Paper Butterflies

by Lisa Heathfield

“Can’t I come with you?” I ask. “I’ll be really quiet. They won’t know I’m there.”

  “You’ve got school to go to.”

  “I could miss it. It’s just two days. And I’ll work really hard to catch up.”

  “Pumpkin, you can’t. There’s no way around this. But it’s not for long. And you’ll have a lovely time. Kath has got lots of nice things planned.”

  I go cold all over and turn toward the wall. My head starts to pound and I know I’m going to cry.

  “Come on, June, don’t be like this. Some dads have to go away quite a lot. This is the first time I’ve had to do it.”

  But I pull the covers high over my head.

  I feel the mattress lighten and I know he’s gotten up. There’s a pressure on my back where he must have put his hand. Then it lifts and I can hear him walking gently across my bedroom floor. The door opens and it clicks closed.

  He’s gone.

  And I didn’t let him kiss me goodbye.

  •••

  I know that it’s Ryan pulling my hair. On and on, while Miss Hawthorne sits talking to us. She doesn’t notice. She’s too intent on telling us about the angles of a triangle.

  “Oi, Juniper.” He’s shuffled forward and is whispering in my ear. “Caught any fish today?”

  I keep staring toward the front. I watch Miss Hawthorne’s mouth move, but I don’t hear many of her words.

  Kathleen didn’t do anything bad this morning. She woke me up and I got dressed. My heart had been knocking against my skin.

  As usual, she’d put the big mound of food out for my breakfast. Muffins and bacon and thick white bread with chocolate spread. Megan had stared at me, as she always does, as she ate her normal bowl of cereal. Sometimes, she looks like she hates me, but at other times she seems frightened to even breathe. I looked away from her and kept my eyes down for the whole meal. Waiting.

  But nothing.

  Kathleen had tied my red ribbon in my hair and she gave Megan her kiss goodbye. She’d told her she loved her, that she was the most special girl in the whole world, and then she’d shut the door behind us.

  Maybe, maybe it’ll be OK.

  We’ll eat our meal tonight and watch TV.

  “Your breath stinks of sewage,” Ryan tells me.

  Miss Hawthorne jumps up. “So, if you get into pairs, we can start,” she says.

  There’s a rush of movement, a frenzy of worry from the other children. Jennifer and I go to a table and sit together.

  “Haven’t found anyone, Ryan?” Miss Hawthorne asks. “You can work with me.” Jennifer pinches my arm and I smile at her. Pink pushes itself onto Ryan’s cheeks and happiness spreads slowly through my bones. He sees how much I’m smiling, but I don’t care.

  Miss Hawthorne hands out the paper, so in our pairs we can begin.

  •••

  I’m walking to the lunch hall when I’m grabbed from behind. A hand goes over my mouth and I’m dragged around the corner, my feet kicking on the ground. Other children see, but no one helps me, no one stops them.

  The main restroom door bangs open and shut. Ryan and Cherry pull me to the ground and Lauren puts a hand over my mouth.

  “If you scream, your life won’t be worth living,” Lauren says. Ryan is getting something from his bag. It’s a small pot, and when he cracks the lid off it I can smell that it’s paint. Cherry passes him a brush and he dips it in. I thrash my head from side to side, but I can’t get away.

  The white paint is wet and cold on my cheeks. Ryan brushes it over my forehead, across my chin and over my mouth. The chalky taste drips onto my tongue.

  They hold my legs down as they brush the skin on my arms, painting me white.

  When the pot is empty, Ryan drops it into the trash can.

  “You look like your albino friend now.”

  He turns his back on me and I hear the faucet turn on and the water splashing into the sink as he cleans his hands. Lauren and Cherry get up and clean their hands too, while I lie motionless on the floor.

  Ryan looks back at me before he goes.

  “A big improvement,” he says.

  They’re gone.

  It’s totally quiet.

  I look up at the ceiling, at the squares of foam bricks held together with strips of metal. I could lie here forever.

  A noise outside makes me scramble to my feet. Two younger girls come in and they scream when they see me and run out giggling.

  I won’t look in the mirror. I won’t see what they’ve done to me. I won’t see myself as their dream of white. I’m my mom’s color and I always will be and that’s what I want to be.

  I turn on the faucet that Ryan touched and let the water wash over my arms. My skin comes back. I scrub at my face and work the paint from strands of my hair. I rub some wet tissues over my legs, until every last speck of the stinking white has gone.

  And, just like my mom, I hold my head high, push open the door and go to face them.

  •••

  Megan and I go into the kitchen and Kathleen is here. She has her apron on, tied around her neck and her waist. She turns to us and her face lights up when she sees Megan.

  “Beautiful girl,” she says as she hugs her. “Did you have a good day?”

  “I got chosen for the soccer team,” Megan says proudly.

  “My clever girl.” Kathleen takes Megan’s bag and coat from her and brushes past me as she goes to hang them in the hall.

  I wait. I don’t know why. It’s the same every day. Every day, I wait and hope that it’ll change, that she’ll notice me. That I’ll be beautiful enough for her to say hello to. And clever enough to get a hug.

  “Tell me about it,” she says to Megan, and she pulls out a chair so that her daughter can sit down. She pours her a glass of orange juice and passes her the bowl of yogurt and apple she’s already prepared.

  I walk back into the hallway and hang up my coat and bag. I take off my shoes and put them neatly on the mat before I go up the stairs.

  One day, I’ll shout and scream that I exist. One day, they’ll know I’m here.

  In my bedroom, the two chocolate muffins sit on my desk, as usual. I sit and eat, because if I throw them away, she’ll know.

  Maybe my dad will come back early. They’ll cancel his night away and he’ll be walking up our path in time for supper. I watch the gate through the window until my eyes start to blur. He’s not here. He doesn’t come.

  So I curl up on my bed and wait.

  •••

  “It’s dinner time,” Megan calls up the stairs.

  I’m not hungry, but I know I have to go.

  The smell of Kathleen’s cooking comes up toward me and I push through it as I walk down.

  In the kitchen, they’re already sitting at the table. I look from one to the other, but they both ignore me as I sit down. Megan has an expression on her face that I can’t read. They have bowls of freshly made stew in front of them. In my place, there’s a plate of something different.

  “Eat up, June,” Kathleen smiles at me. She has that look in her eyes and now I can smell that she’s given me dog food.

  I look toward the door, but my dad is not there.

  “I can’t,” I whisper.

  “You will,” Kathleen says.

  They pick up their forks and begin to eat.

  I sit as still as a stone. Maybe if I don’t move, I’ll disappear.

  I can hear the sounds of their mouths chewing their food. Their forks scrape to pick up more mouthfuls.

  Suddenly, Kathleen stands up. She grabs my hair and forces open my mouth.

  “You will eat,” she says, so quietly. “I’ve prepared this for you, so you will eat.”

  She shovels some onto a spoon and pulls my head back. I want to scream with the pain, but I have to keep my mouth shut.

  The lumps of wet meat are at my lips and she’s trying to force them in. No no no no no. I’m stronger than you. I won’t let you.

  “Megan, hold her nose.
” Kathleen sounds so calm, yet my head is ringing with terror.

  Megan hesitates. It’s enough to make Kathleen turn on her.

  “Now,” she says coldly.

  Megan gets up. She squeezes my nostrils shut so tight that my eyes water.

  And I have to breathe. I have no choice. The food meant for dogs is forced into my mouth. I gag at the feel of it. I don’t want to swallow it, but my throat jolts and it slips down.

  Kathleen spoons more in, until my mouth is full.

  “You need some water,” Megan says, and she lets go of my nose and grabs for a glass and there’s water mixing with the dog food and spilling down my cheeks and squeezing down my throat. I’m thrashing out and Megan suddenly looks terrified. She knows I’m finding it hard to breathe.

  “Mom,” she says weakly.

  Kathleen lets me go. My eyes are burning. My throat is numb.

  I rush away from them, my school shirt wet, my mouth still full of the runny lumps.

  I get to the bathroom before they can catch me and I put my fingers down my throat and retch and retch until my stomach is empty.

  The smell of my vomit keeps filling the air.

  After

  “But at what point is a child to blame?” Reverend Shaw asks.

  “Megan knew what she was doing,” I reply.

  “Did she?” he asks gently. “I wonder really whether she knew. Or whether she had any control over it at all.”

  His words are taking me to a place I don’t want to be, a time I don’t want to remember. I don’t want to think about how it could have been. I try instead to concentrate on the flowers that he’s brought in from outside.

  “I’m glad you’re not choosing my wedding flowers,” I say lightly.

  “Church decoration isn’t my strong point,” he smiles. But he knows that I’m trying to take the conversation far away.

  “People do strange things when they’re scared,” he tells me.

  “Megan wasn’t really scared.”

  “She was a child too,” Reverend Shaw says. “A very lost one, I should imagine. You wouldn’t have been the only person frightened of Kathleen. Any child living under her roof would have been terrified at times.”

  “So Megan could just do what she wanted? And get away with it all?”

  “I’m not excusing her behavior,” he says quickly. “But maybe now you can see it differently? Maybe you can distance yourself from the pain and try to see Megan for what she was—a confused child, just as scared as you, but in a different way.”

  I close my eyes as the sunlight streams in through the window. I need to think of something else. How these early spring days are my favorite, before it gets too hot and mosquitoes clam up the skies.

  “June?” The reverend’s voice is patient as he waits for me to open my eyes.

  “But Megan hurt me.” My tears are sudden and angry.

  “I know.”

  “I don’t feel sorry for her.”

  “I do,” Reverend Shaw says calmly.

  Before

  eleven years old

  I decide to turn right outside the house and ride my bike along East Lane, even though there’s never much to see this way. The freedom moves my legs, faster and faster. The fields are flat on either side of me and seem to stretch to the ends of the earth. I pass the Picketts’ farm and, after longer still, the empty blue building I sometimes see from the car.

  I pull my bike to a stop at the edge of Creeper’s Forest. Dad’s always made me promise never to go through it on my own, but, today, it doesn’t seem frightening. I think it will curl around me and protect me from anything bad. I turn my wheels onto its path and start to move again.

  The trees are packed tightly and almost block out the sunshine, but I’m not afraid. I like the way that the air is colder. I like the way it smells of dry sticks. It’s bumpy, but if I follow the trees’ lines, it’s not too slow.

  I’m humming to myself when I see light. I go toward it until I’m out of the forest, on a smaller track, but I’m not sure where it’s going.

  Further ahead, surrounded by more trees, there’s a field of broken trailers. I slow down as I get closer. There are five of them, dotted around the edge of the small field. Weeds clamber up them and I can see that some have had their windows smashed. They have curved, soft roofs, covered with speckled moss and grime. But there’s a path through the long grass, going from one to the other.

  I lean my bike against the locked gate and look around. There’s no one here, so I climb over and jump down the other side.

  Slowly, I walk down the path to the nearest one. It smells rotten as I stand on my tiptoes and peer in the window. There’s a kitchen, with a kettle and a bench and a table. It looks clean. Somebody has been here.

  I walk carefully down the next path. The window of the second trailer is dirty, but I can see through it. There’s no kitchen, just two small chairs and big cushions and piles of paper all over the floor. Hanging from the ceiling are tons of brightly colored shapes—bees and flowers and airplanes.

  “Can I help you?” The voice startles me and I jump back.

  “I was just looking,” I say.

  He’s smaller than me, but not by much. His white cheeks are red from the sun and he has large freckles dotted over his nose. His glasses are too big.

  “Why?” he asks.

  “I saw the trailers.”

  “They’re not mine,” he says. “But I use them.”

  “Oh.” I look back toward my bike. I can see its yellow handlebars sticking between the wood of the gate.

  “Are you on your own?” the boy asks.

  “Yes.”

  He looks at me, as though I’m meant to say something else.

  “Did you make the paper shapes?” I ask, looking at them through the smeary window.

  “Yes.” He smiles and small dimples dent his cheeks.

  “Can I see them?” I ask.

  “OK,” he nods.

  He climbs up the steps of the trailer next to us and pushes open the door. I follow him up. Inside, the air is dry.

  “This is my art room.”

  “Did you really make these?” I reach out gently to touch a paper Christmas tree that hangs from its star. It has so many layers and at the end of each branch sparkles a tiny bauble.

  “Yup,” he says proudly. “I’m Blister, by the way.”

  “Blister?” I smile cautiously.

  “Long story.”

  “I’ve got lots of time.”

  “I was left out in the sun too long as a baby. Got burned so bad that I was one big blister. And the name stuck.”

  “That wasn’t a long story.”

  “Nope, I suppose it wasn’t,” he laughs. “Do you want to see the other trailers?”

  “OK.”

  He moves past me and we go down the steps, along the path and back toward the first trailer.

  His T-shirt is too small. His trousers are too long.

  He goes up the steps and moves back so that I can come in.

  “Welcome to my kitchen,” he says with a bow.

  “It’s lovely.”

  “Thank you. Do you want a drink?” He opens a cupboard and gets two glasses out. “You can have water, or water.”

  “I’ll have water, then.” I nearly laugh, but I don’t.

  He unscrews the lid of a big bottle, fills the glasses and passes one to me.

  “What’s your name?”

  “June.”

  “That’s a nice name.”

  “Thanks.” I sip the water to stop a blush creeping up.

  “Were you born in June?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s the nicest month of the year, I reckon. Not too cold, not too boiling hot. In August, it’s like an oven in here.”

  “Whose are these trailers, if they’re not yours?”

  “They were a man’s, called Mr. Jones, but he killed his wife and then killed himself.”

  “He killed her?” I ask, looking arou
nd.

  “It’s all right,” he laughs. “I don’t think it was here. But their only child lives miles away and can’t be bothered to keep the trailers properly, or sell the land. And no one else wants to come here—everyone says they’re haunted.”

  “Are they?”

  “I’ve never seen a ghost in them.”

  I follow him as he goes out and down the steps.

  “So now they’re all yours?” I ask as we walk back down the path.

  “I pretend they are.”

  We go back into the trailer with all the shapes, and I copy Blister as he sits on a beanbag. He’s a bit chubby, like me. His fingers are muddy and his nails are bitten down.

  “I’ve been digging,” he says.

  I look away. “Oh.”

  “So, where do you live?” he asks, putting his glass down on the floor.

  “Potter’s Lane.”

  “Down by the river?”

  “Yes,” I say, my heart thumping a bit faster. “Where do you live?”

  “Near Picker’s Yard.” He takes a piece of red paper from the table and starts to fold it.

  “I don’t know it,” I say. Blister unfolds the paper and rubs it flat again.

  “There’s not much to know,” he smiles. “But if you like chaos, you’d love my house. It’s good chaos, though.” He drinks a bit of his water. “Now, if this was orange juice, it would be delicious.”

  “It’s still nice.”

  “Yeah, I suppose it is.”

  “How did he murder her?” I ask.

  “Who?” He looks surprised.

  “The husband. Who owned these trailers.”

  “Oh, right.” Blister leans on his hands and stares at me across the table. His eyes are almost black, which looks a bit strange, as his skin is so rosy and white. “They say he strangled her and then chopped her up and …”

  “No!” I laugh and put my hands over my ears. “I don’t want to hear it.”

  Blister smiles at me. His dimples are on his cheeks again.

  “Are you chicken?” he asks.

  “No.”

  “I bet most of it’s rumors.”

  “How long does it take you to do them?” I ask, looking up at the ceiling.

  “My paper shapes?” We both stare at them, hanging like little planets. “Depends which one. That one—” Blister points to a seagull, flying silently above our head—“that didn’t take long. But that one …” There’s a castle, near the window.