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

by Denise Deegan

  ‘You’re moving school, Sarah.’

  ‘What? No way.’ She can’t be serious. ‘I’m not leaving Strandbrook.’

  ‘You don’t have a choice.’

  Oh my God. ‘You can’t do this.’

  ‘I am doing this. It’s happening.’

  ‘Without any discussion?’

  She blows. ‘I’m so tired of discussion. I’m so tired of doing things your father’s way. Softly, softly. Talky, talky. You’re spoiled. And I’m putting my foot down. Like I should have done long ago.’

  In that case, I’ll put mine down too. ‘I’m not going.’

  ‘Who’ll pay your fees?’

  ‘Oh my God. That’s so low.’

  ‘Not if it’s the best thing for you.’

  But I’m not listening. If she won’t pay the fees, Dad will. But then, I’m not talking to Dad. I don’t want to talk to him. I especially don’t want to ask him for anything, to owe him. So I try harder.

  ‘All my friends are at Strandbrook. You can’t do this—’

  ‘You’ll make new friends. Who won’t have celebrity parents and everything money can buy.’ Oh my God, that’s what this is about. ‘Normal people. Whose future isn’t secure. Who know the meaning of the word “work”.’

  ‘I work.’

  She laughs bitterly. ‘Really?’

  ‘All right then, I will work. Really hard.’

  ‘Actions have consequences, Sarah. The sooner you learn that, the better.’

  ‘I’m going to a psychologist. I’m doing community service—’

  ‘They’re your father’s department. Moving school is something I want.’

  ‘Mum, I took two things. I said I was sorry. I’ll never do it again. I swear. You can’t move me.’ Strandbrook is the one thing that’s right in my life. But I don’t say that. She’d think I was getting at her.

  ‘What was the other thing you took?’ she asks, like it was something the size of the American lottery.

  ‘Make-up. Just this tiny thing of eye shadow.’

  She reaches for the Marlboro pack and taps a cigarette out. She puts it to her mouth, then snaps her lighter. She inhales deeply. Then points the cigarette at me.

  ‘You know, I was never in favour of that school in the first place.’

  Oh my God. I’m in the middle of someone else’s war.

  ‘This is my life.’

  ‘Exactly. And you get one shot at it. I’m not going to let you blow it.’

  Not for the first time, I wish she wasn’t a social worker. I wish she wasn’t so obsessed with how hard ‘people out there’ have it. Because they have it tough, we should too. Or something.

  ‘Our Lady’s Abbey was good enough for me. It’ll be good enough for you. You’re moving school. And that’s it.’

  I feel like clicking my heels together, saluting and saying,

  ‘Heil Hitler.’ Instead, I pound upstairs. I pace my room, trying to figure out what to do. Because I’m not going to let her do this. I’m just not. This is my life.

  There’s only one thing to do. It’s drastic. But necessary. I pick up my phone, take a deep breath and call Dad.

  ‘Can we meet for coffee?’

  There’s a pause. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘She’s kicking me out of the school.’

  Another pause. This one longer. ‘Let’s get that coffee, OK?’

  ‘You have to do something.’

  ‘How about the Royal Marine Hotel at half five?’

  ‘You wanted me to go to Strandbrook. It was your idea. Remember?’

  ‘I’ll see you at half five, OK?’

  ‘I mean, that’s half her problem. It was your idea.’

  ‘Sarah? Half five, OK?’

  ‘OK. But you can’t let her take me out. OK? You just can’t.’ He owes me this much.

  I’m early. Biting my sleeve, I’m going over the arguments in my head. It was his idea. And he was right. It’s a great school. I’m happy. I’ve great friends. And I’d die if I had to move. People make mistakes. OK, mine was stupid. But it’s not like I’m a bad person. I’m prepared to take the punishment. But that punishment is already strong – without this as well.

  As soon as he has a coffee in front of him, I spill it all out.

  He says nothing. Being a psychologist, that’s not unusual.

  But being a psychologist’s daughter, I know what to do. I stop talking. Just look at him.

  Silence.

  Finally, I break. ‘You could pay the fees, couldn’t you?’

  He looks at me. Expressionless. ‘Sarah, your mother seems to have her mind made up on this one.’

  ‘Yeah but what you want matters too, right? You’re still my dad.’ So he keeps telling me.

  ‘Well, of course, but I don’t want to step on her toes.’

  Suddenly I get it. ‘Because that would mean talking with her, asking her for something. Is that it?’

  He sniffles, clears his throat. Shifts in his seat. ‘Things are tighter now, Sarah, financially. I’m not sure we can afford Strandbrook any more.’

  Oh my God. Things are tighter for one reason. Her. I’m going to be wrenched from everything I know. And his priority is to Her. I stand up.

  ‘I should have known I was wasting my time.’ I start to walk, blinking back tears.

  ‘Sarah?’ He stands up. ‘We need to talk about the community service.’

  I turn. ‘You can ram the community service up your bum.’

  The whole coffee shop is staring. But I don’t care. I march out, thinking I don’t know which of my stupid parents is the worst.

  I get the DART to Blackrock. The Jitter Mug is mobbed. There’s a huge queue. Louis looks as chilled as usual. I go straight up to him.

  ‘Louis, I need to talk to you.’

  ‘I’m working,’ he says, then turns to this girl who’s so obviously into him. ‘That’ll be five-fifty.’ And there it is, that Louis smile.

  ‘It’s urgent,’ I say.

  He gives the girl her change, holding her eyes for crucial seconds longer than is necessary.

  Her ‘thank you’ is suggestive, then she is gone, leaving a waft of perfume behind. It’s Tommy Girl.

  Louis looks at me. ‘Can’t this wait till we get home?’

  ‘No. Because you’re never home. I need your help, Louis. Seriously, it’s urgent.’

  He looks at the line of people growing ever bigger. He checks his watch. Then he fishes in his jeans and throws money in the till. He orders a tropical smoothie.

  ‘Go sit. I’m due a break in twenty.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  I walk past the table with Flirty Girl. She glares at me – probably for interrupting. I give her a smug smile. Like he’s my boyfriend or something.

  It’s a half an hour before he gets free.

  He sits down. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘She wants me to move school. She thinks I’m hanging out with the wrong people.’

  ‘Alex and Rachel?’ he says, like they’re pussycats.

  ‘They’ve too much money. She wants me to hang out with people like us. Who’ve none.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘She thinks it’s their fault I took stuff.’

  Suddenly, I see it. This isn’t just unfair. It’s flawed. She’s blaming my friends, my school, for what I did. The person who’s always going on about taking responsibility.

  ‘Actually, Louis, forget it.’ I stand suddenly. I wanted him to talk to her. Now I just want to get home. He stands too, looking bemused. On a whim, I hug him.

  ‘Jesus, get off me. I’ve a reputation to keep up.’

  I smile. ‘See you later.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘I’ll need it.’

  She’s in the kitchen, scraping carrots at ninety miles an hour. She doesn’t even notice I’ve walked in. I stand watching, waiting till she’s done. Finally, she sees me and puts down the carrot peeler.

  ‘Where were you?’ she snaps. ‘You’re supposed to b
e grounded, Sarah. Don’t you get the concept?’

  ‘Mum, we need to talk.’

  She reaches for her cigarettes (never far away). She opens the pack and sticks one in her mouth. She has to flick the lighter twice before it flames. She inhales deeply, closing her eyes. Then, without saying a word, she walks over and sits at the kitchen table.

  I take a deep breath. And follow.

  ‘OK, shoot,’ she says.

  And it’s so hard, when she says it like that. Like she’s got some sort of stopwatch and I have to go when she says go. I try to get my thoughts together. But then, I guess, there is just one.

  ‘Mum, you and dad have always taught us to take responsibility for our actions.’ I pause. ‘Well, I need you to let me do that. I took that stuff. No one else. Not my friends. Not my school. And if you blame them then it stops being my fault. You need to blame me here. OK? Just me. I’ll do the community service.’ (That I just told Dad to ram up his bum.) ‘I’ll go to the psychologist. I’ll work harder in school. Just please, give me a chance to prove myself, OK? I can do it, Mum. I can be a good person.’ The person you want me to be.

  She takes a drag of the cigarette. And takes ages to reply.

  ‘Sarah, I’ve spoken to the principal. I’ve made plans.’

  And then I say it. ‘Don’t use me in your war against Dad.’

  She squints. ‘What did you say?’

  All I can do now is keep going. ‘Don’t take me out of Strandbrook just because it was Dad’s idea for me to go.’

  ‘That’s not what this is about.’ She stubs out her cigarette like her problem is with it. ‘This is about you.’

  ‘Is it, though?’ I can’t believe I said that. Then again, I’m desperate. I’ll do anything to stop this. Strandbrook is my life.

  She stares at me like she can’t believe I said that. I expect her to blow. But she gets up and walks to the window, her back to me. She runs a hand through her hair, takes a long drag on her cigarette. Then she turns around. For the first time, she looks unsure.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she says. ‘Let me think about this.’ She puts a hand to her forehead, making her cigarette point skyward. ‘I need to think.’ She sounds so hassled. And I know she makes my life hell but she just looks so stressed, standing there, I almost cry.

  ‘Do you want a hand with dinner?’ I ask.

  She looks surprised and I don’t know whether it’s because she’d forgotten about dinner or because I offered to help.

  ‘Yeah. OK. That’d be good. Thanks.’

  I nod. ‘OK.’

  I hope she didn’t think I offered just to get on her good side. Because I didn’t.

  SEVEN | OESOPHAGUS

  After dinner, I go on Facebook. Simon has posted on David’s wall.

  ‘What are Californian girls like?’

  Oh for God’s sake.

  ‘Californians,’ David has posted back. Go David.

  ‘What percentage have had boob jobs?’

  Oh my God. This is on David’s wall.

  David doesn’t reply.

  Next thing, the words, ‘Hey, babe,’ come up in my chat box.

  ‘Why did you post that on David’s wall?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’

  ‘The thing about boobs.’

  ‘I was joking. That guy’s no sense of humour.’

  ‘Simon. It’s sexist. And California-ist.’ I don’t tell him that it’s also an insult to me.

  ‘It was a joke, Jeez.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it just makes you look like a loser.’

  ‘Why do you care?’

  I’m wondering exactly that when there’s a creak on the stairs outside. I click out of Facebook and into a study website. A knock, then the door opens. I look up. Innocently.

  It’s only Louis, dressed in his bar gear and smelling of aftershave.

  ‘Well?’ he asks. ‘Did you talk to her?’

  ‘She says she’ll think about it.’

  He looks surprised. ‘Excellent.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean yes.’

  ‘It could have been an outright no.’

  ‘I guess.’

  ‘OK. Well, don’t give up. Tickle her. Make her laugh.’

  I give him a look. I could never make her laugh. Only he can do that. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘Atta girl.’ He winks then is gone, his aftershave hanging on the air.

  Wednesday morning and, as usual, Mum’s left for work when I get down. Before he moved out, Dad would always be still here at this time, knocking back a last-minute coffee before rushing out the door with his hair sticking up and a tie slung over his shoulder. I turn on the radio to block out the silence. I have to change the station from news to Spin FM, the players of happy music. I have breakfast while packing my lunch. Then, with no reason to hang around, I go, leaving the radio on so there’s noise when I get in.

  On the DART, I hook up with the guys as usual. I try not to think that soon it might not be ‘as usual’, that soon I might be going in the other direction, to a school of strangers.

  ‘You look shagged,’ Rachel says to Alex.

  ‘I was talking to David till one.’

  I imagine what it must be like, not being able to hang up on someone because you love them so much.

  ‘That’s so romantic.’

  ‘There’s nothing romantic about time difference.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘By the time he gets out of school and everything, it’s already midnight here.’

  ‘Oh God, I never thought of that.’

  ‘Roll on weekend.’

  ‘How’s he doing?’ Rachel asks.

  Her smile is dreamy. ‘He says being over there makes him feel Irish. He misses you all.’

  ‘Aw, bless,’ I say. I really like David.

  We get off the DART and walk up to school. Today, it’s like seeing everything for the first time. And the last time. The hockey pitches I don’t even play on. The school building. The statue in front. I love this school; I love the look of it, the smell of it, the sound of it. I love the atmosphere, the people. This school is part of who I am. Was my mum ever a teenager? Was she ever younger than forty? Seriously.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘What? Yeah,’ I say quickly.

  ‘Sarah. You’re crying,’ Alex says.

  ‘What? No I’m not.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Rachel asks gently.

  ‘Nothing.’ I whip a tear away. But then, they look so concerned, I can’t help it, I tell them.

  They look like they can’t believe it.

  ‘She wouldn’t do that,’ Rachel says. ‘I mean, why would she?’

  ‘She went to Our Lady’s.’

  ‘So?’ Alex says. ‘You’ve been going here since First Year. Why change now?’

  I shrug. What else can I do? Tell them I was caught shoplifting and lose them forever?

  ‘You’re happy here,’ Alex adds. ‘It’s your school, for God’s sake.’

  I can’t believe she’s getting angry – for me. I’m so touched. And guilty for not telling her everything.

  ‘What does your dad say?’ Rachel asks.

  Suddenly I feel sick. I look away. ‘He doesn’t care,’ I say quietly and well up again.

  Then Rachel’s arm is around me.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Alex says. ‘We’ll think of something.’

  I force a smile. ‘It mightn’t happen.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Rachel says.

  ‘Don’t say anything. To anyone, OK? Not even Simon.’

  ‘OK. Sure. Of course,’ Rachel says, straight away.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Alex says. ‘This isn’t going to happen. You’re going nowhere.’

  And though I know there’s nothing she can do, I feel better just knowing they both care.

  I promised to work at school. And I’m trying. But I don’t have the brain for school. It wanders. All the time. I’ll look at a teacher and, instead of taking in what she’s saying, I’ll wonder whe
re she got her top. Or if she’s had Botox. Or if she’d ever consider a nose job. I’ll wonder what her husband’s like – if she’s married. Or why she’s not – if she’s not. Same problem with study. I have to keep pulling my mind back from all the interesting places it’s wandering off to and see only the words in front of me. Words like ‘doth’ and ‘oesophagus’ and ‘pi-r-squared’, if that’s a word. Even if I could concentrate, there’s another problem. Just the mention of the word exams sends me into a frenzy so that instead of actually studying, I have to do something to calm down. Like watch The OC or Desperate Housewives. Or Wife Swap (the American version).

  At least, today, we’ve French first. I can listen in French. Everyone gives out about Madame Reilly. They don’t think we learn anything in her class. And I guess we don’t learn a whole lot of French. But I like her. I like her attitude. She’s not beautiful but she does the best with what she’s got. Her hair is dark, her cheeks rosy. Not naturally dark. Not naturally rosy. But so what? She looks like Snow White. Just older. She wears bright colours: reds, greens, blues and always a scarf draped over one shoulder that never falls off. She has ‘panache’. (I searched for a long time for that word. It’s perfect for her.) Madame Reilly is not French but acts like she is.

  And, OK, she might spend more time talking about France than actually teaching the language. That’s because she loves the place. I think it’s interesting that Napoleon was afraid of cats. And that the French deliberately broke the lifts on the Eiffel Tower so Hitler couldn’t make it to the top when he took over Paris. I listen to her and I’m there. In Paris. Strolling the boulevards. Smelling the croissants. Having coffee in a small, corner café. And looking up from my pain au chocolate to see a total stranger who is so beyond caliente, smiling at me like he’s just fallen in love. Yup, I can see the point in learning French.

  So when Mark asks Madame Reilly for the French word for ‘tangent’, I don’t laugh like everyone else. I frown at him like he’s très immature. But then I think, maybe he’s right. How am I ever going to learn the language if she doesn’t teach it? Oh my God. I have become my mother.

  After French, we have Debating, one of the classes I dream most in. The great thing about debating is that it’s not an exam subject, so I can go on dreaming. While Rachel argues the case for the importance of keeping the Irish language alive (how could she?), I scan the class. Is Orla Tempany looking a little too often at Harry Marsh? I’m going to keep my eye on that. After debating, we have Film Studies. And it’s amazing how boring a person can make something entertaining like movies. The day goes on. And on.