Little & Lion Page 7

  She opens the cooler door and I lean my head in to smell them, close my eyes as I inhale their sweet fragrance. When I open them, Rafaela is watching me. I stand up straight. “So, you just know all that stuff off the top of your head?”

  “Eh, you pick it up after a while.” She closes the cooler door. “Ora doesn’t make it easy to forget.”

  Her aunt comes out from the back a few seconds later, laughing with Saul. Rafaela reaches into the cooler again, extracts a handful of flowers, and takes them to the back room without another word. I stand off to the side while Saul and Ora wrap up, gazing around the room at the endless rows of petals and stems and leaves, wondering if I’d ever be able to keep track of anything more than roses.

  “Ready to go, kiddo?” Saul says, and I don’t mind that nickname from him, but God am I glad Rafaela wasn’t in the room to hear it.

  “Um, yeah…” I look toward the back. I guess it isn’t a big deal that she didn’t stick around to say good-bye, but now I won’t have a chance to ask her about the job, and I’m too shy to bring it up to her aunt myself. I turn to Ora. “Nice meeting you.”

  “Oh, nice meeting you, sweetheart,” she says, this time kissing both my cheeks. “Stop by anytime you’re in the neighborhood, okay?”

  “Wait!” comes a muffled voice. Then the back door swings open and my heart jumps off beat. “You almost forgot these.” Rafaela holds out a square glass vase full of pink and white peonies, water swirling around the thick stems in the bottom.

  I wipe my palms on my shorts before I take them from her. “These are really gorgeous. Thank you.” I don’t quite make eye contact. I stop somewhere along the smooth line of her neck. Which doesn’t do much to calm my nerves; it only makes me wonder what it would feel like to kiss her there.

  “No problem,” she says. “I’ll get your number from Alicia and text you about the job.”

  I nod, and Saul waits until we’re standing by the station wagon before he says, “Joining the workforce?”

  “She said they need help part-time and I thought it might be a cool place to work. I could save for my Europe trip.” Which is impossibly far away, but maybe if I keep bringing it up, Saul and Mom will reconsider letting Lionel go next year.

  He ignores that part, naturally. “Well, Ora is a good egg.” He pauses, looking at me over the top of the wagon. “And that girl seems nice, too.”

  I can’t read his tone. Does he know? He and Mom wouldn’t care. I’m sure of it because for a while last year, they thought Lionel was acting so strange because he was hiding something; and they’re sort of hippies, so they automatically assumed he was struggling over sexuality instead of, say, drugs or mental illness, and initiated a big, unsolicited talk.

  But now isn’t the time to tell Saul that I think I’m into girls. Not here on the side of Sunset Boulevard, with traffic whizzing past and people clasping iced coffees and an orange tabby sunbathing in the window of the shop behind us. Not when we’re museum-bound. He can think what he wants, but I don’t have to offer up anything he doesn’t ask about.

  Besides, I’m not sure what to think myself. Before Iris, I thought I liked guys exclusively, even though the little experience I had with them felt more like playing doctor. I haven’t been attracted to any other girls… until now. Until Rafaela. And then there’s Emil, who was so nice and good to me the other night. He’s always been nice and good to me, but for some reason, this summer, I suddenly want to kiss him.

  I’m jealous that DeeDee has known what she wants—who she wants—for most of her life. Even before I met Iris, I was tired of all the jokes and assumptions I’d heard about bisexual people: that they’re just being greedy or doing it for attention or trying it on for size “before they cross over to full-on gay.” Even with the little experience I had, it wasn’t so hard to imagine someone might be attracted to both—or more—options.

  I don’t think I’m selfish for liking both guys and girls. I just wish it didn’t have to happen all at once.

  seven.

  I’m lying in bed, eyelids still heavy with sleep as I stare at the vase of peonies on my dresser, when there’s a knock at my door.

  “Come in,” I say, grateful for the distraction. From thinking about the heady scent of the flowers and the position at the shop… and Rafaela.

  Lionel pops his head in, hair still mussed from his pillow and sticking up in misshapen auburn spikes. “Hey, want to go for a hike over in Elysian?”

  I rub at my eyes and sit up. I don’t like hiking or mornings, but if it means everything will be okay between us again, I’ll go. I look at him, try to gauge if he’s still annoyed with me, but he doesn’t seem upset. Lion and I never stay mad at each other for long, but after the way he left the tree house the other day, I wasn’t sure if that was still true. I’ve been giving him space and he’s been letting me.

  I drop my feet to the floor. “Give me ten minutes?”

  “Sure. And we can go to the diner after, if you want.” He scratches at the back of his head, further messing up his hair. “My treat.”

  “Why are you trying to butter me up? Are we going on one of those hikes that makes me feel like I’m going to vomit the whole time?”

  He grins. “No, it’s a super-easy trail—you know, the one Dad used to take us on? I just… I need to tell you something.”

  I get a bad feeling in my chest, even though it’s too early for that. But Lionel looks fine. Happy, even. “Everything okay?”

  “Totally fine. Meet you downstairs.”

  He closes my door and I sit on the edge of my bed for a moment. I look at my flowers like they have the answers. They sit snug in their vase, pretty and useless. But I see why people like having them around. They will die, but for now their beauty is undeniable, and I take comfort in that.

  Lionel is entirely too outdoorsy for such a bookish person. I blame Saul. My outdoor time increased exponentially once my mother began dating him. Sunday-morning hikes at Runyon and walks at the lake and daylong trips to hang on the beach in Malibu—I think Saul would live in a tent if he could.

  My brother’s love of nature is one of the reasons I figured out he was sick. Before, he couldn’t go more than a day without getting outside, taking long bike rides along the L.A. River or walking the path that borders the reservoir or, at the very least, taking a stroll around the tree-lined streets of our storybook neighborhood. It must have been gradual, but it seemed like one day he wasn’t interested in anything he used to do, especially being outside. At first I thought he was mad at me. He never wanted to talk or hang out anymore. He’d sleep all day, and if he joined us for dinner, it was back to the sorts of meals we had in the first couple of years we knew him, when he barely said two words. But there were no books in his lap. That was another clue. Even if he was in a loner phase, Lionel always wanted to be with his books.

  “Everyone kept telling me to get active… after the diagnosis,” he says as we enter the park, squeezing through the narrow space next to an iron gate. “I used to think they were full of shit, but I don’t know—it probably helps. The exercise. Fresh air.”

  I look at him with raised eyebrows. The last time we talked about this was a disaster. It was hard to give him the space he needed, but every time I went to knock on his door or text him, I remembered what Mom said last summer. How she was afraid I was taking on too much emotionally for someone my age. How I couldn’t worry so much about him that I missed out on my own life.

  “You’re feeling better?” I ask as we travel along the dirt trail spotted with black beetles, crunchy leaves, and the occasional cigarette butt. The path isn’t crowded, but people are walking ahead of us, a couple of girls with bobbing ponytails and a guy running with an off-leash Labrador.

  “I am,” he says with a clarity that intrigues me. “I’m feeling a lot better.”

  I wait for him to explain, but he doesn’t. He looks at peace as we walk along, and I run through the past few days in my head, wondering if I missed something
that could have turned his mood around. He’s not talking, not ready to tell me whatever it is, and the silence is making me uncomfortable. That anticipatory pause should remind me of how we used to be with each other—confidants, keepers of secrets with a bond that no one and nothing could sever. But our dynamic is different now. Our bond isn’t broken, but it’s been stretched too thin.

  And I’m so unnerved by the quiet that I change the subject—to the only thing that seems to be on my mind lately, besides him. Maybe if I tell Lionel something secret of my own, he’ll warm up.

  “I like someone.”

  “No shit.” He grins and I know he’s thinking about Emil, which isn’t wrong, but that’s not who I’m talking about.

  I open my mouth to continue but then bite my lip and pause. This is the first time I will say this to anyone besides DeeDee. And even if he is Lionel, that’s still a big deal.

  “That someone is… a girl.”

  “Wow. Really?” He glances at me before he pushes a piece of hair out of his eyes, the red strands blazing in the sun. “So I was way off base with Emil, huh? Sorry.”

  “No, that’s the thing.… I think I’m into him, too.”

  “Huh.” Lion doesn’t say anything for a few seconds. Then: “What happened at boarding school?”

  “What do you mean what happened?” I look down at the trail, not him, because I don’t like the way he asked it. Accusatory, almost.

  “Well, you liked guys before you went away.”

  “And?” I don’t want to tell him about Iris. He doesn’t sound like I want him to sound, and if he says something shitty about her, I might snap. I don’t like hearing people talk badly about Iris.

  He sighs. “It’s, like, I thought everything would be the same when you got back, but you’re different and… I don’t know. It’s weird.”

  My skin feels cold all of a sudden, unnaturally clammy under the heat. I never expected this from Lionel. My voice is somewhere between angry and humiliated as I ask, “Are you saying you don’t think it’s okay?”

  He grabs my elbow and we pause on the trail. “Of course not. That was a dick thing to say. Sorry. I don’t care if you like girls, it’s just—so much has changed since you went away. None of it’s good for me, not really, but it seems good for you. The time away. Like you really know who you are now.”

  “But I don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “I don’t know anything except that I like Emil and I like a girl and I guess that means I’m bisexual, but… am I? Shouldn’t I know for sure? You know you’re straight. Dee knows she’s gay. Other people know they don’t fit into either of those categories.…”

  Lionel brings his shoulders up in a shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s different for everyone. I know I’m straight, but I have a million people telling me my brain is dysfunctional.”

  “Have you ever liked more than one person at once?” I ask.

  “Yeah, sure. Liking someone isn’t the same as being in love.”

  “It just feels… People don’t really care if you like more than one person if you’re gay or straight, but if you say you’re bi, it’s different. Like the same rules don’t apply.”

  He nods slowly. “I never thought about it like that, but yeah. You’re right. It’s pretty fucked up.”

  “Sometimes I wish I could go back to being ten years old. Even just for a day. Everything was easier then.”

  “I’d like to be six again. That was a great year,” he says, looking wistfully at the brilliant blue sky.

  “Hey!” I shove his shoulder. “We didn’t know each other when you were six.”

  He smirks. “Sorry. Dad spoiled me a lot more before you two came around. Divorce guilt. So… who’s the girl?”

  “No one you know,” I say quickly, though it’s possible he’d have a vague idea if I mentioned the colorful tattoo that curves up and down and around her arm. He might have still been hanging out with our friends when Alicia and her girls started coming around, and Lionel is observant—he’d have noticed her.

  I think of Iris again and consider telling him about her, now that I know he won’t say something hurtful. I could go back to the beginning and tell him where and with whom these new feelings started, but thinking about Iris is painful. I haven’t spoken to her since we left school, and there’s still so much I don’t know: if she’s going back to Dinsmore next year, if I was as important to her as she was to me… if she ever wants to see me again.

  Lionel kicks a small stick out of his path and looks at me. “You gonna tell the parents?”

  “I don’t know. Not yet. I mean, I don’t even know if anything is going to happen. Seems like a bad idea to get them excited for no reason.”

  “Yeah,” he says. “They’d probably throw a party.”

  Even if they hadn’t stated it directly, it’s always been obvious that Mom and Saul would be okay with whatever sexuality we claimed, but I never realized how much simpler that made my life until I met Iris. I imagine telling them, how thrilled they’d be that I felt comfortable enough to come out to them at sixteen, how Saul might say he knew from the moment we saw Rafaela in Castillo Flowers. But it’s no small thing, and there will be several talks, and even if I know they’d be the supportive kind, I’m not up for that right now.

  We move to the right to let a panting solo runner pass, and I look at Lionel as we position ourselves back on the trail. I don’t know if it’s because he needed to warm up or because of what I told him, but the silence between us seems more comfortable now. Enough for me to ask him directly: “What did you want to talk about?”

  “Well, so.” He breathes in deeply, slow and controlled like he’s practicing yoga. “Remember how I said we can’t find the right combination of meds?”

  “Yeah,” I reply, unable to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

  “I’m not taking them anymore,” he says with a lightness I haven’t heard from him in a year. Ironic, considering the weight of his words.

  I stare at him, waiting for the punch line. And when it doesn’t arrive, I play dumb.

  “I’m sure Mom and Saul will understand if you need to keep trying out new ones. Dr. Tarrasch will help you figure it out, right?”

  But I knew exactly what he meant.

  “No, I’m not taking any more pills at all.” He removes his hand from his pocket, his freckled fingers wrapped around an orange pill bottle that glows in the light of the sun. Then he reaches down and produces another. “I’m done.” He shakes the bottles for emphasis, one in each hand, like a thousand tiny maracas making music in his palms.

  I stop walking, right in the middle of the trail. No one is behind us, at least not for now. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I have to approach this with care rather than alarm, even if red strobe lights are dancing across my vision. “Didn’t Dr. Tarrasch—”

  “I don’t care what she thinks,” he says. “I don’t. Maybe these work for some people, but I don’t want to be on them. Not right now. I’m getting ready to start my senior year of high school. I’m tired of dealing with this shit. If it hasn’t gotten better by now, I don’t think it ever will.”

  “I think—”

  But before I can finish, a woman with a sleek gray bob walks by, pumping hand weights by her sides. She gives us a smile and I do my best to return it, but it feels a bit like the sky is closing in around us, and I don’t know why no one else sees it.

  “I think maybe you should talk to the parents about this,” I say once we’re alone again.

  His jaw clenches and he rolls the bottles around in his hands. “I’m not talking to them about anything. I’ll be eighteen in a few months. They can’t keep making decisions for me forever.”

  “Lion—”

  “You think you know what’s best for me. Everyone does. And I know that’s supposed to feel good, like people care or whatever.” He looks down at the ground while he speaks. “But nobody asks what I want. Sometimes it feels like I’m a science experiment, like
my name is Bipolar Two instead of Lionel, and I fucking hate that.”

  I think back to when I started noticing the change in his behavior, how the thoughtful and always opinionated Lionel I’d known almost my whole life was hidden inside someone who didn’t want to go anywhere or do anything, not even the things he loved. And how sometimes it seemed hard to believe that the same person could have days-long bursts of energy, or become irritated or angry at the smallest thing.

  But the worst part was never knowing for sure how deep his sadness would go. Sometimes I felt it in my bones, and though I only found out he’s at a higher risk of suicide after he was diagnosed, I think a part of me knew that I had to look out for him, even before it was confirmed. That feeling is what made me start sleeping in the guest room without telling our parents. It was across the hall instead of separated by a flight of stairs, and if anything had happened to him while I was up in my tower, I never would have forgiven myself. Him being on his meds has felt like a type of insurance, like it’s okay to have those extra few feet between us again.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he says, his voice softer. “I’ve thought about it a lot. The side effects suck, too. The first combination I was on made me gain weight, and these make me feel tired and sick to my stomach.… This is something I need to do, and I wanted to tell someone. You’re the only one I trust, Little.”

  I don’t mean to soften. I mean to stand strong, to become overly stern with him if I must, because what he’s talking about is a bad fucking idea all around.

  But he trusts me. Which is something I thought I’d lost forever when I went away.

  “I brought them here to throw them out,” he says when I still don’t speak. He pops the childproof top on one of the bottles and shakes a mountain of pills into his hand. “Down in the ravine, so I’ll know they’re really gone.”