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

by Denise Deegan

  ‘So I’ll see you the same time next week?’

  Great, I think. Something to look forward to.

  I hurry down the steps, across the road, straight into a newsagent’s. I reach for two bars of chocolate. Don’t care if they’re Dairy Milk, Whole Nut or Fruit & Nut – they’re chocolate. I rip the wrapping off the first bar and bite into it before I’ve even paid. I close my eyes. Concentrate just on the chocolate, the taste, the smoothness.

  ‘I need the wrapper to scan,’ the checkout guy says.

  ‘Oh, right, sorry.’ I hand it over, feeling like a lunatic. How many does he get in here on an average day?

  ‘No problem, love,’ he says kindly. Giving me the answer. Lots.

  I pay. And leave.

  Her office faces me on the way out. And it all comes back. I bite down hard on a chunk of chocolate. Some psychologist. I was fine when I went in there. Now I’m this angry person. Angry with everyone. My father for leaving. My mother for being angry. But mostly I’m angry with Mary Gleeson for making me angry. I feel like screaming. I feel like running (and I don’t even like running). I feel like punching something (Mary Gleeson ideally). I march down the street towards town. I bump into people.

  ‘Watch it!’ I say like it’s their fault. Like everything is.

  I pound around town, walking the streets, avoiding the shops, until finally, all walked out, I get the DART home.

  I’m half way up the stairs when she calls me.

  ‘Jesus,’ I say. I turn around and start back down.

  She comes out of the kitchen and looks up.

  ‘How did it go?’ she asks. Her voice is gentle. Caring, even. Then my anger vanishes and I just feel bad – for ratting her out.

  ‘OK,’ I say.

  ‘Come have some hot chocolate or something,’ she says – the one time I want her to be a bitch.

  We go into the kitchen. She puts on the kettle.

  ‘I’ll just have water,’ I say, going to the sink. All that chocolate has made me thirsty. I drink a whole glass, then lean against the sink.

  ‘You OK?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘I was thinking. It’s been a week. You’ve probably been grounded for long enough.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I might have had to break out tonight otherwise.

  ‘Ellen wants me to go to a movie,’ she says.

  ‘Tonight?’

  ‘Is that OK?’

  I’m amazed she asked. ‘Yeah. No. Sure. Of course. You should.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It’s just a movie.’

  ‘And maybe a drink after?’ she says, like she’s talking about five hundred of them.

  ‘Live dangerously, Mum.’

  She actually smiles. ‘Ellen’s good for me,’ she says, like she’s excusing going out. ‘She makes me feel like I’m not the only one.’ She looks at me like she’s hoping I’ll understand.

  And I think, maybe I should make friends with a shoplifter.

  Oh my God. I seriously need to go out tonight. To just listen to the music and dance. Pity Alex isn’t coming. She’s staying in to talk to David on Skype. Probably for hours. So, it’ll just be Rachel and Mark, Simon and me, and a few others Simon asked along – Amy, Orla and I’m not sure who else.

  Sometimes I think the best part of going out is the dressing up. The shower, the makeup, the clothes, the shoes, the music. It’s better though with your friends. Louis drops me off at Simon’s place in Dun Laoghaire. We’re going, together, from there.

  Simon’s parents have split up. He lives with his dad in this really cool penthouse that overlooks the sea. Everything’s modern and sleek like a five-star hotel. His dad has a new girlfriend and they’re never home. Which makes me wonder if my dad is out all the time now. If his new ‘partner’ wants him to go all sorts of places with her. If she’s demanding. Exhausting. If he’ll come home. OK, scrap the last one. I’m not completely stupid. I know he’s not coming home. But why think about all that? Simon’s buzzing me up.

  His hair is gelled and kind of tousled. The top two buttons on his shirt are open. He smells of Polo Ralph Lauren.

  ‘Shmexy,’ he says when he sees me.

  ‘You ready?’ I ask, wanting to get going.

  ‘What’s the rush? Thought we could have a drink here first.’

  ‘OK. Cool.’

  He helps himself to vodka and Cokes from his dad’s stash. I look out at the lights of Dun Laoghaire and pretend we own the place, that we’re, like, twenty-five, and we’ve got these amazing jobs, are seriously minted and totally in control of our lives. Then he’s coming towards me and I know from his eyes what he wants.

  ‘Simon, no. I’ve spent ages getting ready.’

  He just smiles and takes the drink from my hand. And, I think, there are some things you have to do to keep a guy. But as he runs his hands over me, I can’t help thinking that what I’d love right now is a boyfriend I could sit on the couch with and tell everything to, a boyfriend who would just cuddle me and rub my hair and tell me it’s going to be OK even if he didn’t know for sure. If I told Simon I was seeing a shrink or I’d been caught shoplifting, he’d dump me. On the spot.

  ‘Simon, turn off the lights. The blinds are open.’

  He ignores me.

  ‘Simon!’

  He laughs, then backs me into his bedroom which, at least, has the blinds down. And as he starts to take off his shirt, I wonder why I always attract guys who don’t want anything from me except this. Still, at least I’m not some sad loner sitting at home alone, biting her nails or pigging out on chocolate.

  I thought sex was supposed to be good, though. Maybe guys get more from it than girls. Simon certainly does. Afterwards, he even talks.

  ‘So do you think Alex should get a boob job?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you seen the hotties on David’s wall? Alex has some serious competition.’

  ‘No she doesn’t.’ He doesn’t get that people could be made for each other.

  Just my luck. I’ve been dying to get out and dance, like, all day. And I finally get here and no one else wants to. Simon’s too busy chatting to Amy and Orla, like they’re his own personal harem or something. And I don’t want to butt into Rachel and Mark’s cosy conversation but I’m desperate.

  ‘Come on, Rache, let’s dance.’

  She looks at Mark.

  ‘Go on,’ Mark says. ‘My shoes are killing me anyway,’ he jokes.

  Thank Christ.

  On the dance floor, I close my eyes and let go, forgetting everything, losing myself in the music. Then Rachel’s tapping me on the shoulder. She’s looking back at the others.

  ‘Do you really think you should put up with that?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Simon. Don’t you think he’s a bit too friendly with Amy?’

  I so don’t want to ruin this moment. ‘They’re friends.’

  She gives me a look.

  I shrug. ‘He’s just flirting a bit. Sometimes you got to put up with stuff, right?’

  ‘No, Sarah. You don’t.’

  I close my eyes and go back to the music. It’s different for her. She’s with someone who loves her. I just want a boyfriend. He doesn’t have to be perfect. Just there.

  TEN | OH. MY. GOD.

  After school, Monday, Rachel suggests the Jitter Mug.

  ‘Is there anywhere else?’ Alex asks. ‘I’m tired of the Jitter Mug.’

  ‘Where else is there?’ Rachel asks. ‘There’s nothing decent till Dalkey. And that’s too far for Sarah and me.’

  ‘OK,’ Alex says.

  When we get to the Jitter Mug, Alex heads for a table.

  ‘I’ll hold this while you get the smoothies.’

  Rachel and I look at each other. We never hold tables. Even if we did, it would not be this one. In the middle of a draught and miles from the action.

  I look around. ‘There isn’t exactly a rush on, Alex.’

  But she’s ignoring m
e, rooting in her wallet for money. Which she hands to Rachel.

  ‘The usual,’ she says.

  ‘What’s up with her?’ I ask Rachel as we go up to the counter.

  ‘No clue,’ she says, looking back.

  The queue is short and soon we get to Louis.

  ‘Where’s the third musketeer?’ he asks, straining his neck and looking around.

  Oh. My. God. I get it. Or at least I think I do. ‘Alex is over there if you want to talk to her,’ I say, nodding in the direction of our table (all you can see of Alex is her school bag). I watch him carefully.

  ‘Why would I want to talk to her?’ he asks. But he sounds defensive.

  We collect our smoothies and make our way back to the table.

  ‘Why are you hiding from Louis?’ I ask.

  She looks shocked. ‘I’m not.’

  ‘And why’s he asking about you?’

  ‘Is he?’ She looks worried.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Nothing! God.’

  ‘Oh my God, he asked you out, didn’t he?’

  ‘Sarah, seriously. You’re being ridiculous.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  ‘Fine. I will.’ She stands up but then runs out of energy. ‘How?’

  I think for a moment.

  ‘Go up there and ask for … a croissant.’

  She marches straight up to Louis. I wish I knew what she was saying but it’s taking longer than simply asking for a croissant. He looks at us, then back at her. His face is so focused on her. That’s when I see it. Oh my God. He loves her. My commitment-phobic, playboy brother loves my friend. Who is in love with someone else. How the hell did he let that happen? He hands over a croissant, forgetting to ask her to pay. She forgets to pay.

  Oh. My. God.

  Eyebrows up, she holds the croissant in the air all the way back.

  ‘Not sure what that was supposed to prove,’ she says lightly, sitting down. She hands me the croissant. Like it’s some kind of medal.

  I look back at my brother. Poor Louis; he finally falls in love and it’s with someone who can’t love him back. And how the hell did he fall for her in the first place? They hardly know each other.

  Next day in school, ‘Upper’ (Ms Morrison) is seriously excited. But that’s nothing new. What is new is her latest idea. She wants us to set up our own businesses. She wants us to become ‘Young Entrepreneurs’.

  ‘You can sell a product or a service,’ she says, ‘working in groups or individually. Now, I don’t want you to just buy something cheap and sell it more expensively because where’s the challenge in that? I want you to be creative. Now, split into groups and brainstorm on the type of businesses you could set up. The sky’s the limit. We can discuss the feasibility of the projects later. Off you go now.’

  Automatically, Rachel, Alex and me find each other. Then Mark appears. Then, surprisingly, Simon. Followed by Amy and Orla.

  We drag seven chairs together. It seems too much.

  ‘How about the oldest profession in the world?’ Simon says, enthusiastically. ‘We could be your pimps.’ He looks at Mark.

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Mark says.

  ‘Very funny, Simon,’ I say, embarrassed.

  Rachel and Alex just look at each other.

  ‘I was joking,’ he says. ‘Jeez.’

  ‘How about something to do with mobile phones?’ Orla says. ‘We could make cool covers and sell them.’ I feel like thanking her.

  ‘But mobiles are all different sizes,’ Alex says.

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Orla says.

  ‘We could do iPod covers,’ Amy says, then frowns, ‘but they already have iPod covers.’

  There’s a long silence. But then Orla looks like she’s had a breakthrough. ‘Cakes,’ she says. ‘Let’s just make cakes. They’re easy and everyone buys them.’

  ‘Right, I’ll just get my apron,’ Simon says. ‘I am so not making cakes.’

  ‘Well, I am,’ Orla says. She takes our her jotter and starts to doodle. Like she’s sorted.

  ‘I’ll go with cakes too,’ Amy says. I can almost hear her switch off.

  ‘Any other ideas?’ Simon asks. He looks at me like he’s remembering I’m here. ‘Sarah? What kind of things do you like?’

  I look at him and think, you’re supposed to be my boyfriend. Shouldn’t you know?

  ‘What about you, Rache?’ Mark asks.

  ‘What about first-aid classes? Like, giving them, you know?’

  I think of her efforts with the sling. ‘Don’t you have to be, like, qualified?’

  Her face falls. ‘Probably.’

  Then I feel guilty. ‘But you could do, like, a blood pressure service or something, you know, where people pay to have their blood pressure taken.’

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ she says. She looks at Mark.

  ‘We could do it together, in supermarkets and stuff. We could get white coats and everything.’

  He makes a face. ‘Maybe. What about you, Alex?’ he asks. And I know he hates the idea.

  ‘How about an invention that could beam you to the other side of the world whenever you wanted?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be thinking California, would you?’ Mark asks, smiling.

  She smiles back. ‘I might.’

  ‘I’ll work with you on that one.’

  Rachel’s giving him daggers. ‘Come on guys, this is serious.’

  Mark gives her an irritated look. ‘I thought the sky was the limit.’

  ‘She just meant be creative.’

  ‘And what are we doing?’ he asks.

  I want to stop them arguing. ‘I’ve an idea,’ I say, though I haven’t.

  Everyone looks at me. And I don’t know where it comes from, the idea. But straight away I love it.

  ‘A pet-minding business.’

  ‘That’s brilliant!’ Alex says.

  Then I remember. ‘Mum hates dogs.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Cats?’ Alex suggests. I see Rachel still glaring at Mark. Luckily, he doesn’t see it.

  ‘Maybe cats would be OK,’ I say, but I’m thinking, she probably hates cats too. The more I think about the idea, the more convinced I am that it wouldn’t work. For starters, who’d trust me with their pets? Would I even trust myself?

  My dad has an ambition – to write a newspaper column on psychology. He used to talk about it all the time. One of his strategies was to start a blog, build up a following, then approach a newspaper. As soon as he converted my room to his office, he started the blog. Sometimes I read it – don’t know why. I hate psychology.

  Tonight I go into his blog. His photo is one he took before he left, when he looked like a dad, not a partner. I’m glad he hasn’t changed it. Not that anything he does matters anymore. I look at the title of his latest blog. And go cold. Oh my God. He’s written a column on shoplifting. The warning signs. The reasons. The solutions. How could he? How could he write something so personal to me – as if I’m some sort of lab rat whose life gives him ideas? What if people I know read it and guess where he got his inspiration?

  I’m so angry, I don’t think. I just pick up the phone. She answers. She answers his private mobile phone. Doesn’t she realise he has a family, a daughter who mightn’t want to be reminded of Her?

  ‘I want to speak to my father,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  ‘Is that Sarah?’

  Fuck off, I think. ‘Just get me my dad.’ I wish I hadn’t heard her sugary, sweet, pathetic voice. I know I won’t be able to forget it.

  ‘Sarah?’ He comes on the phone, sounding worried.

  ‘What the hell did you write about shoplifting for?’

  There’s a pause. ‘You read my blog.’

  ‘Glad I could be of service,’ I say sarcastically.

  ‘Sarah—’.

  ‘You know I am a person. Not an experiment. My life is not a stepping stone for your career.’

  ‘I know that,’ he says.

  But I’m not list
ening. ‘Oh and I love that whole “cry for help” thing. You think everything is about you, don’t you? You think I’m messed up because you left. You know what that makes you? A full-on arrogant bastard.’

  I hang up. And fling the phone onto the bed. I’m breathing funny. My heart is pumping hard and fast. I can’t believe I called him a bastard. But I hate him. I actually hate the guy. He is the most selfish person I know. My phone starts to ring and I ignore it. It keeps ringing and ringing till I turn it off. Minutes later my mum is calling me. And only because I don’t want her to come up, I open the door and shout, ‘What?’

  ‘Your father is on the phone.’

  ‘Tell him to eat shit and die.’ Then I slam the door.

  On Friday, I have a crappy day at school. Tip Toes, my favourite teacher (not), gives out to me for not paying attention. I snap at Rachel when she asks if I’m OK. And instead of being able to go home to the peace of my room, I have to do my bloody community service. Great. Just great.

  I get off the DART two stops before my usual and trudge up towards the home. I drop into a newsagents to buy a new pen. Because today being the wonderful day it was, mine ran out. The shop’s busy and I have to wait in line. The girl at the checkout is taking forever with a woman who looks like she’s buying the whole shop. I stand facing a massive sweet display. Suddenly, I need to take something. Badly. No one would miss a simple pack of Maltesers. They probably cost the shop two cents or something. Two cents is nothing. They’d let you off two cents if you didn’t have enough.

  I pick up a pack like I’m going to buy it. I hold it in my hand. The wait goes on. The cashier pushes two bags of shopping to the woman who clearly doesn’t know what a supermarket is for. She hands over the change. The woman leaves and the cashier turns to the next customer, a man who wants cigarettes. When she turns to get them, I slip the Maltesers into my pocket. And just like that, my heart is thumping again in that crazily satisfying way. The girl at the checkout moves on to the next customer. Me. I hand her the pen. She takes it and scans it without even looking at me. She hands it back and asks for the money. Bored people are the easiest, I think. They just don’t care. I pay for the pen, then I’m walking out.

  Outside, like a cold, fresh wind, it hits me. What I’ve done. I’ve just risked everything for a packet of Maltesers. I’ve risked being caught again. I’ve risked Mum going ballistic again, losing her trust again, being taken out of Strandbrook. All for a packet of Maltesers. What is wrong with me? I take them from my pocket and let them fall to the ground. I can’t look at them. Can’t touch them. I want to forget I ever saw them.