Butterfly Suicide

by Loesch, Mary Ann

  He’s cute, but c’mon. Mr. March teaches Theatre and English. He’s got to be in his thirties and he’s not wearing a wedding ring. My guess is that he is gay with a big, fat capital G.

  “Today we are going to do some partner work,” he announces. “I’d like to see where we are at as performers.”

  I can tell him where we are at. Nowhere. I wasn’t sure where Mr. March had worked before, (the rumor was some all-boys school in Colorado) but I hope he wasn’t expecting child stars in our midst. He’d be lucky to find someone who could say a line with actual feeling.

  “Um….Mr. March?” Catlin waves her hand in the air. “Do we get to choose our partners?”

  “No.” Mr. March waits until the groans of outrage subsided. “I’ve paired you up. I’d like you to get out of your comfort zone and learn to work with all of your peers.”

  “Um...Mr. March?” Catlin waves her hand again. “What if you don’t like all of your peers?”

  “Then that will make your scene all the more dynamic.”

  Catlin scowls. I try not to laugh.

  Mr. March rattles off the names of the partners. It gets hard to hear him as people complain about who they were paired with. You’d think this was the worst problem they’d ever encountered or something.

  “Monica Monroe and Stephen Valley,” Mr. March calls out.

  Sudden silence descends as people digest this new pairing. Mr. March continues, unaware of the small scandal he’s just created. Everyone stares at me, but I try to appear bored as if being paired with Stephen is no big deal.

  The whispers start.

  “Jesus, that sucks,” someone behind me mumbles. “What the hell is he thinking?”

  “You should say something,” Catlin urges. “Go ask for a different partner.”

  “Something going on I should know about?” Mr. March looks at us with a frown. “Is there a problem?”

  Everyone holds their breath, waiting for me to speak up. The room seems to be spinning. My throat is dry. No words will come out.

  When no one talks, Mr. March moves on.

  “Okay, let’s spend a few minutes getting to know our partner. This is the person you will be working with for several classes,” he instructs. “Spread out in the auditorium.”

  Several classes? A few months ago, this would have been a dream come true, a chance to get to hang out casually with my secret crush. But now…I don’t know. When I look him in the eye, will I feel the way I used to? Will my heart still do the flip-flop thing? Or will I only see Jude looking back now?

  I get up slowly, trying to keep it together, knowing everyone is watching me out of the corner of their eye. Stephen stares at the ground when I approach, a little strand of his hair slipping into his eyes. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, and I’m not sure, but I think he might be shaking.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hey,” he echoes and looks up. For a second, we stare at each other, unsure what to do. I haven’t spoken to him since...well, since maybe a month before the shooting. I can’t even remember what we talked about the last time I saw him. All I remember is having to fight the urge to drool because I thought he was so cute, which is ironic since right now my mouth is completely dry. I can’t think of anything to say. He breaks the silence. “So...I wasn’t listening. What are we doing?”

  “We’re scene partners. We’re supposed to be getting to know each other.” I wipe my hand across my forehead where beads of sweat have gathered. “I don’t know what we do after that.”

  I sit down and he removes his feet from the seat in front of him, sitting up straight. We both stare at the wooden back of the seats, not speaking. My stomach twists into knots and I wonder if I am getting sick.

  “Maybe we should go to Mr. March and get new partners,” Stephen says his voice low.

  Maybe? Try definitely. Us working together is not a good idea. My parents will have a total shit fit when they find out and cause a big scene. People will talk and stare. Every facial expression, every vocal nuance—it’s like being under a microscope. Which is what I already feel like most of the time. Why make it worse?

  And yet…these are just words, excuses tumbling around in my head.

  “Mr. March is new,” he mumbles. Someone has carved the words butterfly suicide into the back of the seat in front us, and he runs his finger over and over the jagged letters. “He didn’t know about…stuff.”

  “Probably.” I sigh, unsure what to do. Everyone is waiting for me to freak out or do something crazy. Real anger bristles inside me, but it’s not directed at Stephen. “Let’s just tough this out for today. It’s not like we have to be partners the whole semester.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah. I don’t want to attract attention by going up there. Do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “Fine. Like I said, let’s just get through today.”

  We sit in silence, watching everyone else pretend not to watch us.

  “Be prepared to share something about your partner with the class,” Mr. March calls out. “Something personal we don’t know.”

  Is your hair naturally blond? Did you ever like me? Why did your brother kill my sister?

  Hmm….maybe not what Mr. March had in mind?

  “Tell me something I can say for Mr. March.” Stephen glances at me. “Anything.”

  I search my mind, trying to come up with something mundane. “I think Shakespeare never existed.”

  “Really?” He raises his eyebrow. “That’s what you want me to say?”

  “Yeah. He only had an eighth grade education. Where the hell did he learn to write like that? Somebody else did the writing and just slapped Shakespeare’s name on the work.” I take a deep breath, remembering I’d had this exact same conversation with Jude. He’d come to pick up Simone for a date, but she wasn’t ready. So we’d engaged in a debate about Shakespeare for some reason. Only Jude had argued with me, saying education didn’t have to define what you became in life or how successful you could be at something if you really loved it. “What about you? What should I say?”

  “What does it matter?” he grumbles. “I’m an open book to the gossips. They all have their own stories about me.”

  “C’mon. Give me something,” I beg, frustrated. “You can’t leave me hanging.”

  Especially after what your brother did to my sister.

  “I hate social media,” he says. “I hate all things related to Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.”

  “Okay.”

  That one I can totally understand. #JudeValleyRotsInHell had been very popular for a few months. I recalled several things about Stephen and his mom being tweeted out. None of the comments were flattering. A lot of people had some fun creating memes on Instagram that were less than kind, too.

  We are quiet again, both of us fidgeting or shifting in our seats. My heart beats furiously when Mr. March calls for quiet. Anxious, I try to listen to what the others were sharing, but I can’t keep my focus. Soon it will be our turn.

  “Okay, last group.” Mr. March looks at Stephen and me. “Who’s going first?”

  We haven’t decided. Dizziness crashes over me again. I never get stage fright. In fact, I’m usually the first to volunteer. This is a new experience.

  Stephen saves me.

  He stands, sullen and defiant as he meets everyone’s accusatory glares.

  “Monica thinks Shakespeare never existed,” Stephen announces his voice loud and more confident than he looks. He sits back down without any further explanation.

  “Okay. I’d be curious to know why she thinks that, but that sounds like a lesson for another time.” Mr. March grins. “Monica, tells us about your partner.”

  I stand, swaying so that I have to grip the seat in front of me as they all wait for me to answer. “Stephen hates social media. He doesn’t like Facebook, Twitter, or Instagram.”

  A titter of laughter goes through the crowd.

  “I wonder why,” someone says sa
rcastically.

  I should sit down, slide back into the seat with my head lowered. People would shut up, leave us alone. Instead, I continue to stand, facing my classmates.

  “I don’t like social media either,” I say. “It has a way of twisting the truth, of creating lies that sound like facts. It’s the most hurtful tool we have at our fingertips.”

  There is shocked silence. People don’t know how to react. Am I defending the brother of my sister’s killer? Or am I just stating an opinion? Even I don’t know for sure.

  For the first time, Mr. March seems aware there is tension in the room. He studies the students who stare at me before looking at Stephen. I don’t know what he thinks, but I suspect he is going to check out our files or find out the gossip in the teacher’s lounge. He’ll know soon enough what kind of can of worms he opened by partnering me with Stephen Valley.

  “Thank you, Monica,” he says. “Now let’s talk about the next phase of this assignment.”

  I sit, acutely aware of the tension radiating off Stephen. If I plugged him into the wall, he could power the entire auditorium. He drums trembling fingers on his pant leg.

  I can’t remember much about the rest of the class. The bell rings and I hurry out without a word to Stephen, not daring look at him. Catlin rushes up to me right away, hauling a small gaggle of girls with her. Her eyes are wide with a maniacal gleam. She grabs my arm before I can get too far.

  “Oh. My. God.” She gasps. “How could Mr. March do that to you?”

  I shrug. “No big deal. I got through it.”

  “Yeah, but you need to switch partners,” she argues. “There is no reason you have to stick with him for the next part of the assignment. That would mean, like, weeks of rehearsal with that douche bag. Alone.”

  In unison, the other girls nod, watching me closely.

  “I know. I’ll talk to Mr. March later,” I say. “I’ve got to go. I can’t be late for dance team.”

  I hurry to the locker room, aware they are going to talk about me after I’m gone. As I change into my practice uniform, Catlin’s words come back to me. Weeks of rehearsal. Alone with Stephen Valley. Clearly, I should be mortified by this prospect.

  So why aren’t I?

  CHAPTER THREE

  STEPHEN

  Monica hurries out of the auditorium, a slew of bitchy girls following her. She wobbles a little, like being partners with me has taken all the energy out of her. I understand. Working with her was draining, too.

  I’ve had a little thing for Monica Monroe since we were in seventh grade. We had to pick our lab partners in science and she picked me. I was pissed because my best friend back then, John Sotheby, had decided to work with some girl he’d been trying to impress all year. That left me with no one. When Monica had picked me, I just about peed my pants in excitement. I had crazy dreams about her every night for the duration of the project.

  That was two years ago.

  She’s turned into one of those quirky chicks who is a stunner, but doesn’t think so. Her wavy brown hair cascades around her when she turns her head—think shampoo model—and it smells like berries or some other sweet smelling shit. Whatever it is, it’s intoxicating. I was actually disappointed she wore her hair up today. Her figure is as close to perfect as it can be—not too skinny, not over the top curvy—but enough to make you appreciate the short shorts she tends to wear.

  But she’s got serious flaws. For whatever reason, Monica’s into this theatre shit and knows all the songs to whatever current Broadway crap is playing. We definitely don’t have the same taste in music, and she lives in the affluent part of town so money is not a worry for her like it is for me.

  Normally, getting hooked up with a hot chick for an assignment is a good thing—hence my excitement back in good old seventh grade. Getting hooked up with the sister of one of your brother’s victims is different. Every time I looked at Monica just now, I saw Jude’s girlfriend, Simone. Finding the words butterfly suicide carved into the back of the seat in front of me as if Jude somehow had known all those months ago I would sit there, had thrown me off my game. I’d started to shake at seeing the jagged little mantra, started to worry he was standing behind me, ready to pounce. When Monica came over to me, I thought for a brief moment, she was her sister, here to condemn me in front of everyone.

  But she is tougher. Simone was fluttery, a girl who liked for others to take care of her. Monica takes charge, she accepts a challenge. Like what happened just now in class…if I’d had to walk up to Mr. March and request a new partner in front of the whole class…hell, I would have been playing right into the hands of all the fucking Lookey Loos who like to stick their nose in my business. Maybe she feels the same way. Maybe that’s why she’d decided not to say a word and tough it out.

  And that pleases me. More than it should. The crush I had on her all those years ago never really waned. Even in light of what happened this May, I still get that tingly excitement when I see her. Over the summer, I’d tried not to think about her long legs or the little crease she gets in her forehead when she’s confused about something, but my attempts were futile. It’s stupid and embarrassing, but a few times in the twilight of the hot summer evenings, I’d snuck over to the football field and hid under the bleachers just to watch her and the dance team practice. Being a voyeur like that made me feel dirty and a little too warm, but I couldn’t stop myself from going.

  Because of the sacrifice on her part just now, because she didn’t cause a scene or try to shame me, which she could easily have done, I must attempt to do the right thing here.

  I make my way slowly up to the stage as the others leave, feeling like the lights are way too bright as I cross to the side where Mr. March is seated at a small wooden desk.

  “Mr. March,” I say. “I need to talk to you.”

  “What’s up, Stephen?” He looks up from his grade book where he’d been making neat little notes in the margin and smiles patiently. “What can I do for you?”

  “I...I think I should get another partner.”

  “Why? I thought you and Monica did well on the assignment.”

  “It’s just...well, see...it would be too...awkward.”

  “And why is that?”

  Uh...because my brother murdered her sister in the cafeteria?

  Mr. March frowns at my silence.

  “Look, I know it can be hard working with someone you don’t know very well,” he says in that patronizing tone teachers are so fond of using. “But this is a theatre class. You must have signed up for it because you were interested in performance. Part of getting to be a good actor is studying people, learning their traits. I don’t want you to switch partners. Monica is a good fit for you.”

  Should I tell him I didn’t sign up for this class? In fact, I hadn’t signed up for anything. I’d sort of missed the deadline to choose electives, ignoring it because I’d hoped Mom would home school me. Instead, my mother and the counselor had sat down and created the schedule together. Why the hell Mom thought theatre would be good for me is a mystery. Whatever happened to basket weaving or auto shop?

  Mr. March pushes on. “It’s only for a few classes, Stephen. Stick with it. You might surprise yourself.”

  He walks away before I can let the whole dirty, awful truth spill out, leaving me no alternative but to head outside to the track and hope PE will pass quickly.

  “Dress out in the locker room. Your locker will have the shorts and t-shirt the good people on the school board have so generously provided free of charge to all PE classes this year.” The coach is calling this out to everyone when he spots me. “Hurry up, Valley!”

  Coach Mason scowls and crosses his meaty arms as I move past before turning his head to spit in the dirt. He’s such a stereotype in his red, too-tight gym shorts and white Rattlers T-shirt. You can tell he was once a football star who saw his dreams crushed by a bum knee or some other injury that kept him from making the big time. All he has left is this crappy job in this little tow
n where he thrives on attention from divorced moms and other guys who once were big jocks, too. Even I’ve heard the gossip about Coach sleeping with any woman who looks his way.

  In the locker room, the guys jostle each other playfully, calling out insults to crack each other up. Yesterday, no one was willing to speak to me. That hasn’t changed, but now there are side conversations when I come near, more smirks, more defensive postures. I hurry to change, noticing a couple of my old friends—guys I used to hang out with every day after school—are ready to go. One of them, Teddy Barstow, averts his gaze at my nod, focusing on retying the laces of his gym shoes tighter.

  Jerk.

  Teddy’s mom is an overprotective hag who probably ordered him to stay away from him. He’s a rule follower, not one to disobey Mommy.

  I get dressed in our regulation red shorts and gray field shirts, but I don’t have sneakers like everyone else. My Doc Martens are not meant for jogging in, but I guess they’ll have to do. I stuff everything into a locker, and then make my way out to the track where everyone is waiting in the heat. Most of them snicker when they see my footwear.

  Bastards.

  “It’s Two Mile Tuesday!” Coach Mason shouts when we are all lined up. We are only two feet away. I don’t know why he has to shout. “Hit the track. Let’s see which one of you lazy freshmen has the best time.”

  We take off running, a bunch of mindless, adolescent droids who do what they’re told. Our track is open without a drop of shade anywhere. The soft grass in the middle is a lush green and used by the football team on Friday nights. Silver stadium bleachers rise up on both sides of the track and there are a few people sitting there, watching us sweat it out.

  One foot in front of the other. One lap at a time. It’s easy to fall into the rhythm of it. For a while, I don’t notice anything but me and the red gravel track beneath my feet. It’s so hot that I can see glimmers of crushed quartz mixed in with the maroon pebbles. Or maybe that’s just the heatstroke playing with my eyes.