Chance and the Butterfly

by Maggie De Vries

  He closed the door behind him, fetched Matilda off the ledge and took a magnifying glass off the low shelf where they were kept. Then he settled down at his desk. He eased the lid off the container. There she was, fat, fuzzy and beautiful.

  He tipped her out onto the desktop. She was many times the size she had been last week. Soon she would be ready to become a chrysalis. He gave her a little poke with his finger and she began to crawl, seeming to sense her way with her waving whiskers. Her body wiggled back and forth as she moved forward. He pulled the magnifying glass out of its box and held it up to his eye. Matilda doubled in size again. Chance was transfixed. The colors, the pattern, the delicate little hairs—she was gorgeous! He stared and stared, pushing her in a different direction whenever she came too close to the side of the desk. She felt soft and alive to his touch.

  Then, with no warning, the bell rang. Lunch break was over. Chance leaped to his feet and stared wildly at the doors. Then he pulled himself together. He just had to put her back. That was all. It would take a while for Ms. Samson to let the kids in at the side door. He turned back to his desk and froze in shock. Matilda was gone!

  The floor. Chance backed away and dropped to his knees. He must have brushed her to the ground when he jumped up. Keeping his hands and knees well clear, he started searching the floor beside his desk. He didn’t find the caterpillar until he looked farther away, under his new neighbor’s desk. He must have sent her flying. There she was, curled up on her side. Dead? Or hurt? She was still, not struggling to turn over, not moving at all. Something that looked like thin thread lay on the floor beside her. She had tried to save herself, like a spider, Chance thought. The inside of his nose and eyes prickled. Within seconds, the door would burst open and twenty-five children with big stomping feet and mean hands would storm into the room. He made his fingers into gentle pincers, reached out and lifted Matilda off the carpet. Without getting up, he reached for the container on his desk. As children streamed into the room, he nestled Matilda into her cup and watched her for a moment. Yes, there was movement. She was alive. But he had no way of knowing how badly hurt she was.

  He snapped the lid firmly into place and slipped the container into his desk. Matilda needed him now. He wasn’t going to put her back in that crowd of caterpillars where any child in Division Seven could get his hands on her.

  He would see to it that she was safe.

  Chapter 7

  Once Matilda was in his desk, it was natural to bring her to the house. Chance passed casually by his desk on his way out the door that afternoon. His new neighbor, Ken, was still seated, copying something slowly, slowly into his planner. Keeping one eye on Ken, Chance reached into his desk and closed his fingers tight around Matilda’s cup. She wouldn’t be safe in his pocket or his bag. So he carried her in his hand.

  He had checked on her earlier, during silent reading. And had let out his breath in a whoosh of relief almost loud enough to turn Ms. Samson’s eyes his way. Matilda was fine. Just like before.

  Now, “Would you move it?” Mark called from the doorway.

  “All right, Mark. He’s on his way,” Ms. Samson said, looking up from her marking. “Do you have everything, Chance? Don’t forget to get your planner signed.” She smiled warmly at him as he left the classroom. Chance’s eyes skipped from her to Ken, who was looking up now. Was Ken looking at Chance’s hand? Had he seen?

  The teacher’s protection stopped at the classroom door. Mark bumped into Chance as he passed. “If I have to walk with you every day, kid, you better not make me wait.” Chance held tight to his secret cargo and stayed quiet. Mark bumped him again, harder, once they were off the school grounds. “Did you hear me? I’m doing you a favor here, but not because I want to.”

  Chance’s mouth was dry. His feet kept moving, but the rest of him didn’t work somehow. Angie and Doug had only started making Mark walk with him this week. Before that, one of them had picked him up. Each day, Mark let him know how much he resented the task. On the weekend, Chance had overheard him yelling at his parents, “But why do we have to have them here? We were just fine the way we were. Anyway, I wanted a real brother, not somebody else’s messed-up brat.”

  There was a pause when Chance knew that Angie or Doug was replying in a calmer voice. Then Mark’s shouts continued, growing tearful before they finally stopped altogether. The last words Chance heard him say were, “I didn’t ask for them to come, so why should I have to help out? Why can’t he walk himself?”

  On Monday, Chance had done just that. If Mark didn’t want to walk with him, he could perfectly well walk by himself. After all, he was eight. Mark was only two years older.

  Chance had been first out of the class, leaving behind homework, planner, everything but his coat. He had been outside almost before the bell stopped ringing. And he had run, determination and satisfaction coursing through him. Let Mark look and look for him. He had run like the wind, making at least one driver step on the brakes and the horn at the same time as he flew through a crosswalk. He had burst into the house, out of breath but making up for it in exhilaration.

  Angie came out into the hall holding Louise.

  “Well, you’re here awfully fast,” Angie said, loudly enough to be heard over the sad baby’s cries. Then, as she looked behind Chance at the closed door, “Where’s Mark?”

  “I don’t know,” Chance said.

  “You came on your own?” her voice was worried and maybe a little angry, but Chance didn’t care. He just shrugged his shoulders.

  “I can walk on my own,” he said. “Other kids in my class do.”

  But Chance knew that wasn’t strictly true, and so did Angie. They walked with friends or younger brothers or sisters. The school had a rule. No one under grade five was to walk to or from school alone. Even grade six kids were encouraged to walk with a buddy.

  “Until you have someone else to walk with,” Angie said, “you will walk with Mark, like it or not.” She shifted Louise to her other arm, making soothing noises as she did so. Then she went on, “I know Mark is being rough on you, but he’ll come around. You’ll see.”

  “He hates me,” Chance muttered.

  “What did you say?” Angie asked, but, instead of answering, Chance turned and ran up the stairs. Behind him the front door opened.

  “There you are, you little creep,” Mark called after him up the stairs.

  Chance didn’t turn his head, but he did listen with some satisfaction as Angie ordered Mark into the kitchen.

  After Angie and Doug talked to him and Mark together that evening and made them both promise to stick together, Chance put up with Mark’s reluctant company. It still hurt every time Mark bumped into him or whispered something mean into his ear, but he dulled the pain by making himself go hard inside. He just walked along, robotlike.

  Today, Matilda clutched in his hand, he followed Mark. He stayed a few paces behind when he could, but no matter what, he said not a word and kept his eyes on the ground. He was so worried about Mark finding out what he had in his hand that his tongue was frozen anyway. He couldn’t have spoken if he had wanted to, but he did like how mad Mark got when he ignored him.

  Eventually Mark decided to punish Chance with speed. “You’d better keep up,” he shouted over his shoulder as he broke into a trot. Chance increased his pace, but kept a safe gap between himself and his assigned protector.

  At least Mark had never glanced at Chance’s closed fist or asked what he was carrying. So, as Chance huffed and puffed along, he turned over ideas about where Matilda was going. In his room, of course. He thought it would be good for her to have a bigger space than that puny plastic thing. And maybe some leaves, some real food. In the video on painted ladies that the class had watched, it had said they liked leaves. In class Ms. Samson had talked about making a chart of all the plants that painted lady caterpillars and butterflies liked to eat, but they hadn’t done it yet. Never mind. He would give her some leaves and let her live like a caterpillar was really
supposed to.

  Well, sort of. A caterpillar wasn’t really supposed to live in a house or a classroom or a little plastic container or a big comfy cage. A caterpillar was supposed to be free.

  Chance thought about that for a moment. It had never occurred to him to let Matilda go. She belonged with him. Didn’t she?

  “Get a move on,” Mark called over his shoulder. Chance looked up to find himself two houses behind. He ran to catch up. They were almost there anyway.

  Mark left him at the driveway. He was off to hang out with his friends at the park. Chance walked into the house alone. The front hall was empty, so it was safe to set Matilda down on the cloak-stand shelf while he wiggled out of his coat. Actually, the house was surprisingly quiet. Louise must be sleeping, he thought. Leaving his coat and pack in a heap, he picked up Matilda and crept toward the stairs. Whatever Angie was doing, he wanted her to keep doing it.

  Once upstairs, he saw that Louise’s door was shut. He could hear the faint sound of the music Angie played to help her sleep. Angie and Doug’s door was ajar. He peeked inside as he walked past. There was Angie, fast asleep on the bed. A little snorty sound made him jump, but it was just her version of a snore. Good, he could get to work without any interference.

  After sitting on his bed, looking around the room and thinking a bit, Chance decided on Tupperware. It was mostly see-through, and he could cover the top with plastic wrap. He’d punch little holes in it, so Matilda could breathe. And he’d collect some leaves from behind the house.

  Chance tiptoed down the stairs and slipped out the back door. He grabbed a handful of leaves off the first plant he saw. A couple of small branches came away in his hand too. Oh well, it would have to do. A quick rummage through the big bottom drawer in the kitchen unearthed the perfect container, almost transparent, deep and wide and square. Tucking the roll of plastic wrap under his arm, clutching the Tupperware and a fistful of leaves, he took the stairs at a run.

  “Chance, what’s all that?” Angie was standing in her doorway, yawning and running her hands through her hair. The words were squeezed out through the yawn, but when she really took in what Chance was holding, she stepped forward. “Chance, what on earth are you up to? You’ve got half my rhododendron there!”

  Chapter 8

  Chance looked down at his hands, at the leaves. Would she guess? The leaves were the big clue, he guessed. But if she figured it out, she would make him take the caterpillar back to school. She knew about the butterflies. It had been in the class newsletter last week. He would have to take Matilda back. He would lose her.

  “Art,” he blurted. Then collected himself. “Yes, art. I’m going to make leaf prints. This is for the water.” He held up the container. “This is to put down under the paper.” He held up the roll of plastic. “And these are the leaves,” he finished, falling silent and looking pleadingly at Angie.

  “Newspaper would be better underneath,” she said, though she was still looking at him oddly. “Do you need help getting set up? Did you borrow Mark’s paints?”

  Chance’s stomach started to relax, but no, it was too soon for that.

  “Here, let me help you. I’ll get some newspaper from downstairs. Why don’t you fill that with water from the bathroom? Wouldn’t the kitchen table be—?”

  Louise saved him. Maybe their voices woke her, or maybe she was just ready to wail once more. A rising scream drowned out the music playing in Louise’s room and drove any thought of Chance’s painting from Angie’s mind.

  That was when Chance discovered that his bedroom door locked. He just hoped Angie didn’t remember to ask to see a leaf picture. Safe in his room, he set both containers, the big empty one and Matilda’s cup, on his bedside table. He picked the biggest, thickest, shiniest leaves and lined the bottom of the big container.

  Then he opened the little one and watched Matilda for a moment. Most of the pasty food from school was gone. She turned from side to side and raised her head toward the window. He knew she couldn’t see much, but he figured she noticed the brightness. He watched to see if she would move in that direction, and she did. She started to climb right over the edge of her little house.

  Chance picked her up and put her in on top of the leaves. Maybe her new house would fit on the windowsill behind the curtain. He was just trying it there when his doorknob rattled.

  “What’s going on in there, Chance?” Angie called. “I don’t want you locking your door. It’s not safe.”

  Chance pulled the curtain across far enough to cover the box. “Coming,” he called. “I didn’t mean to lock it,” he said as he opened the door. “I think it just locked on its own.”

  “What happened to the painting idea?” she asked, stepping into the room.

  “I dunno,” Chance said quickly. “Thought I’d do my homework first, and now I’m starving. Is it almost time to eat?”

  Weeks ago he had learned that Angie liked feeding hungry kids. Now he put the knowledge to good use. The next half hour was blissful, sitting in the den on the carpet eating graham crackers and peanut butter, watching an ancient rerun with Angie, some show called Family Ties, and entertaining Louise, who was happy for once, rolling around on her blanket.

  Sure, Mark would be there soon and it would be over, but for now, Matilda snug upstairs and Louise, Angie and the television all to himself, Chance forgot that he was an unwanted foster child. Right now he was just a kid.

  Chapter 9

  Matilda still seemed snug in her big new space when Chance left for school the next morning. But in the classroom, he had a scare right off. A double-barreled scare, actually. First, Ms. Samson had each child take a caterpillar to his or her desk. And, after she politely handed them out to everyone else, Martha found herself empty-handed.

  “There’s none left,” she said, surprised.

  “What do you mean?” Ms. Samson said. “There are twenty-six of you and twenty-six of them. Did you look carefully?”

  “Yes,” Martha said. “There isn’t another one.”

  “Chance, do you have two at your desk?” Ms. Samson asked bluntly. “Did you take an extra one?”

  “No.” Chance was angry. Guilty, but angry. “I have one here. One. Just like everybody else.”

  “All right, Chance. That’s enough. Boys and girls, leave your caterpillars on your desks, right in the middle of your desks, and search.”

  So they searched. Chance searched hardest of all. He crawled under tables, rifled through the cloakroom and turned the art supply shelf inside out. Halfway through his search, he came face-to-face with Ken.

  Ken stepped close. “You tell,” he said.

  “Tell what?” Chance said back, daring. This kid had hardly spoken a word in class yet. He didn’t even speak English. But he was managing right now.

  “You know,” he said.

  “No, I don’t know,” Chance replied and shouldered past him to continue the search.

  A good bit of cleaning up was required by the time they were done. But not a caterpillar did they find.

  So Martha and another girl had to share a caterpillar that day. Everyone was worried about the lost caterpillar, but what else, Ms. Samson asked, could they do?

  She got lots of answers to her question, a lot of theories about what had happened to the missing caterpillar and a lot of ideas about what to do about it. Chance did not contribute to the debate. He thought about Matilda, happy in her nice big box with all her green leaves. And he smiled inside himself. So what if everyone else was upset? He had saved Matilda. That was what mattered.

  While he listened to the discussion, Chance had been peering through the sides of the plastic container on his desk. Now he stopped listening and stared intently. Something was different in there, wrong maybe. The caterpillar wasn’t moving right. She was dangling. Her bottom part was wriggling around, but her top end was stuck to the lid, right in the middle of the lid.

  As the realization hit him, he was out of his desk and shouting all in a second. “He
y, she’s turning into a chrysalis. She’s attaching!” He danced around the room, holding the container high in the air.

  Ms. Samson’s hand came down firm on his wrist from behind. “Give her to me, Chance. Let me see,” she said. And he did, all of a sudden frightened. What had his jumping done to the little creature? Had he hurt her?

  But no, she was fine. And yes, she was getting ready to change form. The lost caterpillar was forgotten as everyone turned to see if his or her caterpillar was attaching too. And six were.

  Ms. Samson explained that the caterpillars would start forming their chrysalides now. That would take about two days, she said, two days for them to build their protection so they could turn into butterflies. When the chrysalides were ready, she would take the lids from which they hung and tape them to the butterfly bush, leaving the tiny creatures hanging freely.

  Chance turned to look at the back of the room where the bush waited on a low table, planted in a big bucket and covered with netting. He couldn’t wait to see the chrysalides hanging there.

  At the same time, though, he wondered what he would find when he pulled back his curtain later that day. Matilda would want to attach like the others. Maybe she was trying to right this minute. But what did she have to attach herself to?

  Chapter 10

  “Move it, kid,” Mark called from the doorway, as he did every day.

  And, “He’ll be right with you, Mark,” Ms. Samson said, as she did every day. But today, she didn’t stop there. “Have you seen our butterfly bush? We have six chrysalides now!” she said. “It’s hard to believe that it’s already two years since you were helping me with the very first butterfly bush at our school.”