Butterfly Suicide

by Loesch, Mary Ann

  Melanie Hollingsworth.

  Tina Salvatore.

  Edward Stephens.

  Tim Read.

  Richard Ryan.

  Layla Cunningham.

  Simone Monroe.

  “Let us take a moment to honor our fallen friends,” Mr. Buchanan says after he has read off the list of names.

  He doesn’t mention Jude. Not that he would. Jude is not one of the dead.

  My parents sit in the front row of the bleachers. They stare at Simone’s picture, and my mother is crying. Daddy sits stiffly next to her, his eyes fixed on the portrait. They do not comfort each other, but around them, people offer words of condolence. The parents of the other victims are there, too, though none of the others have kids still in high school. They all had older siblings.

  A few of my fellow dancers look at me, and Heather Renee puts a consoling arm around my shoulders. This prompts the others to make sympathetic noises. I hear a few sniffles.

  Panic hits me. Should I cry? Do I look demurely away and smile sadly? Is my brave face called for here? What is the protocol for this situation exactly? I don’t want to let my mother down and not be appropriately sad or bereaved.

  I choose to look down at the ground.

  As we file off the field a few minutes later, I don’t look at Simone’s picture, but when I go to my parents, her photo is reflected in the eyeglasses of the woman sitting behind them. It’s Simone’s senior class picture and she looks great in it. Like a model or a princess. Only from this weird angle, it’s as if she is right behind me, staring over my shoulder, a guardian angel I don’t want, forever frozen in time.

  “Mom?” I give her a hug. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” She dabs her glassy eyes. How much has she had to drink already? “You looked great out there.”

  “Thanks.” I turn to my father, but he says nothing, just sips from the soft drink cup marked with the Taco Shack label, staring at Simone’s picture. For the first time, I see flecks of gray in his black hair. His green eyes are darker than normal, probably because of the harsh, unflattering stadium lighting. Most women say with his thin face and sharp jawline he’s handsome. It’s a comment that annoys my vain mother to no end. “You okay, daddy?”

  He looks at me, distant and aloof, as if he just realized I was standing there.

  “What?” he asks. I repeat the question. “Oh, sure. I’m fine.”

  “I’m going to the concession stand,” I tell them. “Be back soon.”

  Neither of them says anything as I walk away which seems par for the course lately. Around me I hear people whispering, or in some cases, crying. Sympathy from strangers washes over me, a sticky blanket leaving me cold.

  “Poor girl,” one of them says. “Can you imagine what her parents are going through?”

  My parents—Simon and Stella Monroe—have fallen apart. Daddy owns the local jewelry store and Momma is something of a trophy wife who volunteers on lots of committees. Once they were the most popular couple in town. Now, they are the most pitied—a sort of aging Barbie and Ken who use booze and silence to cope with heartbreak.

  I don’t go to the concession stand. Instead, I slide beneath the bleachers where the noise becomes a dull murmur and the lights are not so harsh. No one will miss me for a while, and they won’t think to look for me here.

  Stephen sits on the ground surrounded by all kinds of stadium litter. Soft drink cups, dirty nacho trays, discarded candy wrappers—they lay everywhere, but he doesn’t appear to notice or mind. His back is to the bleachers, his gaze on the chain link fence surrounding the stadium. The shock of blond hair is easy to see in the dim light though the rest of him blends in due to the dark shirt he wears. He turns and sees me, eyeing my skimpy dance uniform with undisguised appreciation in his eyes as I approach. It gives me a rush of feminine power. Then he looks away, his jaw tightening.

  “Hey,” I say, but he doesn’t respond to my greeting, reminding me of Jude. “What are you doing under here?”

  “What are you doing under here?” he growls. “Shouldn’t you be out there shaking your ass or something?”

  Okay, not the best start to a conversation. I take a deep breath and try not to snap back. “Just finished.”

  “Good for you.”

  “You haven’t been to class in a few days.”

  “Nothing gets by you.”

  “But you go to all your other classes. It’s just Theatre and English you’re skipping.”

  “Have you been keeping tabs on me?” He narrows his eyes. “Spying?”

  Hell yes, I’ve been spying. I walked by a few classes I knew he was supposed to be in and saw him looking all surly and cute at the same time.

  “No,” I lie. “I was just curious.”

  Stephen frowns. “I guess Mr. March got you a new partner.”

  “Not yet.”

  “What?” He hisses softly as if I’ve done something wrong. “Why haven’t you already asked him to get you someone else?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Another lie. I have two reasons for wanting to stay partners. One is that I’m unable to stop this stupid crush I’ve had on him forever. Maybe working with him will help me get past it. Assuming it doesn’t drive me crazy first.

  But the other reason is far more complicated. Being close to Stephen is my one shot, my one chance, to get answers to what really happened with Simone and Jude. I refuse to think he doesn’t have a clue about what was going on in his brother’s head.

  “What if I don’t want to be partners with you?” Stephen stands when I don’t give him more of a reason. “Did that ever occur to you?”

  Actually, it hadn’t. I figured since most people viewed my family as the wronged party in this whole debacle that Stephen would, too. I assumed he would want to work with me out of a sense of guilt or duty to set things right. Looking at it now I can see maybe that’s a tad self-centered.

  I won’t let him know he’s damaged my ego though.

  “Fine. Come to class and tell him you want a new partner then. It won’t hurt my feelings.” I meet his eye, trying to not to show I’m hurt by his rejection. “I don’t care.”

  “You just want the attention,” he says, nodding his head as if he somehow can see inside my brain.

  “Attention? Are you kidding me? I’ve already gotten plenty of attention this summer thanks to your brother, and if you think I want people gawking at me all day long, staring at me like I’m some sort of freak to be pitied…” I break off, try to catch my breath. “Well, then you’re just as arrogant and self-centered as Jude was.”

  He glares at me, but I can see the glimmer of what might be tears in his eyes.

  “Look, I know you hate me,” he mumbles, and I inch closer to hear him better. “I don’t want you to torture yourself by being around me in a scene for class. March wouldn’t let me get a new partner. I’m trying to do you a favor by staying away.”

  He is doing me a favor? Yes, I can see how he might think that. Staying away, keeping out of sight, trying not to remind me or anyone else of bad things, assuming Mr. March will have to assign me a new partner if he’s not there to do the work. It’s actually kinda thoughtful and sweet.

  Be still, stupid heart.

  Something stirs inside me, and the feelings for Stephen I’ve not been trying all that hard to suppress rear up. I can’t stop myself from moving even closer. My hand snakes up to touch the side of his face. A tear slips from his eye and I wipe at it with my thumb, fascinated by the thought of how much we both hurt. I know his pain. It radiates wave after wave of hurt and agony, and I recognize it as my own.

  “What are you doing?” His voice is wary. “You should go back to your group, back to your friends.”

  I should. Yes. That’s exactly what I should do. Run away and never be this close to him again. Or maybe anyone again. If he looks hard enough, he’ll really see me, really see the ugly thoughts in my head. Maybe he’ll und
erstand how long I’ve liked him. Maybe he’ll be repulsed by it or maybe…just maybe…he’ll feel the same.

  I kiss him.

  Electricity passes between us, sharp and rough. His back is rigid at first, but a moment later his arm goes around my waist, strong and demanding as he sweeps me closer. His soft lips return my kiss with an unexpected fervor. Something desperate and wild flows all around us, sending tingles straight to my toes.

  Oh god. What kind of beast have you unleashed?

  But then his arm drops from my waist, and the kiss abruptly stops. Stephen holds his hands up, almost as if he is warding me off when he steps back with wide, panicked eyes. I cover my mouth, shocked.

  Oh my god. Did I just kiss him? What did I just do? What the hell is wrong with me?

  “I don’t know why he did it.” His rushed words penetrate the fog of embarrassment. For a second, I’m not sure what he’s even talking about. “So if you’re looking for answers about that…I don’t have them. There’s no need for you to…”

  Jude. He means Jude. And he thinks I kissed him to get answers.

  “I mean, what other reason could you have for wanting to...to get close to me?” he asks.

  How about because I like you? Because I’ve had a little crush on you forever?

  My father cuts off whatever I might have said.

  “Monica?” The authority in his voice makes me jump. “What are you doing with this boy?”

  Daddy is standing in the shadows a little ways off, a tall hulk of man. How long has he been there? What did he see? He holds his paper cup from the Taco Shack in his hand, but he is squeezing it so hard it dents in the middle.

  “Nothing, Daddy.” I brush past Stephen. “We were talking about school. We have a class together.”

  “You have….unbelievable!” The anger bristles in daddy’s eyes, the aloofness I’ve grown used to the last few months gone. Suddenly, he’s a concerned parent, and he steps forward, menacingly. “Not anymore. I’ll take care of it on Monday.”

  “It’s fine,” I say, standing in front of him. “Not that big of deal.”

  My father says nothing more, but he shoots Stephen a look over my shoulder and uses his height and broad shoulders to full advantage, the picture of a man itching to be challenged. Stephen holds his ground, not backing away, meeting the angry gaze with a stoic stare of his own. He’s not taking crap from anyone, least of all my dad.

  “Come on, Monica. Your mother is waiting for us. She wants to leave.” My father turns, angrily throws the crushed soft drink cup on the ground, adding to the litter already there, and strides away. I follow, but glance back at Stephen. He stares at the cup, before sending a small smile my direction.

  No way am I switching partners now.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  STEPHEN

  Monica Monroe kissed me.

  I can die now.

  She put her lips against mine and slipped me the tongue. Damn! Talk about unexpected. Talk about exhilarating. Even as it was happening, it was surreal. Warmth turning into scorching heat—it was there between us like a fevered dream.

  I kick the cup her father tossed on the ground. Even his grim appearance can’t completely dissolve the amazing feeling she’s created. It overpowers my disappointment over chickening out about the game. I wanted to walk in to the stadium under all the bright lights and strut around like I didn’t have a care in the world, totally fuck with their heads, you know?

  One look at those portraits all covered up with black cloth changed my mind. The stadium reeks of sadness and pain. Mom is right. Seeing me will cause needless hurt. Under the bleachers is a good place to hide until the game is over and people have cleared out. No sense in taking a chance on getting caught leaving. It seems sort of fitting that I should spend time hanging in a spot overrun by trash. Most people would say I was in my element.

  I glance down at the litter Simon Monroe has left behind. Dented with soda leaking out, the waxy words printed on the side of the yellow cup taunt me.

  The Taco Shack.

  The same place my mother works.

  My euphoria dissipates. Dark thoughts start rolling. Something’s not right here. My mother and her tired eyes, the utter look of defeat ingrained into her face—I picture them. She’d said some kids had come in and given her a hard time tonight. What if Monica had been one of those kids? What if her family had gone there? Or maybe her football player friends? Hell, the evidence of it is lying right there on the ground! I bet her dad took her there before the game! What did they do to my mom? What did they say? Did Monica kiss me as part of some sort of sick game? Was there a plan in motion to get revenge against Jude by going through me? Was someone nearby snapping photos to put up on Instagram? Had they caught my tears, my moment of weakness?

  The bitter rage I’ve been living with since May rears its head, crushing all other emotion.

  I have to know the truth. Now.

  ****

  I hoof it over to the ritzy part of town; the side where every house looks like it’s been created by a cookie cutter. Perfectly mowed lawns. Freshly painted houses. Sparkling neighborhood pools open year round to those who live there.

  A far cry from the poverty on my street.

  Monica’s father owns the jewelry store, and since there is no other business like it in town for him to compete with, the store affords him a pretty good income and they can live in the moderate luxury of this little piece of suburbia. Derek Andrews lives in this same area. After they stopped being friends, Jude would go on long rants about how Derek was over privileged and the fact he lived on this side of town proved it.

  I’d only been to Monica’s once with Jude when he picked up Simone, but it’s easy to pick out which white picket fenced, cookie-cutter house is hers. The sign in the front yard shaped like a boot—the emblem for the dance team—is a dead giveaway. Her name is printed on it in cheerful, black comic sans letters. It surprises me there is no sign in the yard with the “Never Forget” logo on it.

  Maybe a sign like that is too painful for Monica’s family.

  The house is dark, except for a light shining through a window on the second floor. As I watch, Monica passes in front of it, still decked out in her dance team uniform. Her cell phone is pressed to her ear, and I imagine she is talking to one of her dumb ass friends, probably having a great laugh about how easily she played me.

  The walk over has calmed me some, but I still fight the urge to throw a rock up to the window to get her attention.

  Easy. You don’t want the cops here.

  On the side of her house is a thin trellis. Hell, I’d be lucky if the damn thing didn’t break beneath me. Undeterred, I put one foot on it and climb, a second rate Romeo at best. The roof slopes to a small flat surface by her bedroom window, offering a platform. I perch there and look into Monica’s room.

  Wow. That’s a shit ton of pink.

  Pink pillows on the white bedspread bed. Pink gauzy curtains adorning each side of the window. Pink fuzzy chair. She’s broken it up by painting the walls an extreme mix of purple with pink accents. There are posters for Broadway musicals like Wicked and Something Rotten hanging at all angles on them. The one called Fun Home catches my eye because I’ve never heard of it, and those two words together make no sense to me at this point in my life. There are more posters, but before I can read what they are, something blocks the view.

  Monica.

  She stares straight into my eyes, confusion on her face. The phone is gone, but her mouth opens in a scream. I’m already thinking about the quickest way off the roof when she clamps a hand over her lips before the sound can come out.

  I freeze.

  “Stephen? Is that you?” Without waiting for an answer, she shoves the windowpane up and looks down at the ground, then back at me. “What are you doing? Are you crazy?”

  Crazy? Me? Has she not looked at the nightmare colors of her room?

  Focus. Don’t get distracted by details. Focus on what y
ou came here for.

  “I need to talk to you.” Anger. Yes, that’s good. Hold onto it. “I want the truth.”

  “The truth about what?” She glances down at the street again. “I guess ringing the doorbell was out of the question.”

  I raise my eyebrow. Ring the doorbell? Really?

  “Chill out.” She rolls her eyes, stepping back. “Come on in.”

  For someone pulling a prank on me, she sure is relaxed. It’s frustrating really. If she were defensive or edgy, this would all be much easier.

  “No.” This may not have been a good plan. I’m on the roof of her house. At night. My brother killed her sister. If anyone sees me, they’re going to think any number of things. “I can’t.”

  Good. Stay elusive.

  “Shove over then.” Monica sighs. “I guess I’m coming out.”

  She throws her leg over the windowsill and seconds later is seated on the roof, patting down her short skirt before looking up at me.

  “So? Why are you here?” she asks, and I can’t help but notice how she smells like a mix of lavender and summer. Her hair was up at the game, but now it’s down, a nice swirling waterfall of brown. “What’s going on?”

  Do it. Hammer her with questions. Don’t let the hair thing get you off track.

  “What were you doing at Taco Shack tonight?” I demand. “What did you say to my mom?”

  She flutters her eyes, confused. Or pretending to be.

  “I wasn’t at Taco Shack. The dance team has a rule about eating before a game. Unless

  you’re willing to puke it all up, you can’t eat.” She tilts her head to the side. “Why do you think I was there?”

  “Don’t bullshit me, Monica. Your dad was holding a Taco Shack cup.”

  “So?”

  “My mom works there. Some kids came in and harassed her tonight.”

  “And you think it was me?”

  “Your dad was there so it makes sense you might have been with him.”

  “I swear I didn’t go with my dad to the Taco Shack.” Monica holds up her fingers in some sort of mock pledge. “No offense to your mom, but I think the Taco Shack is incredibly disgusting.”