Juniper Lemon's Happiness Index Read online

  I always liked Shawn. Shawn’s the kind of person who reads the daily comics and laughs aloud at them (I know because he used to read them at our house after school): easygoing, personable, genuine. He was kind of the goofball yin to Camie’s hardworking yang. With Shawn, what you see is what you get.

  When someone like him asks how I’m doing, I know it’s because he really cares about the answer.

  “I’m . . .” I close my eyes. “I mean, it’s hard. It’s like . . .” It’s like walking around with a piece of glass in your chest. “The pain is always there, but you just live with it. You know?”

  “Yeah,” Shawn says quietly.

  Camilla and Shawn broke up at the end of their junior year, right before she left to build houses in Chiapas. Camie had had her eye on the future: In the next year she’d be president of the International Club, on debate, and running for student council (of which she became, what else, senior class president). She wouldn’t have time for a relationship, she said, and it’d be easier to end things now than when they went their separate ways for college. Shawn said he understood, and they’d remained friends, but uninvolved.

  Even so, he looked pretty cut up at the funeral.

  “How are you?” I ask him. “How’s college?”

  A gust of wind—maybe breath—blows into the line. “It’s good, Juniper. It’s good. I just wish . . .” He can’t finish the thought. Or he doesn’t know how to.

  “I know,” I tell him.

  A heavy silence settles in between us. I remember why I called in the first place.

  “So hey, uh—I hope I’m not interrupting your night or anything—”

  “Not at all.”

  “I called because I have a sort of . . . weird question to ask you.”

  “Anything,” says Shawn. “Shoot.”

  “Well . . .” I haven’t quite decided how much to share with him. I plant my feet and lick my lips. “About . . . your party that night, Shawn. The Fourth. Were there . . . any other lowerclassmen there? Besides me? Or—not necessarily lowerclassmen. Just . . . people that didn’t graduate?”

  “Didn’t graduate?”

  “Are still in high school.”

  Silence. For a long moment not even the thunder of music booms in the background.

  “That is a weird question,” he says at last. “But knowing you, there’s a good reason you’re asking. So, let me think. Other than you . . .”

  I wait, anxious and oddly envious as he searches his memory.

  Shawn clicks his tongue. “Sorry, Juni. I really don’t think a lot of underclassmen were there.”

  My shoulders slump. I guess I wasn’t expecting an easy answer.

  “Oh, but you know, there was a big party over in Aloha that night. I think a lot of the uh, ‘underclassmen’ went there. Don’t know if that helps.”

  I sigh, away from the receiver so he can’t hear me. “Thanks, Shawn.”

  “Sorry. I know that wasn’t really what you asked. Is there . . . is there anything else I can do?”

  “Um . . .”

  What I’d really like is to ask Shawn whether he has any idea who YOU might be. That may be a sensitive topic—

  But he’s the only source I’ve got right now.

  “There is one thing. Can I ask you . . .” I pull a breath in. “When you and Cam broke up, Shawn. It was for . . . purely academic reasons, wasn’t it?”

  “Yeah . . .” Shawn says, but he drags the end of the word like a question. “At least, that’s what she told me.”

  I drop back against my bed, staring at the ceiling.

  “Why?” Shawn’s voice is the only living thing in the room, but it sounds far, a million miles away. “Was there someone else?”

  “Actually . . .” I shut my eyes. “I was kind of hoping you could tell me.”

  There is another silence—then, unexpectedly, Shawn laughs. “Your sister sure knew how to keep a secret. Do you know, for my seventeenth birthday”—I can almost see him shaking his head and smiling—“she let me believe we were stranded in the middle of nowhere on some spur-of-the-moment road trip? A light had come on on the dash and the engine was smoking, so we pulled over. No cell reception. A few cars passed, but nobody stopped.

  “Then, like twenty minutes later, this fucking stretch limo rolls up . . .” He laughs. “The window goes down and there’s Young and Trey and Amy and a dozen other people . . . She’d brought the party to me! Young got out and popped the hood—it was just dry ice or something, there was nothing wrong with it—and we drove around in the limo for hours, talking, drinking, doing karaoke, taking stupid pictures . . . sometimes getting out and pretending to be somebody famous . . . God. She’d gotten everyone to chip in. She’d been planning the whole thing for months, Juniper, and I am telling you, she kept a straight face even when the dummy light came on.”

  I realize I am smiling when Shawn finishes. I knew all about the surprise party—like he said, Camie had been planning it forever, and when it was over she had had enough Birthday Princess pictures and videos of Shawn’s Miley Cyrus falsetto to prevent him from ever seeking public office—but hearing him tell the story, hearing him remember her . . . it’s like Camie is alive again: existing between us, in shared memory. In Shawn’s memory, given to me.

  And for the smallest moment, the holes shrink back a little.

  - 72 -

  On Monday morning, Kody is alive and well. I return her copy of Lucy Killman: Underling and exchange it for Lucy Killman: Blackblood Heir. Oh—and are you wondering who survived the “selection”? Spoiler alert: It’s in the title. But don’t worry: Frenemy/love interest Vance Devore has outsmarted the Devil, and returns in book two to show he isn’t finished with Lucy just yet.

  Unfortunately, instead of celebrating like I should be, I’m tapping my pencil and drumming my fingers and bouncing my foot all throughout classes to get to the dumpsters. Tomorrow trash is collected.

  Today is my last real chance to recover 65.

  In French I, the class I switched to from choir, I’m cycling through worst-case scenarios—that my Index is lodged behind a heater somewhere, that someone has found it already, that the shame is being whispered around me even now—when my fret-a-thon is broken by a text. I check my phone below the desk:

  1 NEW MESSAGE

  SHAWN PARKER

  My chest tightens. Did Shawn see something at the party after all? I open the message with trembling fingers.

  hey juni, just remembered

  “Excusez-moi, mademoiselle.”

  I look up. Before me stands Madame Remy, hands on her hips.

  “Le portable, s’il vous plaît.”

  I don’t know what le portable is, but from Madame’s outstretched hand I am guessing it does not mean “the outhouse.” I hand over my phone. Madame takes it with a dutiful grimace.

  “Merci, mademoiselle. Bon, on y va au dialogue . . .”

  She glides back to the front of the room and hands out papers with a script, then divides us into groups to practice it. In my group are Angela Waters, a girl with aqua nails and two yellow ones—the index fingers—gripping a book, and Sponge, whose pronunciation is so fluid, it could sweep you up and carry you away.

  “Bonjour mesdames,” he says, flawless.

  “Bonjour.” When I say it, it sounds flat and rubbery by comparison.

  We both look at Angela, who reluctantly holds her place in her bodice ripper and adds, without removing her finger, “Bonjour.”

  Très original, this dialogue.

  “Je m’appelle Lawrence,” Sponge continues. His given name falls like poured wine. “Comment vous appelez-vous?”

  We introduce ourselves, and with a round of enchanté(e)s move into a more variable section of script where we can choose words from a vocab bank.

  “Avez-vous [un portable]?” Angela asks me
, pointing with her free hand at a picture of a cell phone. I frown.

  “Non,” I reply, and sadly shake my head whilst pointing at Madame Remy. Then, sounding out the words to Sponge: “Ah-vay vooz [un shee-ann]?”

  Above “chien” is a picture of a dog.

  “Non, je n’ai pas [un chien]. Mais j’ai un [gros] [chat]; il aime [le fromage].” He asks Angela about the next item: “Avez vous une sœur?”

  I try out the phrase Madame Remy taught us for when we don’t understand: “Kuh—cased kuh sest?” A thousand percent sure that’s not how qu’est-ce que c’est is pronounced, but not all of us can glide through the French alphabet.

  “‘Sœur’?” Angela checks the picture in the word bank—a girl, but it can’t mean girl, because “girl” is fille.

  She and Sponge exchange glances.

  “Non,” Angela answers quickly—and then starts to ask me if I like her boucles d’oreilles.

  But I’m already checking the textbook, finger trailing through the glossary under S. Société. Soda.

  sœur sister (f.)

  I set my book down.

  “Oui,” I whisper tightly. “Elles sont très [jolies].”

  But I don’t know how I’d have answered the other question.

  ∞

  I don’t get to read Shawn’s text until fourth period, when I’m alone upstairs in the art studio:

  hey juni, just remembered, there were at least a handful of guys that still go to Fairfield at the party that night.

  WHAT? I thumb a text feverishly back:

  Who?

  Shawn replies:

  idk their names, but the 4 seniors in the band. the band was Muffin Wars?

  I straighten. Already knowing the answer in the pit of my stomach:

  Does the lead have kind of fox-colored hair and smell like an Axe factory?

  Shawn:

  u would know better than me.

  Me: “WHAT? What the Dickens does THAT mean?”

  At which point Ms. Gilbert knocks on the door and I hurry to shove my phone away. I slap on a smile as she enters and pulls a chair opposite mine at the worktable.

  “So. Have you cooked up some ideas for your independent work?”

  I nod through my plastered smile. “Ideas.”

  “Great. Let’s hear ’em.”

  “Okay. Well. I was thinking . . .”

  But I am thinking of Mr. Mystery. Brand was at the party that night; could Camie’s letter be to him? Is that why he’s been so eager to help me?

  And what does Shawn mean, I would know better than him?

  Ms. Gilbert waits.

  “Sorry. It’s just . . .”

  Brand breaking pots with me. Taking the blame. Insisting on helping me search. It couldn’t be because he—? Camie’s letter—?

  “Could I do something with found objects?”

  The idea slips out. It is unconscious, so unbidden, it almost feels foreign, like even though I’m hearing my own voice it was someone else who spoke just now.

  “And—and arrangement,” I add, reclaiming it.

  “‘Found’ objects.” Ms. Gilbert folds her arms. “What sort of objects are you envisioning?”

  “Letters. Notes.” Secrets. “Things like that.”

  “You think you can find such things so easily?”

  “I’ve found them before. And if I can’t, there’re always antiques shops with old postcards and stuff.”

  “And how would ‘arrangement’ play into it?”

  “I’m not sure yet. But I’m good at making connections; maybe that can be my theme? I can find patterns, or combine different pieces to make a statement, or make the parts talk to each other . . .”

  Ms. Gilbert seems impressed—or at least she nods, and isn’t frowning.

  “I think that could make a very interesting collection,” she says. “Let’s say three to six finished pieces by the end of the unit, depending?”

  I nod.

  “Good.” Ms. Gilbert smiles. “Then I look forward to seeing your first project.”

  ∞

  When I find Kody at her usual table by the milk machine at lunch, not only is she wearing one of her newly purchased shirts; she has put up her hair since this morning and now displays a pair of chunky green earrings in the shape of hollow teardrops. I smile at the sight.

  “You look nice,” I tell her, grabbing a chair.

  “Thanks,” she says. “I decided you were right. I bought all this new stuff, and now I’m gonna show it off!”

  She turns her head from side to side as if posing for a camera. So I mime one.

  “Fabulous, yes. Now look this way and give us a growl!”

  Kody does. She hits about three more poses with a straight face before someone walks by and we both lose it.

  “That was good,” I tell her when I can breathe again. “You’re a natural!”

  “What can I say? Tyra taught me the smize.”

  The smize.

  It hits me in a wave: the smize, or “smile eyes,” was the same smoky look Cam and Heather and Lauren and I all used to practice in the mirror and for Lauren’s Polaroids. We haven’t dressed up and “modeled” together in years, but the four of us still used to join forces for makeover nights and sultry selfies.

  “Juniper? You okay?”

  “Yeah.” I flash a smile and start to unwrap my sandwich, but can’t help scanning the lunchroom for Lauren.

  It’s crushing to spot her upstairs—sitting at another table, with a group from choir.

  So much for new traditions.

  My glance does not escape Kody. She folds her arms, thoughtful.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “What . . . happened between you two?” She nods up at Lauren.

  Death happened.

  “It’s not . . . so much . . . what happened.” A sigh I didn’t realize I was holding escapes. “I mean, we didn’t fight or anything. It’s more like, after the accident, Lauren didn’t know how to talk to me anymore. So she just stopped. Stopped inviting me out, stopped returning my calls and texts . . .” I shrug. “Death is hard to talk about. And Lauren’s never been great at awkward.”

  “Still though. She’s your best friend.”

  I stare at my food. Is she?

  Or has that become a past tense, too?

  Kody clears her throat. “But best friends are overrated. Who needs bracelets and lifelong confidants? LAME. Give me a mediocre friend any day of the week.”

  My lips twitch up a little. “Are we mediocre friends?”

  “Hell, sure we are.”

  The twitch pulls higher.

  “Juniper?”

  I bite my dopey smile back and turn. Behind me stands a hair-gelled boy in all-American Converse, plaid, and jeans.

  “Nate! Hey.”

  Kody pulls a face at me: You know him?

  Nate sets his lunch sack and a bottle of pop on the table. “We missed you at Booster Thursday.” He leaves the statement open, waiting for an explanation.

  Crap.

  “Yeah,” I say, straightening. “Uh, something came up and—wait. We?”

  “Me and Mr. Garcia. The supervisor. So are you coming this week? Like—still interested in the club?”

  “Of course!” Still need to convince Dad I’m adjusting.

  “Good.” Nate nods to himself. “Because no one else came last week, and Mr. Garcia and I voted and made you secretary.”

  I choke on my sandwich. “What?”

  Kody prods me. “Isn’t a secretary, like. Supposed to take notes and stuff?”

  “Yeah. Some start she’s off to, eh?” Nate grins and extends his hand. “I’m Nate.”

  “Kody.”

  “You guys mind if I
join you?”

  Kody looks from him to me. I’m not sure which of us looks more surprised: me, at my new appointment, or Kody, at the fact that the boy about whom she is telepathically shouting WTF HE’S HOT has asked to sit at our table.

  “Please,” I say.

  “Thanks.” Nate scoots up a chair. Then, looking around and spying Kody’s lunchbox on the table, “Oh,” he says. “You like Lucy Killman?”

  And Kody’s eyes about fly from her head.

  ∞

  I am picking through a lunch sack in my gloves after school—ugh, scraped-off pizza cheese!—when there is an abrupt kong kong! behind me on one of the dumpsters.

  I leap to my feet, swearing. I’d clamp a hand over my heart if it weren’t covered in Fanta and cookie crumbs. “Can’t you just say ‘hi’ like a normal person?”

  Brand flashes his devil smile. “Hi.”

  I roll my eyes and crouch back down. The steady throb of lastday, lastday, lastday in my veins is too deep, too industrial to be disturbed by the likes of Brand Sayers—Mystery Man or not.

  He rubs his hands together. “Any luck?”

  I shake a lock of ramen from my hand as he helps himself to a bag. “None.”

  We work in silence. I want to ask Brand about the party, but I don’t know how. From what Shawn said, it’s almost like I ought to be acquainted with him. Did I take shots with Brand, or one of his band mates? Were we talking on the sofa? Doing something . . . other than talking?

  Oh god.

  “You okay, Lemon?”

  “Fine.” I cover my mouth with an arm. “Just got a whiff of Wednesday chili.”

  I change out bags and force my thoughts back to the search.

  “Hey.”

  I look up. Brand is leaning against one of the dumpsters and regarding me intently. For a moment I wonder if he has somehow read my desperation to talk to him and my stomach flutters.

  But what he says is, “Nice work with Kody.”

  “Oh.” The comment is unexpected and feels strangely intimate, as though he has complimented me on my favorite books or the scent of my shampoo. “Thanks.”

  Brand lingers against the dumpster. The pause is a little too long, too heavy between us to be the end of the conversation. It feels like a transition: like he’s opening up the stage for something to be said. Whether by him or me, I don’t know.