Butterfly Suicide

by Loesch, Mary Ann

  Something hits my leg and I stumble, hitting the ground hard with my left knee. I look up, panting for air. Derek Andrews is jogging past, but he slows a beat to look back.

  “Sorry. Didn’t see you there,” he smirks and keeps running.

  “Valley! Get up!” Coach shouts. “It’s not nap time. And Andrews...stay off the track! You’re supposed to be warming up with the team. Don’t think I didn’t notice your absence yesterday!”

  “Screw you,” I mutter. My knee aches, but it’ll be a cold day in hell before I give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me cry. I drag myself up and keep running. “Asshole.”

  “Hit the showers,” Coach calls when we’re done. “Wash off that knee, Valley.”

  Everyone looks at me. Maliciousness. Hate. Blame. It’s all there, stamped on the other’s faces, waiting to spill out if the given the opportunity.

  I limp into the locker room, fuming.

  No way am I going to be undressed around these yahoos. Who knows what kind of crap they’ll pull? I’d rather stink. Instead, I grab my clothes and head for the door.

  However, on my way out, I notice Derek’s gym bag sitting on the bench. Guess he forgot to lock it up. Idiot. The area is momentarily free of other people. No one is looking. Even though I should be above childish games, I take the jeans he has stuffed in the bag and drop them in one of the toilets someone has forgotten to flush.

  Then I get the hell out of there before someone catches me.

  My last class is called Applications and it’s in the library. You just sit in there and do your homework. Ms. Johnson frowns when I stroll in, the stink of PE perfuming me as I take a seat at one of the round reading tables she has placed strategically through out the room. Until this moment, I haven’t even thought about her. But that frown...I know what it’s about. She’s the unlucky lady who drew lunch duty on the final day of school, the one who threw herself on top of Jude as he stared down at Simone. The television cameras had loved her, and she’d had no problem talking about her experience.

  After Ms. Johnson goes over her class expectations, I spend the rest of the time in the computer section of the library, surfing the Internet, wishing I could pull up some porn. The school filter on the computer doesn’t allow you to do anything fun like that. So after a quick glance around to make sure no one is nearby, especially Ms. Johnson, I type in the words: Jude Valley.

  Google obliges me with several links to further serve my inane, dark curiosity regarding what the rest of the world thinks about him. We can’t afford cable at our house, which means no Internet access either. I haven’t been able to really find out what other people are saying about him on line, but it looks like the last few months shrinks have tried to label Jude, to put him in this one size fits all mold to explain his actions. Sociopath, psychopath, bipolar, schizophrenia—there is no label that will ever explain Jude. There is no answer to explain the question of why he did it.

  But damn…there are sure a lot of articles giving it a try. I get lost in them, drowning in a sea of possible reasons my brother killed those kids. However, one of the things I read worries me more than all the mumbo jumbo diagnosis’ out there. Some of the family members of the victims think my mother should be held accountable for the easy access Jude had to the gun. One of them mentions taking legal action against her. This in itself is not new information, but seeing their plans to make us pay for their loss…

  We’re so broke now. What do we have left to give?

  It is an eternity before the bell finally rings.

  I duck my head down and hurry through the crowded hallway, unable to stop myself from glancing at the now empty display case where Jude’s artwork once was. As I do so, some kid passing by shoves me hard, almost knocking me over.

  “You suck, Valley,” he whispers before moving down the hall.

  I duck my head again and keep moving before anyone else gets the bright idea to turn me into a human ping-pong ball.

  On the walk home, I think about Monica and working with her in Theatre class. She will get a new partner, but a small, selfish part of me wishes she wouldn’t. Looking at her long brown hair, the soft flecks of green in her eyes, studying the curviness of her overall figure—there are worse ways to spend a class period.

  As if thinking about her is enough to conjure her, Monica drives by. Well, technically her father drives by, but she is in their BMW. Our eyes meet and I swear someone is stretching my insides apart. I hear that kid in the hall again.

  You suck, Valley.

  A rush of pain causes me to look away.

  ****

  You can’t work with an absent partner. I skip Theatre and English the next three days. The counselor is going to call my mom or Mr. March is going to come look for me, but I don’t care. By now he’s been forced to reassign Monica to a new partner. Problem solved. Catching up in English won’t be hard for someone like me, and it’s not like I didn’t go to my other classes. I showed up for PE and Appli-fucking-cations. What a waste of time.

  Today was trickier. I skipped all my afternoon classes. People were all in a flutter about the pep rally for the evening’s football game.

  In Rockingham, football is the sport of the gods. If you play on the team, you are a super star—even if you suck at it. I saw this first hand when Jude played as a freshman. He spent most of the season keeping the bench warm, but people would call out to him on the street as if he were the greatest thing ever.

  It’s weird to think about him being on the football team wearing the red and white jerseys, hanging out with Derek Andrews. Jude was another person back then, someone who still cared about normal shit like school and athletics. Not as rigid in his thinking. Not as wry in his humor. Not as up and down in his emotions.

  Just a closet crazy.

  Or was he?

  Hindsight is a bitch. There were so many signs. Jude just got better at hiding them from the rest of the world.

  Today’s pep rally was set to happen during my last class and supposed to be a really big deal. I overheard some kids talking about how there is going to be a minute of silence to remember the students who’d been killed in May. Tonight’s game will be dedicated to their memory.

  Hearing this makes me queasy and anxious. How can I be expected to be at a pep rally where people will be thinking about Jude and what he did? Their eyes will fixate on me, the hate like a flashing neon sign on their faces. To them, I am an extension of Jude the Rattler——the difference being I’m still around to take their anger out on. I’m the bad guy. I’m the one who they think knew what he was up to. I’m the one who should have stopped him. As if I could have. As if he ever listened to me. As if Jude ever listened to anyone but the stupid, cynical voice in his head.

  There’s no way I’m staying for some stupid pep rally.

  I slip out, not caring about the consequences, and go home. Let the counselor tattle on me. She needs something to keep her busy since teen pregnancy is down at our school.

  Mom is still at work so the place is quiet, peaceful. I pass Jude’s closed door, briefly wondering if I should consider asking Mom to let me have his room. It was always bigger than mine. Then again, staying in there would be like inviting the Ghost of Evils past to an open buffet. I go into my own room and stretch out on the bed, staring at the ceiling, letting my eyes close. Irritable thoughts drift around in my head until I fall into a light sleep.

  Jude.

  He sits at the edge of my bed, his face and beard covered in dried blood. For someone who is often obsessed with being clean, its surprising Jude hasn’t wiped the evidence of his deeds away. Never one to tolerate a speck of dirt, he is completely at ease with his disheveled state.

  “What are you doing?” he asks. “Why are you letting them beat you down? Didn’t I teach you anything?”

  “Teach me? Is that what you called it? Beating the living shit out of me when Mom wasn’t looking?” I shake my head. “You are a piece of work.”

  “What I d
id was a piece of work.” The familiar smug grin is chilling even though I’m warm with hate for him. “Maybe my most brilliant work.”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “You are asleep with your eyes open. The truth is just passing you by. You’re like everybody else even if you pretend differently.” He smiles knowingly. “You want to know why.”

  “Why what?”

  He crawls across the bed, his green eyes round and tinged with yellow, reminding me of the rattlesnake images the cops found pasted into his locker. Those drawings didn’t show a high school mascot. They were of a person with the head of a snake biting into victims who looked a lot like some of the kids Jude killed in the cafeteria.

  Coincidence? Or a sign of deliberate planning? It’s just another part of a bigger question.

  The intensity on my brother’s face makes me sweat. I know that manic look. When he is up, he is really up. When he is low, he is really low.

  This is really low.

  “You want to know why I killed them.” He tilts his head, studying me. “You really want to know?”

  Oh god. I’ve tried so hard not to think about this, not to care. It’s what he wants. Why give him that? Yet, it nags at me.

  “Yes.” The word is a whisper. I hate myself for giving in. “Please.”

  He scrubs his hands together before leaning in closer to me. “Why haven’t you looked at it?”

  God, his breath is foul, like dirt and decay mixed into one. Is that a fang resting against his upper lip?

  “What are you talking about?” I try not to gag at his smell. He slithers around me, his scaly, sandpaper skin brushing against mine lightly. Repulsed, I shiver.

  “The notebook. You took it for answers. You didn’t want the cops to read it,” he hisses. “You’re withholding information. So is Mom.”

  “Shut up, Jude. Go away.”

  “Shut up, Jude. Go away,” He mimics and punches me in the arm. I wince at the familiar pain. “Face the truth, little brother. Then you’ll be as fucked as me.”

  His mouth stretches wide, revealing two long, sharp fangs. Jude rears back, ready to strike.

  I wake up, soaked in sweat, a rotten smell lingering in the room.

  It isn’t the first time I’ve dreamed of him. Jude is the itch in the back of your throat, the little tickle that won’t go away. God, how I hate him. I wish I could scrub him from my life the same way he used to scrub everything clean when he was in one of his moods.

  Twilight has slipped into my room uninvited, leaving it too dark to make out anything clearly. All I see are soft shadows resembling my bedroom furniture. The digital clock on the bedside table shows it’s seven in the evening. Bleary eyed, I roll off the bed, swiping at the sweat with my arm. I can hear the television is on full blast in the living room.

  For a minute, I think Jude must be home. He used to always turn the television up loud. I can’t catch my breath as panic rises in me.

  It’s Mom. Calm down. Jude is not here anymore.

  Sure enough she is sitting on the only spot on the sofa not overrun by magazines or blankets when I walk in the living room. Mom stares at the TV, her eyes glazed over, mentally checked out.

  Does she miss Jude? Is she thinking about him? Is she wondering why he did it? Jude whispers in my head, repeating the words from my dream.

  You’re withholding information. So is Mom.

  They had a fight a few days before the shooting. A bad one. I couldn’t hear everything, but I know it was about Simone. My mother never liked Jude’s girlfriend.

  I study Mom. Her face is thinner, and there are lines around her eyes. For a second, I think her eyeliner has smeared, causing the deep smudges, but then I realize I’m wrong. Lack of sleep is aging my mother. And guilt. And bitterness. Shame.

  She looks away from the television, catching me staring.

  “Hey.” She forces a smile. “Did you eat dinner?”

  “No.”

  “I brought home a few tacos. They’re in the fridge.” She stares at the screen again. “I’m too tired to cook.”

  What else is new?

  “Tough day?” I turn the TV down and sit on the side arm of the sofa. “Was there a crazy run on fast food at the Taco Shack?”

  “No. Just some asshole kids who don’t know how to respect adults.” She brushes a strand of hair away from her face and sighs. “Some days it’s just too much.”

  Dammit. Someone has been messing with my mom again. “Who was it? What did they say?”

  “I don’t know their names, hon.” She doesn’t meet my eye. “They come in all the time. Football players and their friends. Usually, I just ignore them.”

  “Usually?” Anger makes my neck hot.

  “Yeah.” She sighs. “I just wasn’t in the mood today.”

  “What happened?”

  But she won’t say. Instead, she gets up and walks into the kitchen, resigned to this new life. A tight band of irritation wraps around my head, making it hard to think, bringing out my impulsive side. No one gets to make my mom miserable but me. It would have been torture to go to that fucking pep rally this afternoon, but I’m willing to put myself through a little hell tonight if it will screw with the jerks who feel it’s okay to mess with my mom. She may not want to tell me who it was, but this is a small town. Everyone will be at that damn football game—including whoever gave her a hard time.

  “I’m going to the game.” I stomp towards the door, pausing to put on my Docs. “I’ll be back after it’s over.”

  “Wait!” Fear shrills her voice. “Is that a good idea? I mean, Stephen, there will be so many people and I heard there was a tribute to the kids tonight.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Seeing you...well…” She struggles with the words, but for once, I understand what she is trying to say. Problem is, I don’t care. “Don’t bring up bad memories.”

  “Mom, it’s a memorial for the kids my brother shot. It doesn’t get much worse than that. What else are they going to be thinking about?” I snap. “And I have every right to do as I please. I didn’t do anything wrong in the first place.”

  “I know. I know, but still…” She puts her hand on my shoulder. “Stephen, it’s not a good idea.”

  “People shouldn’t get to walk all over us.”

  “It’s not that simple.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “Oh, honey…”

  Defeat is stamped into her eyes.

  “I’m going,” I tell her, the anger growing, clouding rational thought. “I’m going and I don’t care what they think.”

  I’m asking for trouble. Fuck this town. Let the sight of me rub Jude’s actions in their faces and ruin their perfect memorial.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MONICA

  Five, six, seven, eight.

  I count the kicks in my head, hoping I don’t look as idiotic as I feel beneath the bright lights of the stadium. The fringe on my white cowgirl boots swishes in time with the rest of the kick line. Our red dresses are embarrassingly short, showing off the white bloomers underneath.

  It’s all part of being a Rockin’ Rattler Dancer. Oh, excuse me. I mean, a Rockingham Dancer. The dance squad leaders were very clear that the word Rattler was not to be used when referring to the dance team.

  I didn’t really expect to be on the team, but my mother insisted I audition in July.

  “It would be a wonderful way to remember your sister,” she said, the ice clinking in her glass as she made a Bloody Mary. Her hair was pulled up high on her head, diamond earrings—a gift from Daddy on her last birthday—sparkled in her ears. “She was the dance team captain, you know.”

  Oh, I knew. I’d been hearing about it for months. So even though dance is not my forte, I tried out for the team to make my depressed mom happy and get her off my back. I couldn’t wait to be rejected by the squad, couldn’t wait to never have to hear about it again.

  Unfortunately, I made it. The replace
ment team captain, Heather Renee, felt bad for me. The sympathy vote outweighed my terrible dance moves.

  So here I am, kicking and prancing with an idiotic grin on my face and way too much eye makeup. The crowd cheers wildly as we do the routine in the center of football field. A few of the players check us out from the locker room door. One of them, Derek Andrews, gives me a wave.

  But someone else catches my eye.

  Stephen Valley.

  What is he doing here?

  I force myself to keep smiling, but watch him as he marches in the main gate, the signature scowl deep on his face. Every one's attention is on us dancers, so no one notices him. Even from the distance, his hunched shoulders are a signal he is upset. For a moment, I think he might walk to the bleachers and sit down. Instead, he pauses, stares at the crowd, and then ducks beneath the stands, hiding himself from view. Unfortunately, he wasn’t quick enough. Derek Andrews must have seen me watching Stephen because he glances in the same direction, a cold expression crossing his face.

  The crowd cheers as we slide down into the splits, arms up high.

  As we stand, Mr. Buchanan, the principal of our school, comes toward the center of the field. Flanked by other members of the faculty, the sight his somber face causes my heart to beat faster. I take a deep breath and try to stay composed just as my mother would want me to be, but my nerves are raw, exposed.

  “Let’s give our Rockingham Dancers another round of applause,” Mr. Buchanan says into the wireless microphone he has with him. “Aren’t they amazing?”

  The crowd roars its approval. Mr. Buchanan waits for the noise to die down.

  “As you know, our school faced a horrific tragedy in May which brought national attention to our small town.” Mr. Buchanan’s voice trembles with emotion. “We are working toward putting the events of that day behind us. But we can’t move forward without taking the time to remember the ones who won’t move forward with us.”

  At the edge of the field there are seven poster-sized pictures on easels. They were covered throughout most of the game by black fabric, but now someone removes the covers, revealing the picture of a student killed by Jude Valley.