Becoming A Butterfly

by Mia Castile

  “You don’t know me,” I said, as I pulled up to the red light.

  “Because you put up all these walls and sit in your corner judging everyone.” I just stared at him, and he returned my frosty glare.

  “This is not happening.” I exhaled and looked down at my hands at the bottom of the steering wheel.

  “The light’s green.” I gunned it. I could not get home fast enough.

  When I walked through the front door my parents were in the great room watching a romantic comedy. I went up to my room where Jade was on the computer, and Tasha was reading a magazine.

  “Farrah’s been busy,” Jade said, as she scrolled through the news feed.

  “Not busy enough, and it was a misdate if I ever saw one.” I had texted them once it was decided that I would stay for the movie. They went into Farrah mode online, posting and making her busy. I proceeded to tell them about my uncomfortable evening and disturbing conversation with Henry on the ride home, ending with “He hates me.”

  “Reality Bites then,” Tasha said, rising and going to my media cabinet.

  Chapter 8

  Henry avoided Farrah the rest of the weekend even though I sent him a long message after Jade, Tasha, and I came up with a plausible excuse for why she couldn’t come up from Columbus. We ended it with Farrah confessing that she felt too much pressure to be this perfect girl that she hardly was and that she just needed a little more time. I didn’t sit around waiting for him either. I had a history report on my favorite decade of American history due the next Friday. I had gone through two rough drafts and had one more round of grammatical edits before I was ready to type up my five-page paper. I spent most of Saturday avoiding it and watching a Jersey Shore marathon. Sunday evening, as I was finally ready to begin my edits, my computer dinged. I smiled as I brought up the screen, confident that Henry was ready to talk to me. It wasn’t Henry.

  Chase Livingston: Hey Farrah.

  What did he want?

  Farrah Leevar: Hi.

  Chase Livingston: So you go to Columbus East High School?

  Farrah Leevar: Yeah.

  Chase Livingston: I used to go there. Go Olympians.

  I could almost hear his voice, dry with sarcasm.

  Farrah Leevar: I like it. New this year.

  Chase Livingston: Do you have Mr. Chestney for English class?

  Farrah Leevar: Yeah, he’s all right.

  Chase Livingston: Really? Because he teaches earth science at the middle school.

  My heart pounded in my ears. I quickly Googled the school, and he was right. I searched through the directory.

  Farrah Leevar: Sorry, I thought you meant Mr. Charles.

  Chase Livingston: Nice try, Lacey.

  If my life were a movie, this would have been when the camera zoomed in closely to my terrified eyes.

  Farrah Leevar: What do you want?

  Chase Livingston: What makes you think I want something?

  Farrah Leevar: If you didn’t, you would have broadcasted it to the school already; and not IMed me.

  Chase Livingston: Good point. Meet me behind the bleachers, free period, tomorrow.

  I avoided Chase as much as possible at school the next day. If he was coming down the hall one way, I turned and went the other. I hadn’t had a chance to tell Jade or Tasha about our conversation. I just had to find out what he wanted. At lunch I didn’t have an appetite or enjoy the usual banter. Finally, free period came around. I put on my favorite hoodie and zipped it; I pulled the hood up and made my trek to the bleachers. I saw him leaning against one of the posts as I approached.

  “So, I’m here now. What do you want? I don’t have all day.” I put on my best bad-ass attitude.

  “Word on the street is you’re really good with computers.” Chase did not seem like the kind of kid who said “word on the street.” I felt like I was in some old private eye movie. “Now see here, sonny.”

  “Get on with it?” I rolled my eyes at him, matched his lean, and tried to look bored.

  “I have a band with some friends of mine from Columbus. We recorded a demo, but I want it mixed; and our website needs updated and maintained.”

  “Website I can help you with, but I don’t mix music.” Who did he think I was? OK, for that matter, who did he think he was?

  “That’s the deal: my silence for our demo mixed and website updated. Or I tell the world who you are,” he countered.

  “I don’t know anything about mixing. It’s not like I don’t want to help you. I can’t.” He ignored me, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a flash drive.

  “This has our music and the program to mix it. There’s also a doc with all the info of how I want the songs ordered and other deets. You’ve got a week.”

  “A week isn’t long enough; I have a history paper due Friday, work, and I do have a life,” I declared.

  “Two lives actually.” He turned and walked away, leaving me staring after him with my mouth hanging wide open. I would have rather paid him off than have to do this for him.

  When I got home my mom was rushing for the door, her purse in hand. “Where are you off to?” I asked, surprised to see her home at that time.

  “I have to take Lana to the eye doctor, and we’re late,” she said as she turned to the stairs and called, “Lana, come on.” They were so worried about her vision since mine was so poor. Luckily, she didn’t inherit the same genes of a great-great-great grandfather who was blind as a bat. She stomped down the stairs.

  “You are not wearing that out.” My mom’s eyebrows crinkled as she surveyed Lana’s short skirt and belly shirt. She was wearing stuff like that a lot these days.

  “Why not? I look cute!” she exclaimed.

  “You look like you’re trying to look sixteen, and even at sixteen I don’t think I’d let you wear that.” My mom pointed up the stairs. “Change, now.”

  Lana looked like she was ready to burst into tears; she ran stomping up the stairs and slammed her door. I wanted to follow her and ask her if she was OK because that seemed like an extreme reaction to being told to change, but I didn’t think it would have been well-received.

  “You weren’t nearly as temperamental as she is when you were her age,” Mom sighed.

  “Welcome to puberty,” I said, shrugging. “You guys have fun.” I made my way to the kitchen; I needed a snack, and I had work to do.

  Chapter 9

  When I reached the kitchen, I mixed up a sour cream dip with some of my mom’s gourmet spices. She was always purchasing products from in-home parties at her friends’ houses. I grabbed a bag of carrots and retreated to my room. I loaded the program from the flash and read through the doc. The title said “Cate’s Ashes.” It had three pages of instructions. I wasn’t sure if I could do all this in a month, let alone a week. I spent a few hours watching YouTube videos, and when I was confident that I understood it, I loaded the first track. It had heavy drums in the beginning with the acoustic picking up; the lead vocal was really good and seemed to stay on key. I envisioned a smoky room with Chase playing bass standing next to two other guys playing the keyboard and guitar. The lead singer dressed in black with eyeliner and jet black hair—messy around his face, but not too long. He would definitely be dreamy. I felt as if he were singing directly to me, and I found myself swaying to the music. The voice was a bit intoxicating. I listened to all the songs before I began to mix the first track. I messed with the sounds a little and made the guitar a little crisper. Then I moved on to the next track. It began with the piano, and the drums came in almost immediately. I lowered the drums and raised the guitar again. I continued through the ballads and the rocking dance tunes. In all, I edited eleven tracks. I put them back on the flash and moved on to my homework and history paper, satisfied with my first day’s work.

  It was late; I was already in bed when my computer dinged. I rose to check it, finding Henry had messaged me.

  Henry Emmitt: Are you around?

  Farrah Leevar: Yeah, here, how ar
e you?

  I rubbed my eyes and put on my glasses so I could see.

  Henry Emmitt: I’m OK; I got your message. I’m sorry I overreacted.

  Farrah Leevar: S’OK. I’m sorry I had to bail.

  We chatted well into the morning hours, sharing more secrets, yet I couldn’t tell him the most important one. I typed it out a few times but ended up deleting it. I wanted to share but fear held me back. I knew he wouldn’t want me as Lacey. I would never be good enough for him. If this was all I got, it would be enough, and when it was over, it would sustain me. It had to sustain me. Guys like Henry didn’t give girls like me the time of day. It had been that way for a long time. He was unachievable. If I were being honest with myself, the sooner I accepted that and moved on, the sooner I could find real happiness. I wondered if I’d ever find that. I hoped, but who could tell really? I couldn’t. All I had was hope.

  I was dragging when Tasha met me at my locker like she usually did the next morning, but I wasn’t in the mood to be cheery. I still hadn’t told them about Chase.

  “Did you know Melanie Harris had liposuction over spring break?” Her eyes lit up with her gossip scoop. Because Tasha was on the cheer squad, she heard all the gossip first. She only ever shared it with Jade and me, but she enjoyed knowing before anyone else.

  “Why? It’s not like she needs it; she almost looks anorexic,” I said, exchanging books in my locker.

  “I don’t know. Emma said her mom made her get it. Could you imagine having a pageant mom like that?” As we walked toward our first classes, we saw Chase watching us as he leaned against the door to the stairwell. I slowed, and Tasha looked at me quizzically.

  “Go on; I’ll catch up.” She raised her eyebrow at me. “It’s OK. I’ll be right there.” She went on, and I watched her round the corner before I shuffled through the crowd to where he stood. I reached into my back pocket and produced the flash drive.

  “Here are your mixes. I’ll get to your website this afternoon, but I’m not sure I’ll have it finished by next week.” He took the flash drive and looked at me skeptically.

  “You mixed all eleven songs?”

  “Yeah, it was easy.” He still eyeballed me as he slid it into his front pocket. “YouTube, dude,” I said confidently.

  “YouTube?” he asked disgustedly.

  “Yeah?” I said, faltering a bit.

  “YouTube.” His eyebrows knit together, as his eyes burned a hole through my head, and I fidgeted. “You should go. You’re going to be late for your first class.” He was bored again, dismissing me. I turned and left. Feeling his focus still on my back, my face burned hotter with every step.

  Finally at home, I collapsed face first into the couch. Lana came through the door shortly after me, and she stood at the back of the couch for a long moment. I looked up at her. She was wearing a hoodie, and her eyes were red. I threw my face back into the cushion.

  “What?” I asked, annoyed.

  “Nothing,” she said in a small voice.

  “Well, can I help you with something, or are you just going to stand there like a dork?” I teased, but when I looked up, hurt was all over her face.

  “I have a headache; do we have any Tylenol?”

  “In the linen closet,” I said, flopping again face first. She stood there for a few more minutes. “What?” I said into the cushion.

  “Nothing,” she repeated, and went to the kitchen. I groaned and wondered if my parents could ship her off while she went through this hormonal phase. She raided the fridge and retreated upstairs. A short while later, the doorbell rang.

  “LANA!” I called into the cushion. She opened her bedroom door.

  “YOU’RE DOWNSTAIRS; YOU GET IT!” she yelled and slammed her door.

  “Lana!” I called again, but I rose, admitting defeat. I cautiously approached the door. I’d seen all the horror movies with psychos posing as delivery men. I finally cracked open the door, my cellphone in hand in case it was a crazy abducting creep. The smile that greeted me was obnoxious. It wasn’t a crazy abducting creep, but a creep nonetheless—of a lesser species.

  “What?” I squared my shoulders and put my hand on my hip.

  “We have work to do.” Chase pushed the door open and passed me as he entered. “Nice digs,” he said, as he popped his head into the living room and dining room. I followed him to the kitchen. Wait, how did he know where I lived?

  “I thought vampires had to be invited in,” I mumbled.

  “Right,” he said, as he opened the refrigerator and helped himself to one of my dad’s bottled coffees. He leaned against the counter and surveyed me in a way that made me a bit anxious. Finally, he asked, “Where does the magic happen?”

  “Excuse me?” I felt my cheeks burn. “Nothing is going to happen between us. I don’t like you, especially like that!” I crossed my arms defiantly.

  “Don’t get your—ehem—panties in a bunch.” My eyes widened as he continued, “By ‘magic’ I’m referring to your computer magic. There’s plenty of time for that later.” He smiled wickedly as he approached me.

  “I hate you. You know that, right?” I asked, narrowing my eyes.

  “I’m aware.” He gave me a tight smile, and my heart quickened. I pushed myself off the counter and almost ran into him. He swept his hand to the side as if to say “Lead the way.” So I did. We went up to my room; I went in as he leaned against the door frame.

  “This is the room you have to be invited into?” I asked, astonished.

  “I am a gentleman.” He nodded.

  “Come in. What do you want to talk about? I haven’t started the website, so we can pretty much start from scratch.” I looked over my printed notes as I spoke. He slid into the seat next to me and set the flash drive on the desk. I paused and looked at it.

  “I think we should mix the music together. Moving the guitars around is not mixing, and in doing so, you made my vocals sound awful!”

  “Your vocals?” I asked sharply, watching my image of the steamy lead singer shatter like broken glass and fall away.

  “Yes. My vocals.” He narrowed his eyes and asked, “Why?”

  “What did I do so wrong?” I asked, avoiding the question and fighting the blush that was creeping over my cheeks.

  “Well, for one, you made it all off balance; I had to scratch everything you did. We aren’t professionals, but we should be able to add depth and clarity.” He took over my mouse and began mixing the song. It looked like he was doing the same thing I had the day before, but when he played it, he was right. It sounded a hundred times better.

  “We’re going to sell this on iTunes,” he proclaimed. “It has to be perfect.” He leaned into the computer, and I found myself leaning in too. I watched what he did; he didn’t just adjust the beginning of the song, but all the way through. It made a difference. We worked for the rest of the afternoon. He’d mix as I listened, and vice versa. He’d pace as I moved the dials with my mouse. If I said a word, he’d shush me. That was a bit annoying. When my parents got home, they met Chase, and, of course, we worked with the bedroom door open. My parents were cool, but I think coming home to their daughter in her closed-off bedroom with a boy would have given my dad a stroke and my mom her first grey hair.

  “Where did you record this? It sounds so good to begin with,” I asked, as I played with the same hook over and over trying to get it just right.

  “My house, basement has good acoustics,” he said as he put his hand over mine and moved the mouse to just the right spot. He hit play but left his hand there as we both listened to the entire song. “That is perfection.” We were finally finished with the first song.

  “Dinner’s ready,” Lana said from the doorway, wearing her hoodie unzipped and a shirt that fit her in the fourth grade, showing more stomach than I would be comfortable showing. The way she looked at Chase I thought she was talking to him. He gave her a dazzling smile. How come he never looked at me that way? “Hi,” she said softly, blushing, this time to him.
<
br />