Butterfly Suicide

by Loesch, Mary Ann

  It’s hard to give that up.

  “I’ll see you in Theatre,” he mumbles and hurries away as a group of kids come around the corner.

  I keep thinking about him. I fantasize what it would be like to go out together on a date. Where would we go? No place loud. We’d want to talk. And kiss.

  No safe place comes to mind.

  The day passes slowly as I wait for Theatre class to begin. When it’s time, I rush to the auditorium, my heart in my throat as we reach class at the same time. Stephen doesn’t say anything, but he holds the door for me. Passing him, I get a whiff of his cologne. It’s a mix of smoke and spice, an oddly comforting combo. Most guys wear some crappy body spray, applying it as if it were a substitute for a shower. It makes my head hurt to smell it, but Stephen’s scent is just soothing.

  “Alright,” Mr. March says, getting the classes’ attention. In his hand he holds the remote control for the projector he’s set up out in the audience. “Today I’d like to see some scenes. Some of you have been rehearsing and some of you have been wasting time. Before we get to that, I want to talk to you about analyzing your scenes and looking for clues as to what your character is feeling or thinking.”

  The class stirs slightly, but most are not interested in digging deeper into their character.

  “I want to start by analyzing a character together.” He clicks the remote. The projector shines white light onto the back wall of the stage. “Does anyone know who Joseph Merrick was?”

  “He’s that scrawny kid on the football team who keeps dropping the ball,” someone calls out, making the class laugh.

  “Nope,” Mr. March laughs good-naturedly. “Try again.”

  “He’s the Elephant Man. Merrick was part of a freak show.”

  The class turns to look at Stephen who blushes with embarrassment at calling out, but manages to stare back without flinching.

  “That’s right, Stephen,” Mr. March says. “Very good.”

  “Figures he would know about something related to a freak show,” someone mutters.

  “Joseph began life looking pretty normal, but as a young child, his features changed and he grew more and more deformed.” Mr. March clicks the remote and a picture of a man with an oversized head and distorted facial features pops up on the wall. Everyone sucks in their breath, caught off guard by the hideousness of the man’s face. “We now know it was the result of a genetic disease, but back then, people didn’t understand it. The distortion of his head and body caused people to fear him. In their eyes, he was a walking nightmare.”

  How sad.

  Mr. March clicks the remote and a few more pictures of the same man are shown, each one worse than the last. There’s one of his back and it looks like he has large tumors growing all over it. His feet are too big reminding me of hobbit like proportions.

  “Because of his looks, he joined a freak show where people paid to see him displayed. He was unable to speak well which further added to the idea that Joseph Merrick was not an intelligent man. In fact, it was thought he was little more than an animal.” Mr. March stops speaking, letting us process the idea. “Can you imagine what it’s like to go through your life trapped inside a body which inhibits you like that? To have women and children scream at the sight of you? To never fully be able to communicate your basic thoughts or needs?”

  The other students shift around me, uncomfortable.

  “Perception is a powerful thing,” Mr. March says, reminding me of the conversation I overheard between him and Ms. Johnson earlier. “So powerful that it can keep people from digging deeper and discovering the truth about others. Eventually, a doctor who helped make his last years comfortable befriended Joseph. The more time he spent with Joseph, the more time he took to try and understand him, the more the doctor learned about how intelligent this strange man was. He even wrote a book about him which later became the basis for a famous play called, The Elephant Man.”

  He holds up a copy of the play.

  “I believe teachers should model what they want to see from their students,” he says. “So I’m going to perform a monologue for you from this show.”

  A little ripple of excitement goes through us. This is cool. I wonder what kind of an actor Mr. March is. My answer comes a moment later.

  He’s amazing.

  He starts by standing tall and using a normal tone of voice before gradually contorting his body and changing his speech to a more guttural sound. There are a few giggles at first, but Mr. March commits fully to the role, and as he talks as if he is Joseph Merrick, we are mesmerized. By the time it is over, I no longer see my teacher. Instead, I am teary eyed and heart-broken for this twisted creature on stage that only wanted to be seen as a human being. I sneak a look back at Stephen who is riveted by the performance, too.

  When Mr. March is done, our applause thunders through the room.

  “Well, thank you,” Mr. March says, taking a bow. “I’m glad you enjoyed that.”

  “How did you do it?” Caitlin calls out. “You were so…him.”

  “Acting. That’s what it’s all about,” he answers. “But remember how I told you Joseph’s back story? Well, how many of you felt sympathy for him?”

  Most of us raise our hands.

  “Good. That’s normal. How many of you put yourself in his shoes?” Mr. March frowns. “How many of you were able to imagine feeling his pain, imagine feeling the twist of his body and his emotional world?”

  A few brave souls raise their hands.

  “That’s what analyzing your character is all about,” he says. “Figuring out who they are, how they feel, what their reaction to things happening in their lives is going to be. If you can do that in your scene, you’ll stop reading it and start acting it.”

  Mr. March squats down on the stage and stares at us. “If you can start putting yourself in each other’s shoes, you might find you’ve been all wrong about the people around you, too. This isn’t just an acting tip. It’s a life tip. Maybe there’s someone out there you’ve been too quick to judge. Why not look a little deeper?”

  He means Stephen. I realize it instantly. How many others catch on as well? No one says a word. At last, Mr. March stands.

  “Alright, take a few minutes to analyze your work and then we’ll take volunteers to perform today,” Mr. March says.

  Normally, I’d be the first to volunteer, but I haven’t even picked a monologue yet. For the first time in my life, letting others outperform me doesn’t feel like such a big deal. Until Mr. March calls my name. I’m terrified he’s going to make me stand up and recite something.

  “Yes?” I ask, ignoring the stares nailing me to my seat.

  “Why don’t you sit in the back and work on your monologue?” Mr. March suggests. “You’ve had less time than the others. Are you going to write one or perform one from the book?”

  “Write one,” I say, surprising myself. I hate writing, but I get up and go to the back.

  “Stephen, you should be working, too,” Mr. March calls out, though Stephen does not move from his seat. “Who is up first with their scene?”

  When no one volunteers, Mr. March rolls his eyes and picks a group at random. Once the scene gets started, Stephen stands and casually walks back to where I’m sitting. No one notices this. Everyone is focused on the terrible acting on stage by a group who obviously hasn’t rehearsed. They start to butcher a scene that I think is from a John Hughes movie.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  “Sorry I rushed off earlier.”

  He falls silent, chewing on his lip, one eye keeping watch on the class.

  “What are you going to write about?” I ask. “For the monologue.”

  “I don’t know.” He shrugs. “I’ve got nothing.”

  “Me either.”

  “I know one thing. I can’t work on it in here. Too much pressure.”

  “I know. I call it fishbowl syndrome. We’re the fish and everyone is pressed again
st the glass.”

  “I was thinking of going to the park after school. It’s quiet there.”

  He doesn’t phrase it like a question or anything. Is he telling me so I’ll go hang out? Do I dare? Is this the date I was fantasizing about earlier?

  “Do you write there a lot?” I ask, trying not to act too giddy.

  “Sometimes. Or read.”

  “You know how to read?” I tease.

  “Yep. Been doing it for a while now. Don’t tell anyone.” He smiles. “So the park...it’s deserted most of the time. No one really comes by.”

  C’mon, Stephen. Be a man. If we can’t really date, at least ask me to meet you. Don’t leave me hanging on “possible” invitations.

  Please ask me. Please ask me. Please ask me.

  “You could...you could meet me there,” he suggests.

  “I could. I could do that.”

  “Would you do that?” he asks, finally. “Would you meet me? I need to talk to you about something.”

  “Yes. What time?”

  His face lights up.

  “How about four?” he suggests. “I really gotta talk to you.”

  I nod and he slips back to his seat.

  Doubt immediately overwhelms me, casting a gray pall over my victory. What if we are seen? I mean, the whole reason we aren’t partners, the whole reason I got drunk off my ass yesterday, is because we can’t be together. I don’t want him hurt.

  What am I doing?

  It’s just that...the temptation to spend time with him is stronger than everything else. Maybe if we are very careful, no one will see us. This will be the last time. I swear. Where’s the harm in that? It only really matters if we get caught.

  Justifications.

  I can’t seem to get through a day without at least one.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  STEPHEN

  The temperature at the park is a blistery one hundred degrees, and the anticipation of seeing Monica makes me even warmer. The willow tree I’ve picked out for our meeting casts a long umbrella of shade, but it doesn’t really fight the heat. I watch the long tendrils of the tree brush down to the ground, sheltering the bench I’m sitting on in a canvas of green. It reminds me of Monica’s hair and the way it wisps out when the wind blows.

  What if she doesn’t come? I really need to talk to her about something.

  Even as I think that, I see her strolling down the sidewalk, a small smile on her face, her green eyes already locking with mine. She is confident and graceful, not worried about being seen, but I can’t help thinking it’s just a false front and she is starting to unravel. If her friends popped out of the neighboring trees, she would run away in an instant. Luckily, our spot is not near the entrance of the park or close to the playground. The chance of someone from school coming along and catching us is remote.

  “Hi!” She plops down on the bench beneath the tree. “Is it me or is damn hot?”

  “It’s hot.” I scoot over so she can have more shade from the tree. “Africa hot.”

  She eyeballs our hangout while fanning herself with one hand. “So this is where you hide when you want to think deep, moody Stephen thoughts?”

  “Yeah. Whenever Mom was gone and Jude was being an asshole, I would come here. I used to climb the trees a lot. Sometimes read books.”

  “What kind of books are you in to?”

  “I don’t know. Whatever catches my interest.”

  I don’t tell her I’ve already read most of the books on the AP reading list for juniors even though I’m a mere freshman. There’s a lot I don’t know about impressing girls, but being a book nerd probably isn’t as cool as being a weightlifter or a racecar driver. Not that I claim either of those occupations either.

  “What was the last book you read?” she asks.

  “Um...a castaway book called The Martian. It’s about a guy who ends up being stranded on Mars. They made it into a movie with that guy from Good Will Hunting.”

  “I saw the movie, but haven’t read the book.”

  “You should check it out. You’re a sci-fi chick, right?”

  She nods and leans back, resting her head on the willow tree. I do the same and we are both quiet, absorbing the heat, the light, and the craziness of being together. I want to touch her, hold her hand maybe, but I can’t really think of a slick way to do that without seeming ridiculous.

  “Do you...do you miss your brother?” she asks, softly.

  “Sometimes.”

  I say it without thinking. There were times when we got along great. The highs for Jude were sometimes highs for me, too. I liked the brother who would take me fishing at the creek or show me his porn collection, the brother who sometimes bought us ice cream or played video games with me. It’s just that those times were few and far between. When I think of him now…I can’t breathe. The anxiety is crushing.

  “I miss Simone,” she says, her eyes closed. “Sometimes Jude would hang out with me while he was waiting for her.”

  “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry.” I focus on looking at one of the long branches of the willow tree. Don’t think about Jude.

  “It wasn’t bad. He always appeared so…normal. Are you going to write about him?” She glances at the notebook I’d been scribbling in before she arrived. I hadn’t even gotten started on writing a monologue. “For the scene?”

  Had I thought of writing about Jude? Yes. Will I do it? Ripping off a thousand Band Aids from my skin at the same time sounds more appealing.

  “I don’t know,” I say.

  “I was thinking of writing something about what happened.” She watches my reaction carefully as she sits up straight. Some of her hair clings to the tree bark. “Is that crazy?”

  “Yes.” The words come out almost defiant. “You don’t want that kind of attention.”

  She frowns. “I can take it.”

  “Can you?” I ask. Damn. This was supposed to be a light afternoon of flirting and possible kissing. But she had to bring up Jude…now it’s turning into a deeper conversation I’m not sure we’re ready to have. “I mean, I get it, Monica, we aren’t exactly living in a stress free world, but you can’t handle your problems like you did yesterday.”

  Even I flinch a little at my judgmental tone.

  “You’re right.” Her voice is soft so I almost miss the words. “Caitlin said something about you and Derek that set me off, and then I spent the whole day worrying about whether or not she’d seen us kissing on the roof and whether or not she was spreading that information everywhere. I want to protect you, but it’s hard. I’m not Super Woman. The vodka…it was stupid. I’m stupid.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  “It’s how I feel. I’m so sorry….I’m scared people will hurt you because we’re partners and I’m scared they’ll hurt you because we’re not partners. I don’t know how to keep you safe.”

  “It’s not your job to do that.” I’m afraid she’s going to start crying, though I’m touched by the thought of her caring about me. “I can take care of myself.”

  “It’s all a mess. My feelings. Your feelings. Everyone at school is so scared. Any second they think someone is going to lose it and go nuts,” she says and then gestures to my notebook. “If people really knew why it happened, it might change things.”

  “You mean...the shooting? Are you saying we should write monologues about that?” The idea terrifies me. “I don’t think I can do that.”

  My stomach gets queasy. The thought of reliving memories with Monica is hard enough, but I can’t share personal things about Jude in front of the class. I can’t put myself out there for them to judge and see. No way.

  “I can’t write about that day,” I say again. “Not gonna happen.”

  “But if people understood your perspective, it would help them see you aren’t like Jude.”

  “I don’t have anything to prove.” Defensive, I move away just a little. “I don’t care if people like me or not
.”

  “I know. I just thought it might help.”

  “How? How is sharing all of Jude’s secrets or talking about that day going to help? If anything, it only shows what a monster he really is.”

  “It might remind everyone you are a victim in all this, too. And then…well…maybe we would have an easier time being together. People might be more understanding.”

  A victim? No! I wasn’t that. Jude hasn’t made me that. Has he?

  You are still keeping secrets for him. You are still under his control.

  My damn conscience wars with me. I told Monica under the bleachers I didn’t know why Jude killed her sister. But I do know things. Things that might help her understand what he was really like.

  For example, there’s Jude’s notebook. I hid it thinking that no one should ever see the sick shit he drew.

  And there’s something I need to ask her, too. Something that I don’t know how she’ll take. It’s part of the reason I wanted to risk meeting her today. That and I’m hoping to steal a few hot kisses beneath the shade of my willow tree.

  Fuck. Do I really want to stir this up? Open the proverbial can of worms?

  Do you really want to be his victim still? And don’t you want to be with Monica? Is she right? Would this be a way to have our relationship more socially accepted? More importantly, is this relationship even real or is it a product of us sharing a painful experience? What if all these feelings are based on that and you don’t really like her the right way, the way she deserves to be liked?

  Baby steps. That’s what I tell myself. Relationship, regardless of how they start, need baby steps to grow. So I’ll take a first step right now.

  “If you want to talk about the shootings, okay. I can try to do that.” I’ve never talked about that day with anyone outside of the police and Jude’s lawyers. My description of the events leading up to the shooting had been clinical and I didn’t tell them everything. “I guess if I’m going to talk about it with anyone, it should be you.”

  She squeezes my arm, hope in her eyes. “Thank you, Stephen.”