappointed; she doesn’t even seem angry that because of me she has now twice delayed seeing what she presumably feels is the only thing left worth living for. She finds my gaze indifferently, with eyes that look but do not see. I recognize them instantly: They’re the same glazed-over, lost-in-the-fog pupils as Mom’s. If Kody startled when I spoke to her, it was only because I’d caught her staring at the levels beneath us, at the people milling below, at nothing.

  For all I know, at the drop.

  “That’s all right,” she says, vaguely closing a copy of Lucy Killman she’d not been reading, and smiling in a way that is clearly more out of courtesy than excitement to see me. “We’ll just catch the next one?”

  “Great.”

  The next showing isn’t until 4:55. Kody and I buy tickets, and then make awkward small talk while we ride the escalators back to central shopping. We talk about Great Expectations, its ungodly length, how lame it was that we had to spend the last of our summers on a book that could flatten three hamsters, even in paperback; about Mr. Bodily, who some of our classmates are already calling The Bod for his Abercrombian white shirt + washboard abs look; about, n
o eyes rolled, Rush Hollister and his own “caged oblivion” eyes (a direct quote from the book, if I’m not mistaken).

  We do not talk about what happened at lunch yesterday.

  By the time we reach the first floor, all that’s left to discuss is Lucy Killman itself, which I am only pretending to have read and know next to nothing about, so when I see a directory in our path I nearly melt from relief.

  “So.” I loop my arm through Kody’s in a show of enthusiasm. “Where do you like to shop?”

  Kody eyes the listings like they’re in Elvish. “I don’t know. I guess I’ve never been much of a shopper.”

  “No?”

  Suddenly, unexpectedly, something other than floating indifference crosses Kody’s face. “Come on,” she says, a cynical edge slicing through. “Where does a girl this big”—she holds her arms out in exaggeration—“go to find an attractive mini skirt?”

  I grimace, but am actually glad for the punchy reply. Snark cares.

  Now that I look more closely, Kody’s clothes—a hippie skirt and a black tee under a jean jacket—seem strategically loose. It occurs to me she wears a lot of clothes that conceal her figure rather than show it, and might not even own anything more fitted.

  I nod at a storefront ahead of us. “Wanna check out Forever 21?”

  A spark enters her eyes.

  ∞

  We leave the store several bags heavier.

  “Christ on a stick.” Kody hefts hers back over her shoulders before we spot something else. “Is shopping always this much work?”

  I nudge her with my own bags. “Come on, Kody. It’s not like you’ve never been shopping before.”

  “Yeah, but not at a trendy store where everything’s fitted. Where am I even going to wear these things? These are, like. NICE clothes.”

  Going to. Future tense. This is good.

  “What’s wrong with NICE clothes?” I ask.

  “NICE clothes are for people who are . . . I don’t know. Artistic. Preppy. Good-looking. People like you.”

  I stop in my tracks. Kody stops, too. I don’t know where to correct her first. “So . . . what,” I say, turning an eye at her, “you don’t think you’re good enough to wear the clothes you just bought?”

  Kody looks at the floor. Suddenly the bags seem to weigh on her arms. “I don’t know.” Her voice is small. “I think someone like me needs an occasion to look nice, and doesn’t have many.”