Juniper Lemon's Happiness Index Read online

  I search her eyes, lips pursed.

  “Come on,” I say, and then escort her by the arm to the nearest restroom.

  ∞

  I’m not one for motivational speeches, but given the sudden nature of Camilla’s death, I believe it when I tell Kody that life is an occasion, damn it—and only what you make of it while it’s yours. Therefore, it would be Perfectly Acceptable and Not at All Ridiculous for her to wear NICE clothes to a little old movie and maybe dinner afterward (still trying to buy whatever time I can here). Kody agrees, but only on the condition that I change into new clothes, too.

  We leave the restroom in dresses and impractical shoes.

  “Well,” I prompt, arching a brow as we attract lingering looks from a passing group of teens, “how do you feel now?”

  Kody rolls her eyes, but concedes a smile. “‘I feel pretty. Oh so pretty. I feel pretty, and witty, and’—actually, pretty hungry at the moment. Shopping really takes it out of you.”

  As if on cue with her break from West Side Story lyrics, my stomach rumbles. “Wanna stop for something before we head up?”

  We find our way to the food court and into line for smoothies.

  “Why don’t you grab a table?” I suggest. We’re both shuffling our bags from arm to arm to remain comfortable. “These are on me.”

  “Really? You don’t have to—”

  “I want to. And I’d like to be able to feel my arms tomorrow.”

  Kody laughs. “Fair enough.”

  She tells me her favorite flavor—Strawberry Storm, same as mine—and relieves me of my purchases. Somehow, in the transfer of goods, I end up with Kody’s purse, her copy of Lucy Killman sticking out of it.

  “Can I look at this?” I call after her. Kody glances back and nods, smiling.

  I did sort of let her think I’m as much of a Killmaniac as she is. I should probably have some idea of what I’m walking into in thirty minutes.

  The jacket flap says:

  When a stranger buys her freedom from Bellingham Sanitarium, Lucy Killman swears one thing: revenge on those that murdered her family and had her committed. But the stranger has other plans. He wants Lucy to attend Scholomance, an elite school in Romania that admits only ten new pupils a year. What she’ll learn there, he promises, will help Lucy wreak vengeance beyond her wildest dreams—a claim he proves with a gruesome magic trick.

  She agrees.

  But when Lucy arrives at the school, her escort—the Devil himself, its headmaster—reveals only one of the new pupils can be named his apprentice. If the ten want his mentorship in the Black Arts—and like Lucy, they all have very good reasons to want it—they will have to compete for it in the Consequences, an otherworldly contest of smarts, dark magic, and survival. To win, they must learn on their feet and fight until one is left standing.

  Let the selection begin . . .

  Huh. That actually sounds . . . decent. If not for Rush What-Is-a-Shirt Hollister playing Vance Devore, fellow competitor/love interest, I might even say it sounded good.

  “I can help who’s next!”

  With a start, I realize that’s me and slip the book away.

  “Hi,” I say up at the counter. “Could I get a medium Strawberry Storm and Coconut Crush?”

  “Medium on the coconut, too?”

  “Ye—” I stop short.

  Coconut?

  I wasn’t thinking.

  I ordered Lauren’s favorite flavor instead of Kody’s.

  “Yes,” I finish hastily. Kody can have mine.

  I pay as the order goes back, echoing my mistake. It blows through me like a wind, my best friend a ghost as I wait for our drinks by myself.

  I stand to the side and hug my arms until they’re ready.

  “Well, if it isn’t the little milkmaid,” a voice surprises me when I grab them.

  Morgan.

  “Eating your way out?” She nods at my double order. The minions on either side of her snicker.

  Still, I can’t help noticing that she steps back a little. I permit myself a small smirk.

  I’d love to upgrade that milk mask to real fruit.

  But before I can say so, Morgan spots something else: the two purses looped on my arms. I try to divert her, but when she looks around, her eyes go straight to Kody.

  “Oh! You’re here with Kisses.” She pouts her lips at Rachel, and Rachel and Minion #2 start the trademark kissy noises.

  That gets Kody’s attention.

  “Leave us alone.” I push past her, trying to signal to Kody that we should leave. Kody stands and begins gathering up our bags, but Morgan follows me over.

  “I think it’s sweet you two made friends. Must be nice knowing someone else who lost some body this summer, eh, Kisses?”

  I smile at her, hard. “My friend’s name is Kody. Though if your language setting wasn’t stuck on Bitchalian, I’m sure you would have gotten it right by now.”

  I turn and guide Kody away, leaving Morgan behind us.

  “You—” Morgan pips.

  But she can only sputter.

  When we round the corner, Kody bursts into laughter.

  “‘Bi—Bitchalian’?” She grins at me and wipes her eyes.

  I smile back. “I have my moments.”

  ∞

  In the darkness of the theater, we settle into our seats and watch the ads roll.

  “Hey,” Kody says after one. “Thanks, Juniper.”

  I replace my silenced phone in my bag. Still no word from Heather about who Camie might have been dating.

  “For what?” I ask.

  “For today.”

  I smile. “Day’s not over yet.”

  “I mean,” she says, “for standing up for me. Twice now.”

  I let the statement sit. I think about saying “It’s nothing,” or “You deserve it,” or calling Morgan some other woefully uninspired bitch pun, but decide against it.

  Instead, I say, “Don’t flatter yourself. Yesterday I was standing up for my sister.”

  Kody laughs. Another good sign.

  “You know, Juniper.” She turns to me in her seat. “I’m really glad I came out with you today.”

  “Yeah?” A swell of warmth fills my chest. “Me too.”

  “I almost didn’t.”

  I try to be casual: “Oh?”

  “To be honest . . .” Kody smiles, guilty, “my mom heard your message on the answering machine and . . . and kind of made me pick up the phone and call you back.”

  “Good,” I tell her. “I’m glad she did.” And I mean it.

  The lights go down and the theater quiets as the screen runs blank. In the darkness, Kody says, “If you ever want to talk to someone, Juniper . . . I mean, I know I didn’t really know Camilla, but . . . if you want . . . I’m here.”

  My heart counts a few measures in the black. In the infinity of the lightless room, her offer is like a hand slipped into mine.

  “Thank you,” I whisper to her outline. “I’m going to hold you to that.”

  And then sound and special effects explode from the speakers, and the previews are too loud to keep talking.

  ∞

  The later showing leads to dinner, and dinner leads to Kody’s house. Kody loans me the first Lucy Killman, her mom makes her model her new outfits (Kody makes me model mine with her), and before you can say “Netflix,” the night is hurtling toward tomorrow.

  I scribble the day’s events on a borrowed index card while Kody is brushing her teeth:

  70

  Happiness: 5

  Coconut Crush (–).

  Morgan (–).

  Still nothing from Heather (–).

  But Kody & unplanned sleepover!! (+++).

  Lucy Killman (OMG AMAZING I AM FULLY GOING TO READ THE BOOKS NOW).


  Rush Hollister (Um, +. He is actually kind of hot in the movie).

  - 71 -

  In the morning Kody fixes crêpes Suzette, a delicious concoction fried in buttery orange syrup and lit in brandy at the end. She’s made it so many times she doesn’t even flinch when the flame belches out of the saucepan. I’m so impressed (Kody juggled fire before noon; I grated orange peel) that she even offers to teach me—maybe next weekend, if I’m free?

  We shake on it.

  But the more confident I am in Kody’s safety, the more my thoughts return to YOU. On the drive home that afternoon, I take stock of my leads. Heather’s beginning to look like a dead end; after her, I have only Shawn and the letter itself, which I go over and over in my head.

  Dear You . . .

  Here’s what I think: Camilla was a smart girl. She wouldn’t have carried around incriminating evidence of a secret relationship unnecessarily—and since the letter is neither stamped nor addressed, I can only assume she intended to hand it off to Secret Lover Boy in person. That would’ve meant meeting someone at Shawn’s, the only place we went on July Fourth.

  More reason to think she lied to get permission to go.

  Could Shawn know something?

  I’ll ask him tonight.

  ∞

  Dinner is as awkward a game as ever. I think, what with my returning to school, Dad imagined that there would be more to talk about.

  There isn’t.

  “So,” he starts. This is how pretty much all attempts at conversation begin around the Lemon house right now. “How was school this week, Juniper?”

  I spear a carrot. “Okay.”

  “How’re classes?”

  “So far, pretty slow. Art’s the only one we really did anything in.”

  “Art I? Isn’t that the one your sis—”

  STOP: Brick wall.

  Go back three spaces.

  “Er—” he amends.

  I’m sure he meant to say art was the class Cam recommended to explore new mediums; to delve into my “doodle” brain, as she called it. And it was. But with Mom so withdrawn, the name of the game is Tiptoe—and we play every night.

  “That’s the one with the different mediums, right? Where you get to try a new one each unit?”

  Great save! Collect Forkful of Pot Roast.

  “Yeah.”

  “And what are you doing now?”

  “Ceramics. But—”

  “Oh! Like—” Dad inclines his head at our salt and pepper shakers: two of a pink-and-lemon-print set Camie made. There’s a matching sugar jar and a bigger one for coffee on the counter.

  “Well—yes, but, actually I opted out of ceramics. I’m doing independent study for the unit instead.”

  “Oh?” Dad looks at Mom. Mom looks at her plate. “What do you do for that?”

  “Um.” I glance down at my food. “I’m not totally sure yet. We’re supposed to settle on a theme tomorrow.”

  Dad nods slowly. I can tell he’s holding back, pausing to allow Mom a window.

  She doesn’t take it.

  “Anything calling to you?”

  I press my lips in to mask my disappointment. Mom used to weigh in on everything.

  “Not really.”

  The table falls back into silence—or rather, to the sounds of forks and knives hitting plates. The absence on Camilla’s side of the table is so strong, it’s like a vacuum, slowly sucking even the memories from the room. Gone with her enchanting laugh and puppy energy is a former way of life: Mom’s stories, Dad’s lame jokes, familial teasing, the kitchen swelling louder and louder as she and Mom talked over each other with rolling, hysterical punch lines and the four of us honked and clucked and held our stomachs till it hurt. You wouldn’t know it now, but before the accident Mom was as animated as Cam was.

  Knife and fork. Knife and fork.

  Roll again?

  “The pot roast is really good, Dad.” I feel bad for him. Dad hasn’t just lost Camilla; he’s lost Mom, too, and in some ways even me. My whole life, until ten weeks ago, has included a big sister. Topics from which she is cut out don’t come easily.

  “Thanks.” Dad smiles thinly. “You like the rosemary?”

  “Rosemary! That’s what it is. I was going to ask.”

  He brightens a little. “Your palate’s come a long way, Juni. You know, when you were little, the only way you girls would eat potatoes was fro—”

  STOP: Mom inhaled sharply.

  Lose a turn.

  “Pot roast is great for fall,” I cut in. Weather is Free Parking. Can’t go wrong there. “This last week I’ve really felt the change from summer. It’s cold enough for tea now, and for wearing boots and scarves and things, and it’s so nice and crisp in the mornings. I think I saw the first leaves on the ground on my way to the bus—”

  Sniff.

  Uh-oh—I’ve mentioned a First. Firsts without Camilla are just as bad, if not worse, than dropping her actual name.

  Now Dad hurries to cover me. “I think it’s the wind, is what it is. The chill factor, even when it’s sunny—”

  But it’s too late: Mom has stood and swiftly exited the kitchen. The door to the porch bangs shut behind her.

  STOP: You upset Mom.

  Game Over. Go directly to Room.

  ∞

  Once Mom has resigned herself to sleep, I don’t have to wait too much longer for Dad. Twenty minutes after their light goes off, I ease my door open and pad soundlessly through the dark from my room to Camie’s.

  I hate that I have to sneak in like this. But with the way Mom is now, I don’t dare set foot in Camilla’s room even to reclaim an old sweater. It’s a fluke I ended up with the handbag she took to Shawn’s; I guess it was just lumped together with the rest of the things returned when they discharged me from the hospital.

  Once, just two weeks after the accident, I walked in without thinking for a pair of earrings. Mom was just coming upstairs with laundry, and saw me going through her jewelry from the hall.

  The laundry basket crashed to the carpet.

  The worst part wasn’t even her face, the black wave that slammed me as I remembered Cam was dead; the way the color molted from Mom’s cheeks, or that she shouted “OUT!” before gripping her mouth.

  The worst part is that while Mom was down the hall, crying in her room right after, I was crying in mine.

  And she either couldn’t see it—couldn’t see I needed her—or didn’t care.

  I swallow back the knives in my throat. This is why I must tiptoe:

  To remind Mom of Camilla is to lose her.

  It’s strange; outside her room, I almost feel I should knock.

  But I know better.

  I turn the knob and steal in, then pull the door closed behind me.

  Inside, I hit the lights. Shawn Parker’s cell number is exactly where I remember it, on the bulletin board tacked among a thousand images—photos with friends and family, clubs, volunteer teams; postcards from club trips and projects abroad: Venice, Athens, London, Dublin, Berlin, Tokyo. Camie’s dream was to see the world, and with her various activities, she was well on her way.

  I touch a photo from Splash Mountain two summers ago. Mom, Dad, Cam, and I had had a log to ourselves and all posed with pirate props bought earlier that day. Mom’s in front aiming a spyglass, Dad yarring in an eye patch behind her. I’m checking a treasure map. Cam’s in back shouting orders, a captain’s hat held fast to her head while Bristol, her signature Dala horse, clings to her shoulder like a parrot. Posing Bristol for snapshots had been a big tradition of Cam’s, especially traveling.

  I glance across the room for the real thing. On the shelf above Cam’s desk are five Swedish Dala horses, a fraction of the many around the house since our grandmother began giving away her collection. Every Christmas, bir
thday, and visit somebody gets one, but Bristol is special. Bristol was the first and the favorite. Bristol is—

  I look closer.

  Four.

  There are four Dala horses on the shelf.

  The smallest in the lineup is missing.

  I start toward the desk to investigate—maybe Bristol is just misplaced or behind a book somewhere—but down the hall I hear Mom cough and remember myself. I can’t look for Bristol tonight for the same reason I can’t look for YOU leads: because Mom and Dad are both light sleepers. There will be better chances another day.

  For now I free Shawn’s number from its tack and pocket it.

  ∞

  The line rings three times before it’s answered.

  “HELLO?”

  I cradle my ear and hold the phone away from me. Not your usual answering volume. “Shawn?” I ask when I bring it back.

  “WHO IS THIS?”

  This time I make out the music and blare of voices I’m competing against.

  “Shawn?” I repeat, uncertain. “It’s Juniper. Juniper Lemon?”

  A pause. Then:

  “Juniper?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s me. You have a minute? I was just calling to see if—”

  “WHAT?” I can’t tell if he’s addressing me, or someone in the senseless background. “Sorry Juniper, kinda loud in here. Just a minute.”

  There’s a shuffle, more bass, several shrieks of laughter and shouted conversation—something about Delta Chis and Taco Bell—and then the music is distant, and all I hear is breath in the line like the speaker has stepped outside and is rubbing his arms with cold.

  “Juniper?” Shawn is crisp now.

  “Yeah.”

  “It is you. Shit—I’m sorry about the noise.”

  “No worries. It’s the weekend, it’s late, and I know I’m kind of calling out of the blue—”

  “Is everything okay?”

  I open my mouth and no sound comes out. That’s a loaded question these days.

  “Um. It’s all right.”

  “And how are you, Juniper? I mean—how’re you holding up?”