We, the Wildflowers

By L.B. Simmons

"Their strength and ferocity stem from below the surface where their roots are forever tangled, interwoven in such a way that for the remainder of time they bloom together..." Genesis Adam Chloe Lukas No one loves them, no one cares about them, no one even sees them until they end up in Mary Rodriguez's home, an outpost for Sacred Heart's troubled youth program. It is within these walls that the four teens forge unlikely friendships. They experience the intensity of first loves, share secrets, and suffer losses, vowing to make the world a better place in spite of their personal battles with addiction, depression, loneliness, and abuse. But when the unthinkable happens, those friendships are tested in ways they never could have imagined. Will they find strength enough to survive or will their bonds be too fractured to heal them yet again? We, the Wildflowers is a Junior Library Guild Gold Standard Selection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Spencer Hill Press
• Release date: Feb 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781633921122

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We, the Wildflowers

Copyright © 2020 by L.B. Simmons

First Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of the publisher, except in cases of a reviewer quoting brief passages in a review.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. Use of any copyrighted, trademarked, or brand names in this work of fiction does not imply endorsement of that brand.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request

Published in the United States by Spencer Hill Press, New York, New York www.SpencerHillPress.com

Distributed by Midpoint Trade Books

A division of Independent Publishers Group

www.midpointtrade.com

www.ipgbook.com

This edition ISBN:

9781633921115 paperback

9781633921122 ebook

Printed in the United States of America

Flower Illustrations by: Sofia Pirrello

Cover by: Hang Le

Design by: Mark Karis

In honor of my mother, the original Wildflower.

I hope this story is everything you knew it could be.

I miss you every single day.

Their strength and ferocity stem from below the surface where their roots are tangled, interwoven in such a way that for the remainder of time they bloom together, and when winter finally prevails, they perish as one. But even in death they remain connected, thriving within the comfort only they can provide each other, until spring brings them to life once again.

—GENESIS MONROE, WILDFLOWER NUMBER ONE

WINTER

PROLOGUE

The hallway around me is…spinning.

And spinning.

And spinning.

And spinning.

I try to feel nothing, yet now I feel everything as I’m forced to acknowledge the consequence of a poorly made decision. All because I wanted to experience something… anything but feeling alone.

Abandoned.

Insignificant.

You did this to yourself.

You only have yourself to blame.

Much like the walls around me, the words circle around and around and around…unforgiving accusations and blame. I slam my hands against the sides of my head and cover my ears, trying to make them stop, but it doesn’t work. Out of frustration, I thread my fingers into my hair and yank as hard as I can.

Shut up.

Shut up.

Where do you think you’re going anyway?

They don’t want you.

Shut up!

They won’t even look at you.

I choke back a sob and shake my head, refusing to hear them. To believe them.

Several minutes pass before the harsh murmurs finally lower to faint white noise in my head. I peel my eyes from the marbled floor, and only then do I realize I’m standing in front of my parents’ bedroom door.

That’s when I feel it. A tiny glimmer of hope. My heart begins to race as it flickers to life inside me.

I need you.

I reach desperately for the words, fumble for them as I try to grab hold, but they are out of reach. Always out of reach. Uncontrollable tears stream down my cheeks as my mind splits in two and begins its battle.

You stupid girl.

They want nothing to do with you.

I need you.

I need you.

I inhale deeply, trying to gather my strength. I have to win this war. I will not let them ruin me. I cannot let them win. I refuse.

Just as I lift my arm to knock, raised voices drown out the ones in my head, leaving my closed fist hanging in the air.

So you’re leaving again? With your whore of the month?

"Diane."

I swallow deeply in response to his calculated tone. Although the door separates us, I can picture my father’s expression perfectly. Cold, callous eyes narrowing in my mother’s direction. Jaw ticking wildly in frustration. Yet, when he speaks, his voice remains unaffected. As though he’s merely swatting words like flies, when in actuality, he’s pounding them with a mallet.

He sighs deeply. It’s business. You know that.

Right, my mother scoffs. "It’s always business, Tristan. Never any twenty-something extracurriculars, right?"

Her words are slurred—as usual. I can picture her, too. Cheeks reddened by the alcohol, pouty mouth curved to the floor—stress carving lines into her skin that will be erased come Monday—wavy blonde hair that refuses to cooperate, and her light brown eyes? Puffy from tears and so very sad.

I am her mirror image in every way.

My father’s bored tone turns glacial. A twenty-something extracurricular as you once were?

The slamming of a suitcase jars my entire body, and I place my hand flat against the door to steady myself.

"We’ve been over this a thousand times, Diane. I didn’t ask to be saddled with a wife who mistakenly believes the world revolves around her and no one else. Nor did I ask to be burdened by the responsibility of life with a kid. All I asked was for you to be at my side when required, for you to service my needs whenever necessary, and to stay on birth control while doing it. Which you purposefully did not do."

My mother’s soft sobs become desperate wails the more he speaks.

You trapped me in this marriage, Diane. We both know that. And because of that, you are nothing to me. You don’t deserve to know what I choose to do with my time.

The suitcase hits the floor. I do, however, take satisfaction in knowing you have a sixteen-year-old reminder that the old adage is true: money can’t buy happiness, no matter how many millions it may be. Your child is nothing more than the result of a night I wish had never happened.

His words are like a punch to the gut, forcing every breath of air from my body upon impact. And with it, all hope inside me is extinguished. I begin to tremble with its loss, and suddenly, I’m so cold. My chest throbs and aches, as though there’s a black hole where my heart should be.

I feel it spreading throughout my body…devouring the will to live.

I’m so tired.

Tired of trying.

Tired of fighting.

Tired of hoping.

I no longer hear the desperate cry of I need you because there is no longer need.

There is only truth.

You are a burden.

They wish you had never happened.

You are nothing.

The voices beat me into submission, forcing me to recognize what I really am.

Nothing…

There are no more tears when I turn my back on my parents.

My body is numb, impossibly light even, as I seem to float toward my father’s office.

With frigid fingers, I push open his private bathroom door.

I hear nothing when I open the drawer and pull out the straight razor he’s used for years.

When I lift it in front of the mirror, my eyes are unseeing as I inspect its reflection.

And though fear and hesitation lurk in the distance, I give the voices free rein, allowing them this victory so they may provide armor against such useless emotions. Because the voices are right.

I am nothing.

Although my throat is clamped shut, I somehow manage to murmur, Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.

A sense of relief washes over me as I begin to fade from consciousness, and a lazy smile crosses my face when the darkness finally swallows me whole.

Murmurs fill the air, but I don’t dare open my eyes. I don’t need them to know that gauze is wrapped around both of my arms from wrist to elbow. And I definitely don’t want to be on the receiving end of looks of pity from the nurses, or familiar glares of disapproval from my parents, if they’re even here.

So I remain still, listening to the beeping and wondering what the hell I’m going to do now. I’m glad for whatever drugs I’m on because they seem to have muted the voices for a while at least.

A light knock sounds, startling me. Then, a soft, feminine voice. Mr. and Mrs. Campbell?

I hear shuffling, most likely my father standing, then the clicking of heels as someone enters the room.

So, they’re here…Surprising.

Yes, I’m Tristan Campbell, and this is my wife, Diane. May we help you?

Actually, the woman clears her throat, I’m Claudia, from Sacred Heart. We spoke on the phone.

Right. Yes. Do you have any updates?

I do. The door shuts softly, and I wait patiently while they take their seats. I have a lovely woman who is willing to take Chloe into her home. She runs an offshoot of Sacred Heart only a couple of hours from here, a very small home that typically houses three to four residents, all from different backgrounds. As you have requested expedited processing, I have prepared the paperwork to have Chloe discharged to our care, then I can take her to the home from here.

Her voice lowers in volume. Thank you for your donation, by the way.

Of course. His tone remains composed. Always glad to help those in need.

Bullshit. Where were you when I needed you?

I wish I had the courage to shout my thoughts. But I don’t. I’m too tired to do anything but lie here.

So, I do. I hide behind my eyelids and listen. I listen as they discuss the home, as my father demands I remain in high school—though his disapproval is clear when it’s explained it will be public schooling and not private—as he boasts about money he’ll give me that I’ll never touch—because I will refuse to take his money—and finally the sounds of a pen scratching paper as they sign my life away.

They say nothing as they leave me alone in the room.

No I’m sorry.

No goodbye.

No I love you.

I would say it hurts, but I don’t think I can hurt anymore. There is nothing left of me that can be hurt.

And as I listen to the machines around me, all I can think is that while their beeping would suggest my heart still beats, each sound they make is a lie.

I’m no more alive than they are.

ONE YEAR LATER…

SPRING

1

A subzero draft rushes my face, signaling the high school’s air conditioning has clicked on, but I don’t hear it. Nor do I hear Mr. Alexander’s monotone history lecture about East and West Germany. While I’m completely aware it’s important information, my mind has wandered. Again.

I’ve grown a lot over the past year. Learned a lot about life and myself in general. And though there have been many lessons, some definitely harder than others, the most important of them is this.

Sometimes rock-bottom has a hidden safety net. You don’t see it, but when you land, when you’ve reached the lowest of lows, somehow you don’t hit the ground. You strike that net, and then you’re thrown so high, you fly. Sure, it’s scary.

But sometimes, it’s necessary.

The thought lingers, and subconsciously I tug my fingerless gloves into the crook of my elbow. The texture of the knit is comforting as I mentally trace the scars that will forever line the pale skin of my forearms. Permanent reminders of the night I almost lost my life, but was miraculously saved to live another one.

You see, Sacred Heart was—no, is—my safety net.

My parents sending me to live there was the best thing, the only good thing, they have ever done for me, because within its walls, I’ve found more of a home than I’ve ever experienced. I’ve found a place where I’m seen. Where I’m acknowledged. Where I’m loved and accepted.

I’ve finally found…a family.

Gently tapping my pencil against the grain of my desk, I swallow my urge to grin and glance at the person next to me. The first person I met when entering the Sacred Heart home, and one of my best friends.

Genesis Monroe.

Light-green eyes crossed, she presses two fingers firmly against her temple and pulls a mock trigger, clearly as enthused with world history as I am at the moment. Pink hair conceals her face as she falls limp in her seat, and I shake my head and roll my eyes, chuckling softly to myself.

That is, until I see the person right behind her, hanging himself with an imaginary noose. He’s the second person I met and immediately adored, Adam McNamara, and he’s seemingly accepted his feigned death with honor. Neck angled and tongue lolling from his mouth, his blue eyes brighten with humor before he tosses me a gratuitous wink. Breathy laughter bubbles through my nose, and the more I try to keep it at bay, the more it refuses to cooperate. Tears prick my eyes as a giggle desperately seeks escape.

Chloe Campbell. Would you like to contribute something to this discussion other than amusement at your friends’ incredibly disrespectful behavior?

Damn it. Busted.

Genny miraculously springs back to life, the legs of her desk screeching across the floor as she bolts upright. Adam and I snort in unison. We’re totally not helping my situation.

I close my eyes, inhale deeply, then twist to face the front of the room. Mr. Alexander’s pinched expression invites more laughter, but thankfully I maintain my composure.

I’m sorry, I respond, clearing my throat. What was the question?

To fill the gaps in your unfortunate attention span, we’ve been discussing the fall of the Berlin Wall today, at length. His bushy brows lift. So, what do you feel was the impact of its fall on the Cold War as a whole?

My stare is blank, and I blink. Repeatedly.

Mr. Alexander frowns, then angles his head. This is not a difficult question, Miss Campbell.

The answer he seeks is well beyond me, but luckily the soothing, deep baritone of a familiar voice captures everyone’s attention with three tersely spoken words.

It ended it.

I don’t have to look at him—I know exactly what my eyes would find. Black hair haphazardly spiked in all directions. Green eyes a shade darker than Genny’s, locked on the floor even when he speaks. Long legs kicked out in front of his desk, booted feet crossed at the ankle, and an unmistakable expression of boredom carved into the most handsome face I’ve ever seen.

Lukas White.

As of a couple months ago, Lukas became the final Sacred Heart inhabitant, and therefore the fourth member in our crew.

That’s right, Mr. White. Concise as always, but nonetheless, your participation is much appreciated. After sending a pointed stare my way, Mr. Alexander turns around, effectively communicating his disappointment before dismissing me fully.

And with that wonderful accomplishment under my belt, my mind once again drifts, consumed with thoughts of Lukas White.

We don’t know much about him really. Nothing more than the rumors running rampant throughout the school. We’ve heard he did some time in juvie, but for what, we’re not sure.

What we do know is that he rarely says much. But when he does speak, people listen. There’s just something about him that demands respect. His voice is strong, his words direct. He doesn’t waste them on meaningless discussion, but chooses to use them only when necessary.

Otherwise, he rarely speaks. Except to us.

And he doesn’t make eye contact. Except with us.

I see it. I know Genny and Adam do, too. The reasons why remain unspoken, but we understand it. Hell, we lived it. There’s an undeniable sense of camaraderie between those who survive their own personal hell, and because of that, we give him the room he needs to just be, without questions.

I think that’s why he’s somewhat comfortable with us.

No, actually, I know that’s why.

And it’s also why he’s one of us. Like knows like. We’ve been bonded by pain, but together, we’re rooted in resilience.

We are four.

We are the Wildflowers.

2

I amble across the courtyard with my lunch tray, glancing from my usual—cheeseburger, no onions, with a side of curly fries—to our table. Or rather, to Genny seated atop our table, scowling. Her tank top is light pink, lending an almost feminine quality to the rest of her outfit: camo-green Dickies and black Doc Martens. With her hot-pink hair, light dusting of freckles, and luminous green eyes, she looks like a very pissed-off version of Strawberry Shortcake right now.

Beside her, Adam threads his fingers through his chin-length, light blond hair as it’s tousled by the wind, pinning it to his head so he can better see. From his huge grin, I’d gather that Genny’s giving the familiar menace standing in front of them a piece of her mind. I slip into their conversation and silently set my tray on the table.

Like I said, you can’t sit here. Genny shrugs, unrepentant, brows raised.

Eric Warner has clearly made the wrong decision by trying to confiscate our table, again. He shows absolutely no fear as he slams his tray down next to mine.

This is not your table, you emo bitch.

My head jerks back in shock, and Adam’s expression hardens. Genesis grins. Slowly, she leans forward, brazenly meeting Eric’s angry stare. And when she finally speaks, her voice is low and her tone controlled. "Let me explain it to you. First of all, I—she gestures to herself—am not emo. I’m punk. Check the internet before your next attempt to conjure an insult, Needle Dick."

Eric glares, spurring Genny’s widening grin as she gestures to the surface below her. And second, this is our table. Do you have a name of biblical origin? Because if you don’t, you can’t sit at the Jesus Table. I mean, it would be heresy if you did. Jesus said so. In the Bible. She shrugs again. Somewhere.

I laugh. Adam laughs.

Eric does not.

His expression solidifies into one of unmistakable hatred, then he braces his weight, splaying both hands on either side of his tray. Slowly, he creeps into Genny’s space, his eyes sinister, his tone laced with loathing. That’s golden. He lowers his stare to the several track marks dotting her arms, her open display of the scars demonstrating just one of the many differences between her and me. If anyone knows about needles, it’s you.

I suck in a breath and narrow my eyes, boring holes into Eric’s pockmarked cheek. Adam, however, smiles shamelessly as he looks over my shoulder. At the exact same time, the sun above us is eclipsed, and I say a silent prayer that God isn’t too pissed we pulled His Son into our territorial dispute.

Back off, Warner.

Lukas. He towers above all of us. I squint with one eye shut while looking up at him, and my lips curl inward to hide my smile.

Genesis relaxes, shifting her weight on to her hands and easing back. Both brows arched, she silently dares Eric to say anything else.

He doesn’t. Not at first.

After this rather uncomfortable standoff, Eric finally grabs his tray, then pivots in Lukas’s direction. One day, all of you assholes will pay. Mark my words. You’re all a drain on society, and the world would be better off without you.

He aims a furious glare at each of us before finally turning away in search of another poor, unsuspecting table to infect.

Lukas remains standing, watching Eric over his shoulder. Eventually, Eric settles himself three tables away, right next to Leah Allen, head cheerleader extraordinaire. He mutters something under his breath, and in turn her ebony ponytail whips to the side as she looks in our direction. Eric turns as well, but it’s only Leah I notice. Her expression is glacial, bitter with disgust.

Why the hell does she hate me so much?

Lukas sets his tray next to mine, saving me from the throes of Leah’s diabolical, yet oddly hypnotizing glare. Slowly he shakes his head, his mouth lifting minutely at the corners. Jesus would not approve.

Genny gives him an encouraging nod. "Not my Jesus. Because while my Jesus excuses certain indiscretions, he can’t overlook someone being a complete prick!"

Eric scowls at us and Genny narrows her eyes menacingly in his direction, pausing before she adds, "Which is exactly why he’s not allowed at the Jesus Table. However, you assholes are welcome any time."

Our collective laughter fills the air, and I slide onto the bench while Lukas does the same. Genny remains seated on her throne, chomping her carrot while eyeing the back of Eric’s head, and Adam takes his seat across from us. Once we’re all settled, I take a bite of my burger, chewing thoughtfully in an attempt to ignore the way Lukas’s presence seems to affect me.

How it always affects me.

Like the way goosebumps rise along my arm when his brushes against it.

Or how his scent is burned into my brain, you know, just for safekeeping. Or torture.

Or the way every single cell of my thigh tingles as his leg settles against mine.

All things I regularly dismiss, because there are certain lines not to be crossed within the Wildflowers.

I swallow my food while reinforcing my denial, but I feel myself blush anyway. As its warmth spreads across my face, Adam glances up from his BLT and locks eyes with me. He quirks a brow, sets his sandwich down, and grins.

I scowl back.

His smile widens, unapologetic. Not always one for the rules, this guy.

After inhaling a Zen-like breath, I scoot approximately five inches—the maximum distance allowed before any distancing becomes noticeable—then set my half-eaten burger back on my tray and finally break the silence.

So…the Bible and our names. That’s new, and a bit overwhelming. Just gonna toss that out there.

Genny turns her attention from Eric to me. Her expression morphs from anger to unconcealed excitement, the past few minutes clearly forgotten thanks to this new topic of conversation.

Dude. She twists on the cement tabletop, facing us completely before continuing. It’s a sign. I know it. You know I’ve been on this name kick lately? Well, I was researching the meanings of our names, when it hit me. All of our names have biblical origins. Add in their actual meanings, and I mean, seriously, it’s a sign. We were meant to find each other.

She points toward the sky and nods reverently.

I frown and shake my head. There’s no ‘Chloe’ in the Bible.

First Corinthians 1:11. Check it, bitch. Genny doesn’t miss a beat.

I laugh, noting privately that the mention of a name in a Bible is in no way the same as biblical origin, but to make her happy I simply agree. Okay, well, I’ll take your word for it. That being said, I seriously doubt that God, in all His infinite wisdom, sat down one day and said, ‘Hey, I’m gonna make sure these four random kids have biblical names just so they can eat at the self-proclaimed Jesus Table.’

Genny grins and swallows a mouthful of salad. Oh, ye of little faith.

What? Now we’re the Jesus Freaks? I thought we were the Wildflowers, as ordained by you, Adam says, finally releasing me from his stare as it’s redirected to Genny.

We are. But our names cement the fact that we were brought together for a specific purpose. I just know it.

I still don’t understand this ‘wildflowers’ thing, Lukas says. And by the way, my name isn’t biblical, so that kind of shoots your theory to shit.

Eh, close enough. Genny forks another piece of lettuce, then continues. ‘Lukas’ is a derivative of ‘Luke.’ An apostle of Jesus, who just so happens to be in the Bible. Hello?

She looks at me, then adds, And you’ll meet our wildflowers soon enough. Then you’ll understand. She winks, and I smile.

Lukas opens his mouth, but is silenced by Genny’s raised hand. And the meaning of our names is ridiculously on point. Like, totally meant to be. She begins to count on her fingers.

Genesis. I am ‘the Beginning.’ The founder of this group. So, inherently, I’m Wildflower Number One.

She looks at Adam. Clearly, ‘Genesis’ and ‘Adam’ go together. Consequently, ‘Adam’ means ‘Son of the Earth.’ Seeing as I met you first, my vision for this group found root in your existence. You, my dear, are The Second Wildflower.

Chloe—she points at me—your name means ‘green shoot’ and ‘fresh bloom.’ You are just beginning to blossom. And as you find root, bloom beautifully you shall. That makes you Wildflower Number Three.

She then turns to Lukas. And you. Well, the biblical meaning of ‘Luke,’ or ‘Lukas,’ is ‘light giving.’ You are our light, our sustenance so to speak. And that’s why you have been named The Fourth, and Final, Wildflower.

Lukas pauses mid-chew, eyes Genesis warily, then swallows. I’ve been called a lot of shit. ‘Light,’ however, has never been mentioned.

Our smiles become frowns. I grit my teeth and clamp my jaw shut, but the truth frees itself, clawing its way up my throat before launching off my tongue. That’s because you’ve never really been seen.

The

Reviews for We, the Wildflowers

[poppyreads · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This was such a lovely book that reminded me a lot of works by John Green and Jennifer Niven, two of my favorite authors.

These kids are so strong even when the world has done then SO wrong. It's a tragic story with a beautiful meaning.

I want to know these characters. I want to be a part of their life. I want to be a Wildflower.

A full review will be up on my blog soon!

[solson096 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This book preaches kindness and compassion. Although religion plays a role, it it not a major one. The story goes through an entire year of these young adults' lives and rollercoasters through and the reader is taken on a journey.