Butterfly Kisses (The Butterfly Chronicles #2) Read online

  “Fine, every morning,” Chase concedes, blank-faced, as he watches Henry pass us with his best friends, blond and beautifully sickening twins Byron and Bea, mixed up in the group of eight kids. They turn another corner and disappear.

  “No, its OK. Just get us some shelves.” I open my notebook and write down the combination and tear the paper out. He smiles gratefully.

  “You don’t know what this means to me.” He pushes off the locker casually and begins to step away backwards.

  “You can make it up to me later,” I tease, winking at him. He waggles his eyebrows at me, and I laugh. The tension is already easing.

  I’m sitting in my free session, which is during third period with about a hundred other students. It’s a mixture of every grade. Henry, the toxic twins, and Stacey Gibson sit across the room. So far Henry was in my first period Algebra III class, and here. I sigh, realizing this will be a long year and hoping this is the extent of the classes shared. We’re in the lecture hall. Because it’s the first day and it’s an orientation day, Mrs. Perkins is explaining the “free range” areas we can use during this class session. Suddenly Mrs. Simpson, the freshman school counselor, and Dr. Garner, our principal, come in. They go to Mrs. Perkins and begin speaking in a hushed tone. Everyone sits up.

  “Deacon Chandler?” she asks as she scans the faces to look for him. I know Deacon. He’s the little crap-face who made Lana’s life hell last year. He holds up his hand with a smirk on his face. He’s sitting with a couple other boys who begin laughing under their breath. One shoves him and he shoves back arrogantly.

  “Deacon, we need you to come with us,” Dr. Garner says seriously. Mrs. Simpson’s eyes fall on me momentarily. My heart begins to pound in my chest, and I wonder if this has anything to do with Lana. I don’t have a chance to wonder for long because they leave and Mrs. Perkins goes back to orientation.

  After class as I search for Lana, I find Tasha instead, or rather she finds me. I come out of the bathroom, and she grabs my arm forcefully, shoving me back in.

  “So, how’s your first day going?” I ask nonchalantly.

  “Deacon Chandler has been suspended, three days.” She’s so serious it’s kind of scary.

  “Dr. Garner and Ms. Simpson took him out of free session.”

  “Apparently, he harassed Lana.” I feel all the blood drain from my face, my brain, my legs, like I need it to go to my heart to ensure my heart continues thundering in my ears. She goes on. “I’m not sure what happened, but—” I’m gone. My legs are carrying me. I go to her locker, but I can’t find her anywhere. I go to the office, and no one will tell me anything. I text her to ask if she’s OK as I leave the office. Sure that I will be late to my next class, English, I look up and almost mow her over.

  “LANA!” I squeal, surprised and relieved. I drop my books and grab her arms, pulling her to me in a tight hug. Kids passing us look at us like we’re both crazy.

  “I’m OK, Gaw!” she grumbles.

  “What happened?” I whisper in her ear.

  “I’ll tell you about it later, but I’m all right. Really.” She gives me a squeeze back and I believe her.

  “After school?” I ask as the warning bell sounds.

  “Of course.”

  I barely make it to English. The only chair available is front and center, so that’s where I sit as the bell rings. I don’t have a chance to even wonder who else is in this class. Mr. Clancy is a short, thin, balding man with pasty, pale skin. He has light brown, thinning hair and beady, dark brown eyes. He’s in his late twenties, but doesn’t have many people skills. He’s taught at Brownsburg High for three years, and everyone dreads getting him for Junior Lit. He’s not one of those teachers who think teenagers have anything to contribute. He has his opinions and interpretations of what literature should mean. If you disagree, then you are wrong. If you try to convince him of another way, you are wrong; if you want to give him another perspective, you are wrong. Needless to say, this is the class I’m dreading the most of my new schedule. He passes out our syllabus and goes over his expectations for the class. I take notes absentmindedly.

  The rest of my day breezes by in a blur. All I can think about is what might have happened to Lana. Finally she meets me at my locker, and we walk out of school together. Tasha has cheerleading practice, and Jade works at McDonalds now, which is a short walk up Bulldog way and a zag over to Dan Jones. She’s saving for a car and worked all summer. Between her job and Evan, her boyfriend from Columbus, we didn’t see her that much, which made our time together even more special.

  “So what happened?” I ask as I pull out of my parking spot. Lana begins. As her story progresses, I find myself gripping the steering wheel tighter and tighter; I want to punch Deacon in the face and drop him into a well. Lana idly draws a butterfly on the palm of her right hand with a red pen. She’s telling me mechanically, not really thinking about it. I realize it was really traumatizing for her.

  “I’m sorry,” I say when she finishes. She shrugs.

  “I had a feeling something would happen today. I just didn’t think he’d get so rough with me.”

  “What did they say they would do about it?” She looks up confused for a minute, then answers.

  “Mrs. Simpson said she’d take care of it, and he was suspended for three days. As long as he leaves me alone, I think I’m OK. That’s all I’m worried about.” She looks out the window as we pull into the driveway.

  “Mom’s going to freak,” I exhale.

  “She doesn’t have to know.” Lana says as our mom appears on the porch as if she’s been waiting for us. Her hands are on her hips. She’s aged over the summer. She always used to look so well put together, gorgeous blond hair styled, perfect make-up, and stylish clothes. She still dresses and styles herself the same; she just has dark circles under her tired eyes. She’s lost weight too, and spends a lot of time locked in our parent’s bedroom. Lana’s suicide attempt really wore on my parents. They argue a lot now. I miss when they got along and Lana and I fought all the time like siblings are supposed to. Don’t get me wrong. I love being close to my sister now, but sometimes I miss the old Lana. She’s so serious and sarcastic now, a completely different person inside and out. Sometimes I wonder if all the blood she had transfused changed her personality, but then I realize that’s ridiculous; it was her depression and being bullied at school that changed her. I’m sorry for her, for her ordeals.

  “I have a feeling she already does.” I say as Lana takes a deep breath and gets out of the car. My mom fired me from her salon in July. Literally took me in her office and told me that she had hired two shampoo girls whose responsibilities would include my current position of stocking product shelves, filling shampoo and conditioner bottles at the sinks, and sweeping up hair three days a week.

  “I’m sorry; you were a great asset to the salon, and you will be missed.” She gave me the spiel she gives hairdressers who call in sick too much or have too many complaints from patrons. I pull out of the driveway leaving Lana to face Mom. I feel bad doing that to her, but I can’t be late; I still work for my dad, filing and scanning documents. His business has grown too, so he’s hired an assistant. Her name is Krysta, and she’s in her mid-twenties. She’s a party girl and loves telling me about her sex-capades and the clubs. She thinks she’s glamourizing it, but sometimes I hear the desperation in her voice and just feel sorry for her. I still giggle and play the role of enjoying her stories, and I swear she’s taught me a few tricks for when, if ever, I do get a boyfriend. I feel like she’s an older sister though she’s not very serious or responsible.

  I’m finishing up my scanning when my dad comes in from a meeting. He taps me on the shoulder and asks me to come with him. I follow him to his office, and he shuts the door behind him. I am immediately immersed in dread. He sits down and takes out his cash box to pay me. This is normal procedure when it’s time for me to go; the closed door isn’t.

  “Baby,” NOT GOOD! I begin to panic. “You k
now I brought Krysta on when I became busy.” I nod. “But now we’re slowing down again. And I can’t afford to give you hours and keep her on. I need her.” I nod, still mentally demanding that my tears stay in their ducts. “Next summer I’ll give you all the hours you need to make it up. I promise, honey.”

  “I understand,” I manage to get out, and give him my bravest smile.

  “I knew you would. Now go on; I’ll see you at home. I have some paperwork to finish up.” He walks me to the door, and then he turns to Krysta, “I need the Mathews paperwork in my office.” I leave, but he stands there watching me. As I get into my car, I look back and just take him in, his hunched shoulders, hair greying at his temples, and tired look on his face. Everything is so different now.

  Lana

  By the time lunch rolls around on Thursday, I decide Manda and her clique’s dirty looks can’t do to me what I had already tried to do, which is kill me. It’s hard coming to that decision though, when you are mean-mugged at every turn. I say it’s Manda’s clique, but it used to be my crew, my clique. I was number one, Manda number two, Avery number three, and so on. With me now at the bottom of the social ladder, everyone has moved up a notch. I am literally the least popular girl in my grade, which means in the entire school. On Wednesday, I had eaten lunch at a table by myself, staring at a wall, refusing to look at anyone. By then everyone knew I was the reason Deacon was suspended. He sent out a blast text saying I lied about what had happened. I knew the truth, and he knew the truth. Everyone else could fall off the face of the earth for all I cared. After I finished eating, I rose quickly to dispose of my trash, but before I made it to the receptacle, I almost ran into Tomas. Great.

  “I was looking for you.” He instantly smiled, but hesitated when he saw my tray of trash. “Maybe lunch tomorrow?”

  “Sure,” I shrugged as I shoved past him. So today, I plow into the girl’s restroom with the intention of reading in the corner and ignoring everyone else. I’m not even hungry. As I enter, I see a girl sitting on the window ledge with her arm hanging out the window. I know that familiar smell. It’s faded cigarette smoke. I have two left. Dixie, my roommate in rehab was eighteen. She liked prescription drugs and cigarettes. She would sneak me a pack every week. I’d made my last pack last me for the past two weeks. They are very stale now.

  “Are you going to run to Ms. Simpson now and tell her I tried to burn you with a cigarette?” the girl with too much black eye makeup and too blond, wild hair asks me.

  “Yes, unless you let me have one.” I walk over and survey her pack, Newports. I don’t like Newports; their menthol is too strong and always choke me. But a fresh smoke is a fresh smoke.

  “You don’t smoke!” she says, pulling one out and sitting straighter, her interest piqued.

  “I prefer something of the light version. These things cause cancer and crystal lungs, but beggars can’t be choosers right?” I smile as she passes it to me and I light it, breathing in deep the beautiful fumes and wonderful toxins. She jumps down and stands beside me. She’s short, which makes her my height, about 5’3’’. Her eyes are so blue they almost look clear, and her face is round, almost a baby face. I know she’s not in my grade because I have no idea who she is.

  “I can’t believe you smoke; what are you— twelve?” She shakes her head and re-lights hers. Since we are both smoking, we lean our heads out of the window.

  “It’s just something I picked up in rehab, I say under my breath, bringing the cigarette back to my mouth and savoring every second of it.

  “I’m Britt.” She smiles as she holds out her free hand. I shake it.

  “Lana,” I say.

  “Oh, I know who you are; everyone knows you and your sister.” She flicks the rest of her cigarette and hops back up on the ledge.” I take one last drag and toss it out the window. I immediately go to the sink and begin feverishly washing my hands, sad to see the words I’ve written this morning disappear with the scent of menthol and smoke. She watches me from her perch. I apply vanilla lotion and lean against the wall facing her. I hate the vanilla smell, but this is the best lotion for covering cigarette smell. Once I’m done with that, I pop a piece of Big Red in my mouth. She smirks at me, and I know what’s coming. “Paranoid much?”

  “No one in my family smokes; I can’t be too careful. Besides who knows when I’ll get another pack? It’s not like I know anyone over eighteen.” I shrug, still savoring the lingering smell of smoke in the air.

  “I’ll tell you what; today after school I’ll take you to my hookup.” She hops down just as the bell rings.

  “I can’t, I have—somewhere to be,” I stutter. I don’t know why, but I don’t want her to know I have group therapy today.

  “Tomorrow then, we’ll make a night of it, hang out and everything.” She loops her arm in mine and drags me out of the restroom as I struggle to pull my bag on my shoulder. “I have a feeling you and I are going to be the best of friends.” She squeezes my arm and then disappears into the crowd of emerging students.

  After school, my mom is waiting for me at the curb. I climb into the passenger seat of her Cadillac SUV and buckle in without saying anything.

  “How was your day?” she asks as she pulls away from the curb.

  “Fine, I guess,” I say as I fill in a lightning bolt over my thumb.

  “You guess? At least I didn’t get a call today. I do not enjoy those conversations.” My mom continues to ramble, and now I’m tracing the letters I K R on my middle finger. “I want you to feel safe. I just don’t want to worry, and I do worry when they call me,” she continues, and I stare at the barrier walls that enclose the interstate as we travel to the northeast side of Indianapolis. I feel claustrophobic staring at these walls. We arrive at the doctor’s office, and my mom takes her place with the other parents, pulls out her e-reader, and signals to me that I’m on my own. I go through the doors to the small meeting room. Already there is, of course, Dr. Mase, sitting at the twelve o’clock of our circle. His thinning brown hair is long, and he always wears it in a ponytail at the base of his neck. His scruffy face and brown clothes makes him seem a bit bohemian, carefree, and laid back, but it’s all a ruse; he’s actually very calculating. Sitting next to him is Anna, who snaps her gum as she glares at me through wire rim glasses. She loves her pink cardigans and khaki skirts. Patrick is beside her, all in black with spiky hair. He looks at me expressionlessly, but it doesn’t affect me— just like Anna doesn’t affect me. Beside Patrick is Will, the only other boy in our group. He’s kind of plain and doesn’t stand out; he’s also really quiet, but he sneaks up on you sometimes. Listening to whatever you’re talking about, he takes you by surprise. I call him a creeper. Bendi sits beside him; she’s Indian and so far the coolest of the group. She always has henna tattoos on her hands. I take the seat beside her, and she smiles at me. The rule is you fill in the first empty seat, so we never know who we are going to sit beside, well except for Anna; she is always next to Dr. Mase. Looking at us you would think we have nothing in common. How could we relate to each other? But that’s where you’re wrong; we all cut.

  “OK, let’s get started,” Dr. Mase says as he opens his leather notepad.

  “We’re missing Daniella,” Anna prompts.

  “Daniella is not going to be with us anymore.” No one says anything; we all just stare at him. “How does that make you feel?” he asks, looking at me. The thing with Dr. Mase is that when he looks at you, you are supposed to answer.

  “Confused a little. Is she OK?” I say and look down so he won’t ask me a follow-up question. I like to talk to him in our one-on-one sessions; I don’t like it in group, but group is mandatory.

  “She is; we are taking her treatment in another direction. You know at some point all of you will move on to other levels of treatment. Does that scare you?”

  “Sometimes. I always felt like cutting was something I was in control of when my life spiraled. So realizing that I don’t control this is intimidating,” Bendi
answers honestly. I know how she feels. The pain for me was a way to release the pressure I felt from my sudden ostracism last year.

  “School is back in session for some of you. Have you had any unpleasant experiences when you felt out of control?” I’m still looking at my hands, but no one answers. I look up, and Dr. Mase is staring right at me. He knows; he has to know. No way he’d ask me that question. As we stare at each other, Anna clears her throat annoyingly, telling me to spill.

  “The boy who spread rumors about me last year assaulted me in the hall the first day of school. He was suspended, and now everyone is mad at me because he sent out a blast text declaring his innocence. Who cares, right? In five years these people won’t matter to me. We’ll all be on different corners of the world, so I can get through the next few years.” I glance at Anna as she rolls her eyes. Patrick raises his hand, and Dr. Mase nods to him.

  “It doesn’t change the fact that he’s still lying about you. People don’t realize their actions affect other people. Important or not, it holds meaning,” he says passionately.

  “Which means we all need to be the better person, realizing our actions affect others,” Dr. Mase adds.