The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually)

by Denise Deegan

  I feel McFadden’s eyes on me. And turn suddenly.

  ‘Look, I don’t know what all that was about, but my friends are the best, OK? And I don’t want you going around slagging them.’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So you can just back off.’

  ‘Fine.’

  Is that it? No, it’s not it, because I’m walking towards him now, so angry. Then I’m wondering why. I stop. Shake my head.

  ‘There’s no point talking to you.’

  ‘You know, I’m not that bad,’ he says, looking like he’s having a great time, amusing himself.

  ‘You so are.’

  He folds his arms, pretends to be serious. ‘What’s your problem with me anyway? For the record.’

  ‘OK. I’ll tell you. For the record.’ And I don’t know where this is coming from. ‘You’re too happy.’

  He laughs, raises his eyebrows. ‘I’m too happy?’

  ‘You just don’t care. Your mother died. And everything’s a big joke.’

  His face changes, smile fading like a light going out. ‘So that’s it,’ he says slowly.

  ‘That’s what?’ I say, like he’s the most annoying person in the world. Which, outside of The Rockstar, he is.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake.’ I turn from him. But he’s between me and the door. So escape is out. For a moment, there’s silence, then his voice, gentler than I’ve ever heard it:

  ‘It does get better.’

  I swivel around, furious, not just with him, but the entire world. ‘Yeah well, maybe I don’t want it to get better.’ It gets better, then I’ve forgotten her. Tears spring to my eyes, which makes me even angrier. I look away, so he doesn’t see.

  Then, somehow, I’m in his arms. Someone’s holding me. Right now, I don’t care who. He feels strong. I need strong.

  ‘It’s OK,’ he whispers, over and over. He smooths back my hair, like my mother used to do. And just for the tiniest moment, it is OK.

  Then it hits me, I’m standing in the middle of the classroom in David McFadden’s arms. I pull back, swiping at my eyes.

  ‘I’m fine. Perfect. Never better.’ I back away, grab my bag. Make my voice hard. ‘That never happened, OK?’ Then, I run.

  FOUR | THERE GOES GRAVITY

  I miss the DART and have to wait twenty-five minutes for the next train. I plug in my earphones, tune out of my life and into Eminem, the one person who makes sense, who can sum up life in four words: ‘Oh, there goes gravity.’ But I don’t want to think about life or gravity or anything, actually. So I stare out at the sea, at the curling, white lips of breaking waves, at the clouds like continents, slowly separating. Only when I’m getting off the DART do I remember Mike. I should have texted to say I’d be late – a deal we made when I convinced everyone I didn’t need collecting from school. I hurry through the station.

  There he is, standing beside the car, muscular arms folded across equally muscular chest, neck straining to better see the crowd in front of me, his eyes scanning for a familiar face. Mine. I wave – because I don’t want this to become a big deal.

  His face relaxes when he sees me.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say, deliberately sounding out of breath. Like I tried. ‘Missed the DART. Forgot to text.’

  ‘I was only going to worry if you weren’t on this one,’ he says. But I sense relief, and it feels good that someone cares – until I remember that it’s his job.

  We get into the car.

  ‘Can you take me to Dundrum?’

  He looks in the rear-view mirror. It’s like he knows me, like he knows I shop when I’m down.

  ‘Just a little harmless retail therapy,’ I say. He checks the mirror again.

  ‘I’m fine, seriously. Can we go?’

  ‘I’ll just let your father know, in case he’s expecting you.’ I picture him, absorbed in his music or some fitness routine, or in conversation with his manger or stylist – and laugh to myself.

  ‘I’ll text him, then,’ Mike says.

  ‘Whatever.’

  In the giant indoor shopping mall, I go straight to the hole-in-the-wall. The money situation is this: my mother can’t say ‘no’ anymore; The Rockstar, when he’s around, doesn’t like to. So there’s a bank account in my name. And a card that always works. It’s like the magic porridge bowl that keeps filling up. I don’t take advantage – unless I really need to. Right now, I need to. I go a bit mad in Tommy Hilfiger. And kind of madder in River Island. In Schuh, I buy a pair of Converse trainers, a pair of black pumps and some three-inch heels. Then it’s back to the hole-in-the-wall for more ammo. I seriously stock up on Mac make-up, then perfume and jelly beans in House of Fraser. They squeeze me in for a St. Tropez tan at the beauty salon. I come out feeling much better. I even buy Mike an ice cream.

  When I get home, I carry my bags through the hall. And stop. From the kitchen comes the hum of conversation. The Rockstar never eats alone. There are always, always others. And I always, always avoid them. Today, though, I recognise the voices and smile. The band are as close to family as I get. Like uncles, only friendlier. Growing up, they were always around. There’s Bob, the bass guitarist, who still, sadly, wears a ponytail; Tony, the drummer, who’s been shaving his hair tight ever since he started to lose it; and Streak, who wears a bandanna, probably to bed. They’ve been together longer than I’ve been alive. They’ve been through divorces, scandals, illness, death, life . . . They’re as close as a group of guys can get. I walk towards the kitchen, but stop when I hear Streak’s voice. It’s all serious.

  ‘No, Mike’s right. This has gone on too long. Get a barring order.’

  ‘Come on,’ argues Bob. ‘She’s just some sad, lonely person who thinks this geezer here’ – I hear a backslap – ‘will solve her problems.’

  ‘Think of the publicity,’ says Tony. ‘Do we really want that kind of attention? It’ll just encourage others.’

  I walk in. ‘Hey,’ I say, throwing my bags down.

  They all go quiet. Four heads turn in my direction. Then they stand, like I’m royalty, which is the way they have been treating me since Mum died. Tony pulls out a chair. Streak extends his arms for a hug. Of the band, he says the least. And I like him the most.

  ‘God, you’re getting more like your mum every day,’ Bob says.

  Which shuts things up again. But I don’t mind. Bob wouldn’t be Bob if he didn’t put his foot in it.

  ‘Barbara,’ my Dad says, ‘set a place for Alex, s’il vous plaît.’

  I sit furthest from the French speaker, next to Bob, to show there’re no hard feelings.

  ‘So what’s all this about?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’ asks Tony, innocently.

  ‘Something about a barring order . . .’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ The Rockstar says.

  ‘Just one of your dad’s fans getting overenthusiastic,’ says Bob.

  The Rockstar glares at him, as if to tell him to shut up. That’s what I don’t get. Fans. OK, I can see why Kurt Cobain had fans. Or Brandon Flowers has fans. My father is forty-five years old. He dyes his hair.

  ‘What’s she like?’

  ‘Just some poor woman who thinks I’m something I’m not.’ The Rockstar sounds tired.

  ‘So, how’s school?’ Streak asks.

  ‘School is school.’ As always. ‘How’s work? You guys starting something new?’

  ‘Give us a break,’ says Tony. ‘We’ve just finished recording. You’re as bad as Ed.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  I love when they’re here. Especially when they’re working on something, down in the basement. Sounds rising – laughter, experimental strumming, melodies being changed each time they’re played, cursing, slagging – and finally the finished product. I mightn’t be a fan of their music – OK, I’m absolutely not – but I appreciate the work that goes into it. I also appreciate that when they’re here, it’s more like home.

  After dinner, I’m halfway up the stairs with all my bags w
hen the front door opens and in bursts The Stylist in a bluster of autumn leaves. She slams the door shut with her bum and leans against it to catch her breath. Her hands are full of bags. Her arms are full of bags. Over her shoulders, more bags. She’s out-shopped even me. She trots across the hall. Doesn’t she see what she’s doing to the floor? I’d tell her to get slippers, if I thought they wouldn’t have heels.

  She checks her watch. ‘Crud,’ I hear her mumble.

  ‘Missed dinner?’ I ask, just to annoy her.

  She looks up and bursts into a smile. ‘Hey, Alex!’ she says, like we’re best friends. Then, she sees my bags. ‘You’ve been shopping!’ She totters to the end of the stairs where she raises and lowers her eyebrows. ‘I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.’

  I can’t say I’m not tempted to see what’s inside of all those bags. Silently, I come back down. She perches on the bottom stair and gathers her bags around her feet. Then, she pats the stair beside her. There doesn’t seem to be any other comfortable option. So I join her.

  ‘Who’s first?’ she asks.

  ‘You.’

  ‘No, you,’ she says, like a three-year-old.

  I’m trying not to laugh here. ‘OK.’ I start to take out my things. First, my tartan leggings – ‘Oh my God. They’re so you.’ Then, the top to go with them. ‘Black is so your colour.’ Now the pumps – ‘Cute.’ The three-inch heels. ‘Oh, yes!’ It’s Meg Ryan in When Harry Met Sally. Lastly, the denim mini. The Stylist holds up a hand. ‘Wait! That would be amazing with this belt I got.’ What is it with stylists and belts? She rummages through her bags, sending skirts, shirts, tops and dresses flying. There are some serious fashion disasters – like the belt itself, when she finally roots it out. She holds it up to me. ‘I’d wear it high,’ she says. I’m about to say, ‘forget it’ when she beats me to it with, ‘You’ve a great little figure.’

  Still don’t like her.

  ‘Here.’ She holds it out to me. ‘You have it.’

  She’s giving me the belt she’s just bought. She’s just handing it over.

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say awkwardly. ‘But thanks, anyway.’

  ‘Go on. I’ll get another.’

  ‘Actually, Marsha’ – can’t believe I called her by her name! – ‘It’s really not me.’

  ‘Oh, OK,’ she says brightly, reminding me of Sarah. ‘Hey! Wait till you see these really hot shoes I got . . .’ She reaches for the nearest bag. I’m not hopeful. Which is why I’m so surprised. Underneath wads of pink wrapping is the most amazing pair of sandals I’ve ever seen – about seven inches high, black patent, with a zip running up the centre and about ten skinny straps emerging from either side. My hands move towards them like magnets. She holds them out to me, looking at them lovingly, like they’re her children.

  ‘Don’t you just love them?’ she says with a sigh. I nod, sighing too as I take hold of them.

  She looks like she’s missing them, so I hand them back.

  ‘Where d’you get them?’

  She squints, trying to remember. ‘Some little store off Grafton . . . Let’s see . . .’ Suddenly, her face lights up. ‘You know what? I’ll take you!’ Then she remembers who she’s talking to. ‘Sometime – if you like.’

  I smile thanks. But start to collect my things. ‘There’s probably some food left,’ I say.

  FIVE | PANDA SLIPPERS

  Our first class next day is, wait for it, Road Safety. We’re sixteen and we’re still alive: couldn’t someone put two and two together? It is a school. We’re on the fascinating subject of motorway safety when I decide I can’t take any more. I put my hand up. I’m not the first person that’s ever used the loo as an excuse to relieve boredom rather than themselves. I walk the corridor, stop at the noticeboard. It’s as exciting as Road Safety, so I wander on into the bathroom where I give my hands the slowest wash they’ve ever experienced. And finally, before they send out the cavalry, I make my way back.

  I’m rounding the final corner when I see McFadden. What did he do – ask to go as well? He’s heading straight for me, eyes holding mine. My stomach churns, my pulse quickens. I think of the kiss. And feel myself blush. I think of what he said about my friends. And want to slap him. I think of how I lost it in front of him. And want to run. I tell myself to get a grip. It’s just McFadden. I don’t even like McFadden. He reaches me and slows to a stop, shoving his hands into his pockets.

  ‘I was thinking about your question,’ he says.

  I squint. ‘What question?’

  ‘You wanted to know how I can be happy.’

  Oh God. That question. This is what I get for breaking down in front of him.

  ‘You know what? I don’t want to know. None of my business. So forget it, OK?’

  He doesn’t. ‘My mom would want me to be.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about this, OK?’

  ‘Look. I’ve been through it, I can help – ’

  ‘Yeah? So where were you six months ago?’ I snap before I can help myself.

  His face softens. ‘Where you are now. Not much good to anyone else.’

  I choose to misunderstand. ‘Thanks very much.’

  He looks me in the eye. ‘That’s not what I meant. And you know it.’

  ‘Whatever. Look. Thanks for the offer and everything but I don’t need help, and I don’t need a “real friend”, if that’s what you’re offering.’

  ‘I was offering advice.’

  ‘Right, well, I don’t want your advice.’ I start walking. Because he’s wrong. Being happy is not that simple. It’s not like flicking a switch, whatever your mother would have wanted. It’s more like climbing a mountain, where every step you take towards the happy peak is a step away from her. I can’t do it. I won’t.

  Back in class, I try to block it out. Not easy, when the subject is what distance your car should be behind another. I’m so aware of the door opening and McFadden walking back in. I keep my eyes on the teacher. And the clock.

  I’ve never been happier to get out of school. On the DART, Sarah goes on (and on) about the party. The party that is going ahead. Saturday night. I stare out the grimy window. The sky and sea are a matching murky grey. The only bright thing for miles is a single white yacht in the distance. I think of McFadden at the helm, yelling and generally being obnoxious. He was better that way.

  ‘So, do you guys think you could make, like, a contribution or something? You know, towards booze and stuff.’

  Rachel and I look at each other. My gut feeling is that it’s her party. But then I think I’ve more money than I need and she doesn’t have enough, so why not? But then I think if I hand her cash, Rachel will feel she has to, too. So I’m kind of stuck.

  ‘OK,’ says Rachel, ‘I’ll see what I can get.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say, relieved.

  ‘Thanks, guys, you’re the best,’ she says, like a kid on Christmas morning. She hugs us both. Then it’s her stop.

  ‘Hope it lives up to her expectations,’ Rachel says, as we watch her walk along the platform.

  ‘Impossible.’

  Today, I get off the DART with Rachel. We’ve a joint project – due tomorrow – that we should have been working on. If it was just me, I wouldn’t bother. Nothing like that matters any more. But Rachel wants to submit something. And it wouldn’t be fair to let her do it alone.

  We walk in her front door to the smell of frying garlic. I follow her into the kitchen where we drop our bags.

  ‘What’s for dinner?’ she asks Yvonne.

  I remember that question. Must have asked it every day. Yvonne looks up from the hob and smiles.

  ‘Chicken casserole. And hello to you too.’

  Rachel offers me a drink. I have one so that we can stay in the kitchen a bit longer. We sit up at the island and watch Yvonne cook. In one pan, she’s frying garlic, onions and peppers. In another, chicken pieces covered in flour. And suddenly, I’m remembering the funeral. How, afterwards, I was just standing there, with all thes
e people coming up to me, taking my hand and squeezing it, saying things that meant nothing to me. My head was spinning, my legs weak. I’d forgotten to eat. And I was going to drop. Then Yvonne was there suddenly, swooping me into her arms as if I was a child. I don’t know how long she held me for, but it wasn’t long enough. When she pulled back, she took my chin between her thumb and index finger and brought her face up to mine.

  ‘You need anything, you call me. Any time. For anything.’ I noticed then that she’d been crying.

  Now, back in the kitchen, they’re both looking at me.

  ‘Sorry?’ I say.

  ‘Will you stay for dinner?’ Yvonne asks gently.

  I feel like saying, I’ll stay for ever. ‘That’d be great, thanks.’

  ‘Good.’

  Upstairs, Rachel takes out her laptop.

  ‘Should find most of what we need on the Web,’ she says.

  We sit side by side at her desk, watching the screen as the computer boots up.

  ‘So,’ she says, turning to me. ‘What’s with you and Dave McFadden?’

  I nearly die on the spot.

  ‘There’s something going on. Isn’t there?’

  I force a laugh. ‘No.’

  She raises an eyebrow. ‘You sure?’

  My brain’s kicking in. ‘Are you serious? With that eejit?’

  ‘In fairness, I wouldn’t call him an eejit.’

  ‘I would.’

  ‘He was really nice to me on the boat. I got to know him a bit.’

  ‘Lucky you. Here, gimme the mouse,’ I say, ending the conversation.

  Or so I thought. ‘What’s your problem with him, anyway?’

  ‘Who said I’d a problem?’ I click into a website. It’s no good, so I click back out.

  ‘You’re kind of emotional about him, though.’

  ‘I am not. God Almighty.’

  ‘You see, there you go. All dramatic and stormy.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake.’

  ‘OK,’ she says. ‘You don’t have to tell me.’ She sounds hurt.

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘If you say so,’ she says. Definitely hurt.