Becoming A Butterfly

by Mia Castile

  After he stirred his chocolate milk and took a big drink, he said, “I went to Columbus last night; it was a late night.”

  “I wish I would have known. I’d have let you sleep in.” I sat at a barstool at the counter and took out my laptop.

  “Don’t do that here; let’s go to my room.” He took his glass, and I followed him through the door. It was a large room with crème walls, a desk in the corner, a queen-size bed centered between two expensive end tables, and a matching dresser along the wall. A large flat panel TV on the wall tied it all together. I was intimidated by his room.

  “Are you rich?” I asked dumbly. I could tell he had money when I was there on Friday. And here I was being a nimrod.

  “No. My dad is,” he said, as he went to his dresser and opened a drawer. He removed a plain white T-shirt from a drawer full of them and put it on. I was relieved to feel my stomach settle a little bit. “You can set up there,” he said, pointing to his desk. His room was neat and organized. I felt as though he was letting me see a side of him that no one knew existed. I could think of about ten different girls who would be crushing on him something fierce if they knew he lived here. He’d kept this part of his life completely secret. It didn’t hurt that he only wore Levis and basic tees. But I imagined they weren’t Fruit of the Loom tees. I sat up my laptop and began showing him the website. It was almost done. I was relieved that we had made such progress. He wanted to make a few changes, and I noted them. I went to work on the tweaks while he left the room for a while. Then he returned and began working on his computer beside me. He had added the guitar to the track and was now mixing it. We worked silently for a bit, but then I took a break to check my email and surf the web. I watched him out of the corner of my eye; he worked steadily on his song.

  “So what really happened? I mean; why did you move here?” I asked, turning to face him, my legs propped under me in the chair.

  “What did you hear?” He feigned interest momentarily but returned to his program.

  “Kicked out of school or lifetime ban from I.U.—both really.”

  “Nothing so glamorous; my mom got a boyfriend, and he didn’t like me.” He shrugged. “My dad and I get along. He supports my music, and he lets me work in his shop, so it’s better anyway.”

  “He’s Dooley?” I asked, surprised.

  “No, he bought it from Dooley three years ago. He never changed it because it has that small town feel and has been Dooley’s for like thirty years.” He shrugged.

  “Do you mind that people talk about you like that behind your back and spread rumors?” I asked, feeling lonely for him.

  “I could care less as long as I don’t have to talk to them.” He laughed but then he stared at his computer screen, and I sensed there was a bit of truth to that statement.

  “You don’t like people very much, do you?” I asked, returning to my own screen.

  “I don’t see why everyone has this desire to be accepted or even be involved with each other.”

  “You’re lonely, aren’t you?” I asked before I thought. My filter was officially broken.

  “I have friends, but I have no use for fake people who use you.” He leaned back, ruffled his hair, and laced his fingers.

  “Says the boy who is blackmailing me,” I snarked.

  “Yes, but I like you for you, not for who you pretend to be,” he said with amusement, but then his tone darkened.

  “Farrah is only going to hurt you. She is everything you aren’t. You really should get out while you still can.” His eyes locked on mine. I felt as though I couldn’t hide the truth from him if I tried. Like if he asked me a question, I had to tell him the truth. I finally tore my eyes away from him and looked blankly at my computer screen.

  “What do you think about this?” I asked, changing the subject. He leaned over and analyzed my arrangement. He smelled like fabric softener, or his shirt did. Nervously, I began explaining all the small details of what I’d changed. My eyes met his again. He was watching me closely, and I could feel his scrutiny of me.

  “You and Jade are coming with me to Columbus next Saturday for that photo shoot,” he announced, leaning away from me. I looked back at my screen. Could I object? I didn’t think I had a choice; instead, I chose to whine.

  “Do I have to go?” I did my best imitation of Lana.

  “Yes, Farrah has to get pictures with us. She’s crazy popular.” He returned to his song. I cursed Farrah under my breath. He smirked, obviously hearing my rant.

  “It’s weird that I’m so popular in Columbus,” I said.

  “Oh, she’s popular because everyone knows she’s not real and is dying to see how it all plays out. That’s the only reason no one has busted her out,” he smirked.

  “Oh,” I said, feeling stupid. Of course they would know I didn’t really attend their school. “How did you figure it out? Was it at the movies?”

  “That sealed it for me, but after seeing you without your glasses, I began to think you looked familiar. Then when I got home and logged onto Status Quo, I saw it was you. I mean, Farrah looks just like you. I may be more observant than most though.” He shrugged. “And people will only see what they want to see.”

  “Good to know.” He leaned back in his chair and put his hands behind his head again and looked at me for a long moment rattling my nerves again.

  “Wanna get out of here and get something to eat?” he asked, rotating in his chair.

  “Sure.” He rose and went into his bathroom and shut the door. I finished up what I was working on and by the time I was done, he emerged freshly showered, dressed, and ready to go. He put on his black biking boots, and I rose.

  “Where do you want to go?” I asked, following him up the stairs. He shrugged, and as we entered the kitchen, he immediately opened another door, leading me down a couple steps to the garage. He pressed a button that raised the third garage door and walked over to a couple of motorcycles in the corner. One of them was his. I stopped short as I put together what he was planning.

  “I’m not riding on that thing,” I said.

  “I have a helmet for you and everything.” He reached under a work counter and produced a second black helmet. “Come on,” he motioned, and I would have held my ground, but there was something in the way he was looking at me, like he trusted me, not necessarily the other way around—vital if I were to ride on his bike. I felt as though at some point today, we were bonding, becoming friends. And this was no longer a forced relationship; it was beginning to feel real. I took out a ponytail holder, my phone, ID, and the little bit of money I had left in my purse and stuck them in the back pocket of my jeans. Then I sat my purse on the counter, pulled my hair into a ponytail at the base of my neck as I stalked over to where he was backing his bike out of the garage. He handed me the helmet. I put it on, and he smiled at me. He started up the bike. It was really loud, and I cringed a little.

  “Climb on.” He motioned to where I needed to put my feet. I followed his instruction, and once I was on, he twisted the handle to rev the engine. Was I ready for this?

  Chapter 13

  “Hold on,” he yelled as he slowly took off. He didn’t have to tell me; my arms were wrapped so tightly around his waist I wondered if he was having trouble breathing. He took the country road at a modest speed and when I realized he was a good rider, I relaxed a little. I still buried my head behind his back, and I felt him rumble with laughter. The air rushed around us, and I watched the scenery fly by in colors of greens, yellows, and browns too fast for my eyes to register. By the time we made it to the family-owned Italian restaurant, I was totally comfortable on the back of his bike. I leaned with him when he turned and relaxed at the stop lights. We went inside and put our names on the list for seating.

  “You handled that pretty well,” he said after we had been seated, ordered our food, and had our drinks.

  “Well, it doesn’t hurt that you know what you’re doing,” I smirked.

  “We’ll have to go for a
ride again sometime. It’s no fun riding by yourself. Maybe we can go downtown one night or something.”

  “And just ride around?” My mom had told me stories about when she was a teenager; everyone would converge on the circle in downtown Indianapolis and just drive around, for hours. I can see the intrigue of driving around but wasn’t sure what it would be like riding a bike.

  He must have read the skepticism in my voice because his only response was, “Or, whatever.” We sat for a while in silence. I was beginning to think that I didn’t know how to interact with people besides Jade and Tasha. The awkward silences were beginning to get on my nerves, yet I didn’t have much to say. I shredded my napkin and pushed back my cuticles with my nails.

  “What is your mom like?” I asked finally, looking back at him. He looked out the window for a long time before answering me.

  “She’s OK, a bit selfish and self-absorbed. She used to tell me about how I was this miracle baby, but then when my dad had had enough of her, she blamed me for his leaving.” He didn’t look at me; he just stared out the window. I reached across and slid my hand under his, wrapping my fingers around his wrist. He did the same to me and continued, “Then she met Ted the chiropractor. He was all right at first, but then he started bossing me around and telling her that I was undisciplined and needed a firm hand. He put his hands on me once, and I threw him across the room. After that, he told her it was him or me. Having someone take care of her was more important than taking care of me, so I left. I came to my dad’s and have stayed here ever since. My dad still pays her child support for me just because it keeps her away.” He gripped my hand, and I held on to his, taking solace in comforting him. He looked at me. I’m not sure what my face conveyed—hope, encouragement, I wasn’t sure—but his eyes got that distant look they always seemed to get around me, and he looked bored. He let out a deep breath as he laced his fingers through mine. We sat like that silently until our food came. I couldn’t imagine what he’d been through in the past few years. As much as I hadn’t liked him earlier that morning, I felt like now I understood him.

  The next morning I overslept and ran to my bathroom only to get a lukewarm shower. That could only mean one thing: Lana was taking a shower at the same time. I quickly bathed and dried myself almost slipping twice as I emerged from the shower. I wondered when I would grow out of my awkward phase. At my counter, I looked for the smoothing cream for my hair; it wasn’t in the usual spot in my basket. I knew instantly where it was, probably in Lana’s bathroom. Frustrated and furious, I stormed to her bathroom door, but it didn’t budge.

  “Lana!” I yelled.

  “Just a minute,” she called. I stood there in my towel, dripping a small puddle on the floor.

  “I need my smoothing cream!” I banged on the door.

  “Just a minute,” she returned, but I’d had enough. I grabbed the skinny key from above the door frame, popped the lock, and barged in. She stood there, naked except for a towel she jerked up to cover herself. Her skin was pale, with the exception of her arms and the tops of her thighs. Thin, papercut-straight, little red lines stacked up her skin. My mouth dropped, and tears filled my eyes.

  “What happened to you? Did you do that to yourself?” I asked before I could even think or process what was before me.

  “You don’t understand—” she began, but I interrupted her.

  “You’re right; I don’t understand because it looks like you are cutting yourself, like you’re hurting yourself,” I said, eyes bugging. I’d watched the Dr. Phil episode about cutting and knew it was a serious issue.

  “Let me explain,” she said shakily. I stood there tapping my foot. She looked around anxiously. “Well, can we get dressed first?” she asked, and I nodded.

  “I’ll be back in five minutes.” I turned, ran to my room, changed into sweats and a T-shirt, and returned to Lana’s room. She sat on her bed, with her legs pulled up to her, her hair pulled up in a towel.

  “What’s going on?” I asked as I sat at the foot of the bed. She looked up at me pain in her eyes.

  “You know a few weeks ago when I borrowed your grey blouse because I was spending the night at Manda’s house?” I nodded. That was the night Tasha, Jade, and I created Farah. “Well, I lied. Manda and me went to Chris Anderson’s house. He and Deacon Chandler had invited us to come over at school that day. They were having a sleepover too, and Chris’ parents were going away for the weekend. We told her mom and dad that she was spending the night with me, and told Mom and Dad that I was spending the night with her.” Dread surged through me. I did not like the way this story was beginning. As if reading my mind, she continued, holding up her hands briefly. “Nothing happened—well not nothing, but I didn’t give it up.” My sister, at age fourteen, had already gone further with a boy than me. It wasn’t that I was jealous, but I wasn’t expecting that, and OK, maybe I was a little bit envious. “Deacon asked me to go out with him earlier that week, so Manda and I thought it was perfect. We drank some of Chris’ parents’ beer, and were just hanging out making out, and then we all fell asleep. I thought everything was perfect. Deacon was so sweet and told me he loved me, and I loved him.” She paused, giving me an in.

  “You’re fourteen; how do you know what love is?”

  “You say you’ve been in love with Henry since kindergarten. How do you know what love is? How does anyone know what love is? I guess it’s the closest I’ve come to love, so whatever.” I watched her as she took a jagged breath and looked up at the ceiling. She continued, not looking at me. “Well, he didn’t text me all weekend, and then on Monday by the end of the day, everyone was looking at me funny. I ignored it because usually people look at me, but it was, like, a lot of people. Manda didn’t talk to me all day. I called her when I got home, but she wouldn’t pick up. I didn’t know what to think, but then Tuesday there was a note in my locker, and all it said was SLUT. I still didn’t know what was going on so I cornered Manda. She was totally ignoring me. Finally she said, ‘you couldn’t be satisfied with Deacon; you had to let them run a train on you after I passed out?’ She was really mad at me. I swore I hadn’t. She didn’t believe me though. ‘Well that’s not what they said, and I look like the idiot, who didn’t put out.’ I tried to reason with her, but she didn’t listen. So she’s been mad at me since then. We aren’t friends, and everyone has turned their backs on me.

  “Deacon was still avoiding me, the coward, until Friday. Then at lunch—he picked the perfect time, when classes overlapped—he came up to me,” she paused, as tears fell down her cheeks. I scooted closer to her and pulled her over to me. She leaned into my shirt with heaving breaths. “He dumped me, saying I was too skanky for him. And everyone laughed. It’s only gotten worse since then. Everyone is treating me like I have an STD.”

  “Boys are stupid,” I sighed and held her as she sobbed. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You have all your stuff going on. I’ve wanted to like, a billion times, but we aren’t close. Sometimes I wish we were.” I agreed—especially now. I berated myself for all the times I had almost asked her in the past few weeks if something was bothering her.

  “You know what you’re going to do?” I asked. She shrugged.

  “You’re going to first, come to me whenever you think it’s too much to bear, and let me help you. You’re not alone.” She looked up at my teary eyes. “Then you’re going to hold up your head. Believe it or not, everyone who is being mean to you just wants a reaction. Deacon wanted to be more popular, and Manda just doesn’t understand. She’ll come back around if she’s really your friend. I know it’s hard to digest now, but if she doesn’t, then you were better off without her. Your heart is probably breaking more over her than Deacon, huh?” She nodded against my chest. “We’ll get through this together. I won’t tell Mom and Dad as long as you stop. I trust you, so if things get to be too much, you have to tell me. This is serious stuff.” My voice gradually lowered to a whisper as I tried to console her. I hoped I was doin
g the right thing.

  We skipped school, calling my mom and telling her we were both running temperatures. My mom was very trusting and took us at our word. We spent the day watching trashy daytime television, and I spent the day mothering her. I was worried and didn’t know what to do; I just hoped I chose right by keeping her secret. She needed a friend right now, and I hoped I was able to be that person. By the time the day was over, she had escaped to her bedroom and left me on the couch alone. I napped in the afternoon, and that was how my dad found me, something which only supported our story. He sent me to bed after chicken soup, and, feeling exhausted, I obliged.