Better With Butter

by Victoria Piontek

  I turn to Butter.

  She’s chewing on my math book as if to prove how good she is at foraging.

  I groan and wrestle it from her. My glossy, previously perfect math book is now covered in slime and gnaw marks. A couple of pages are missing edges and one page is completely gone. I scan my room for the remains. Nothing.

  I drop to my knees to search under my bed.

  Butter joins me, bending her front legs so she can stick her head under the bed next to mine.

  I run my hand across the empty space, hoping that my eyes are deceiving me and I’ll unearth the missing page so I can repair my book. The only thing I rustle up is a herd of dust bunnies that makes Butter sneeze and scramble back.

  My stomach churns as I crawl out from under my bed. The condition of my book when issued to me is inscribed inside the front cover. I flip it open. Written in my math teacher’s perfect penmanship is the word NEW, as in brand spanking. I’m the first kid to use this book (and the last, apparently). My mind fast-forwards to end-of-the-year book return, when I’ll have to account for the condition.

  For some reason, I imagine Principal Huxx in judge’s robes, all my teachers unhappily crammed into a jury box and the entire school staring at me from the audience as I try to defend myself. My mouth goes dry and I blame my sixth-grade civics unit for the vivid, panic-inducing vision of American justice in action. Whoever said knowledge is power didn’t have my anxious brain. My head turns tidbits of information into tiny guerrilla soldiers and stations them around my mind until the perfect moment for attack.

  I’m not sure what school will do to me for returning a destroyed math text, but I come up with all kinds of consequences—cafeteria duty, expulsion, summer school. My heart rate kicks up, and I shove the math book under my bed, pushing the object of my torment to the farthest corner, where it can live out the rest of its days with the dust bunnies.

  Maybe having Butter in the house is not the best idea.

  I pick her up and snuggle my face into her fur. She smells like garbage. “You need to be disinfected.”

  Butter bleats in agreement, and I vow to give her a bubble bath after dinner.

  In the backyard, I pour water into a bowl for her.

  Like I said, our garden is huge. There’s even a greenhouse for my mom and a work shed for my dad. Dad’s a do-it-yourselfer. Unfortunately, he’s not always home long enough to finish stuff, so his shed is full of almost-completed projects. In the corner, a puppet theater he started to build for me before he got assigned to sea duty leans against one wall. That was such a long time ago, I barely even remember being into puppets, but the theater will make a good wall for Butter’s enclosure.

  I drag it into the garden. I remember it being really big, but it was made for nine-year-old me, not twelve-year-old me, so it’s totally manageable.

  Stepping back, I examine the puppet theater. It’s practically finished. It has a cutout for the stage framed by red curtains. Above the stage, Marvel’s Majestic Theater is stenciled in pencil, waiting for paint. Other than that, it’s done.

  My memory of the puppet theater doesn’t match what’s before me. I thought Dad never even got close to completing it and I was heartbroken. I vaguely remember Mom trying to convince me that she and I could finish it after Dad left. I thought she had gone completely bananas and refused. Now I see that she and I could have easily slapped some paint on it. Wow. I can’t believe I missed indulging my geeky puppet obsession all because of missing paint. I might have been a puppet prodigy destined to bring puppeteering to the masses. I spend a single blissful second imagining being a great performer.

  Then reality hits me like a jump scare. All the ghastly events of my Famous Californian presentation slam into me—the camera, the speed of my heart, the sweat on my palms, standing frozen onstage, Principal Huxx telling the entire school my name, the kids yelling Get her off the stage. Remembering the embarrassing details is like walking through a haunted house, each room getting more and more horrific.

  Just thinking about it makes my lungs feel short of air, and I breathe faster, trying to suck more oxygen into my body.

  Butter bleats at me.

  I look at her.

  She’s watching me.

  I scratch the sides of her muzzle to reassure her. I don’t want to infect her with my fear. She’s had a really rough day too.

  She leans into me.

  The weight of her feels solid and warm against my leg.

  She gazes up at me, concerned.

  “Don’t worry. I’m okay.” Saying it to Butter somehow makes me pretend it’s true. I block all thoughts of school, presentations, cameras, stages, and mocking kids from my mind and focus on Butter—on only her and her needs. Right now, that’s an enclosure.

  I pick her up and take her into the shed with me.

  I let her explore while I rummage around for supplies. I grab a hammer, nails, and some discarded netting.

  We go back into the garden, and she watches as I build a home for her.

  I use part of our existing fence as the back of her enclosure and the puppet theater as the front. For the sides, I string the netting between them and nail it into place.

  It takes longer than I want, but when I’m done, I’m proud of myself.

  It’s makeshift. The sides are flimsy. It’s only landscaping netting, but it should hold Butter until I can figure out a better solution and prove to Mom I’m capable of taking care of her.

  I plunk Butter inside to see how she likes it. She wanders around and checks everything out. She makes one complete circle and then bleats at me. She approves.

  The timing couldn’t be more perfect. I hear a car pull into the driveway. Mom. (I feel like I should hear a drumroll or maybe a funeral dirge.)

  I think about the list I made and pray it’s enough to convince Mom to let me keep Butter. Not only does Butter need me—the only person in the world who can truly understand what myotonia congenita must be like for her—but I need Butter. I already love her. She’s the puzzle piece I didn’t know I was missing, and now that I’ve found her, I can’t let her go.

  I pet my soulmate one last time and head inside to plead our case.

  I greet Mom at the front door.

  She doesn’t look good. Her practical ponytail, typically high and bouncy, has lost its spring. It’s like a mangled Slinky. She’s grimacing and a tad gray. (I finally understand the term ashen that books are always prattling on about.)

  If I’m being honest, it’s a bit alarming. I pretend not to notice how unhinged she looks. I don’t want to embarrass her. I mean, her job as a mom is to keep it together, and she’s not exactly at peak performance at the moment.

  She embraces me in an epic hug, and I fall into her, the weight of everything that’s happened making me feel unhinged myself. Today definitely deserves top spot in my long list of awful days.

  She rubs my back soothingly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get here sooner.”

  “We should probably order a medical ID bracelet for me in case it happens again.” My words come out muffled because my head is mushed into Mom’s shoulder.

  Mom pulls back and holds me at arm’s length. “I know today was awful, but that’s a tad dramatic, don’t you think? You got stage fright. It happens. I’m sure no one even noticed.” Mom rubs my arms.

  Seriously, Mom? I think that’s called wishful thinking. “Everyone saw me turn into a block of ice onstage and melt down in front of them. Principal Huxx and the PE teacher had to carry me off the stage.”

  Mom’s eyes pool with sympathy, which makes me feel worse because it confirms I’m defective. “I agree, we’ve got to get a handle on this. We need to be more proactive about your therapy whether you like it or not.”

  “What do you mean, like it or not?” If it’s like it or not, I can already tell it’s not.

  “For starters, I know you’ve been resistant to the therapy group Mr. J has been suggesting, but it’s time you went.” Mr. J is the therapist fo
r our school district. He’s at our campus a couple days a week and he’s been trying to help me with my anxiety, but I’m a lost cause.

  “I’m not resistant to it,” I lie. Mom’s gone completely bananas if she thinks I’m going to talk about myself and my issues in front of other kids. But I don’t want to tell her that. She’ll brush my concerns away by saying it’s silly to be embarrassed or that the other kids won’t judge me. Mom has no idea what kids are really like. How snickering and mean they can act if you’re not normal (case in point: Jamie and his brother). If she did, she’d understand why I don’t want to confess my deepest, innermost fears to them. The way adults can be so utterly clueless about what it’s like to be a kid is baffling.

  I say, “I’m resistant to the location. It’s a safety hazard.”

  This is also true. The therapy group in question meets in the school basement. A place with no egress. (Egress is a word commonly used in architecture to mean “exit.” Landscape designer’s daughter here.) No egress means no way out of the basement. If there is an earthquake or a fire during group therapy, I’ll be trapped. I don’t even have a cell phone to call for help in a situation like that. Maybe I need to put a phone on my list of medical necessities along with an ID bracelet? I mean, the cell phone conversation is one I’d be interested in having.

  Mom rolls her eyes. She’s got an epic eye roll. I think it comes from raising a teenager. “There’s nothing wrong with the location. The school wouldn’t put children in danger.”

  I step away from her. “Really? Because they let me freeze up. ONSTAGE. In front of EVERYONE. I thought I was dead.”

  “Marvel, come on, you can’t blame that on the school and you weren’t in danger.”

  Maybe I can’t blame it on the school, but I can blame it on her. “I told you I didn’t feel well and you ignored me. You should’ve listened!”

  “I did. I thought it was nerves,” Mom says in defense.

  “It was nerves. Freezing nerves.” She needs to understand what she put me through. “If everyone would leave me alone and stop pushing me to do stuff I’m uncomfortable with, I’d be fine!” I don’t mean to yell at her, but all my yucky feelings about today are starting to bubble over again.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened at school?”

  Her question triggers a 4D replay in my mind. I smell Addie’s cookies, feel the pins in my stomach, see the camera’s red light, hear the kids yelling Get her off the stage, and feel the utter shame of making a fool out of myself in front of everyone like I’m swimming in it. I can’t tell her about it. I don’t want to think about it ever again. Only, my anxiety doesn’t work like that. Even when I’m purposely not thinking about something, it’s there. It’s like really annoying background music that never shuts off. I shake my head. “No, I definitely don’t want to talk about it. I want to forget it.”

  “I understand today was horrible, but you can’t shut down from the world. If you do, your life will get narrower and narrower. You’ll never try anything new or find out what you’re capable of.” Mom puts her hands on my shoulders and meets my eyes. “You have so much to offer, honey. I wish you could see that.”

  I know she thinks her confidence in me helps, but it doesn’t. It makes me feel worse and reminds me that believing in myself is another thing I’m bad at. “I don’t need therapy with other kids. But I agree I need something new, like you said.”

  “I’m all ears.” She’s always hopeful something will help. Me too.

  I scrunch my face up, doubtful. Mom’s lecture stamina is legendary. I’m not sure she’s truly done yet.

  “For goodness’ sake, Marvel. I said I was listening.” She looks tired and worn down. Normally, I’d feel bad about that, but having her resistance low for what I’m about to suggest is probably a good thing.

  “Okay. If you’re really listening.” Never hurts to heap on a little guilt. “I need a pet.”

  “A what?”

  I’m not sure she understands the word I said, so I spell it out. “I need a P-E-T.” I repeat the word spelling bee style. “Pet.”

  “You want a dog?” She pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes. “Marvel, this has been a very difficult day. I’ve been worried about you for hours …”

  I interrupt her. “If I had a cell phone, you could’ve called and checked on me and wouldn’t have had to worry for hours.” And I would have been able to call for actual help for Butter and me instead of throwing Principal Huxx’s name around like it’s my weird superpower.

  Mom takes a deep breath. “As I was saying, I’ve been worried about you for hours and your solution is to get a dog?”

  “I never said I wanted a dog. I said I wanted a pet,” I clarify to keep us on the same page.

  “I don’t even understand this conversation.” Mom goes into the dining room and collapses into a chair.

  I follow her. “It’s simple. You said I never try anything new and I’m suggesting something new—a pet. See, we both want the same thing.”

  “Okay, for the sake of argument, and because I’m totally exhausted, you want a pet, but not a dog. What are we talking about here? A hamster?”

  “Nope.”

  Mom sighs, “Goldfish? Because you know they don’t live very long.”

  “Nope.” I shake my head.

  “Cat?” Mom suggests hesitantly, as if she’s been dreading the day I ask for one.

  “Something better.” I’m tempted to add jazz hands, but I don’t want to oversell it.

  “Better than a cat? Do you plan on enlightening me?”

  “I thought you’d never ask.” I pull Mom out of her chair and lead the way to the back door. I’m going to soften Mom up with Butter’s adorableness and then pull out my pros-and-cons list to wow her with my logic.

  As Mom and I walk through the family room, we pass by Reef. He’s lounging on the couch playing video games. As soon as he sees us heading toward the garden, he drops his game controller and hops off the couch. “I can’t wait to see this.”

  “What do you know about it?” Mom asks.

  “Nothing. This is all Marvel. But it’s going to be awesome.” Reef smiles like he’s gotten the best gift of his life.

  Mom starts to look nervous, so I give Reef my evil-younger-sister glare.

  He laughs at me. Big brothers are really annoying.

  The three of us go into the garden. I can’t wait for Mom to meet Butter and see how responsible I’ve been by making an enclosure for her.

  I throw open the door, ready to present Butter to Mom.

  Only, there’s a problem. A very BIG one. Butter isn’t where I left her. Instead, she’s roaming the garden like it’s her own personal pasture.

  “Marvel Madison McKenna! Did you bring a forager into my garden?”

  How does Mom know about foragers? I planned to keep that information top secret.

  “No,” I sputter. “I mean yes, but I put her in an enclosure.”

  “An enclosure she’s escaped from!” As a landscape designer, Mom is very invested in growing and nurturing plants. I’m pretty sure Mom likes plants more than people (though I would never say this to her face). I know for a fact she loves our garden more than she loves our house. It’s her favorite place in the world … and Butter is ravaging it.

  Mom stalks toward Butter.

  I run after Mom.

  Reef hangs back, watching the show.

  Butter doesn’t notice Mom coming toward her. She’s too busy nibbling on a burlap-wrapped sapling. There’s been a whole pallet of them sitting in the garden for a few days. They’re for Mom’s newest landscaping job. None of the trees have any greenery left except the one Butter is happily munching on. Only three leaves remain.

  I grab Mom by the arm. “Wait. You have to go slowly. Otherwise, Butter will faint.”

  She stops in her tracks. Her lips merge into a single line. “Faint?”

  “I’ll explain in a sec.” I go to Butter and gently pull her away from the tree.


  She’s eaten everything except one measly leaf. She jerks away from me, stands on her hind legs, and snags it.

  I yank her down.

  She burps in my face.

  Butter’s making an awful first impression. I try to salvage the situation. “Mom, this is Butter. Butter is a fainting goat. I found her. She’s homeless. Can I keep her?” The words tumble out of my mouth in a blunt mess and don’t sound as eloquent or convincing as I had planned.

  Mom’s furious. I can tell by the way her eyebrows pull together. “Uh … this is an easy one. No. You may not keep the goat.”

  “Why not?” Instead of laying out a mature, logical argument of pros and cons, I sound like a whiny baby.

  Mom looks at Reef. “You should have warned me.”

  Reef shrugs, completely unfazed. “Hey, this was her thing. I didn’t have anything to do with it.”

  “Later, you and I are going to have a long talk about responsibility,” Mom tells him.

  He doesn’t even seem to care. He’s enjoying this way too much.

  “You don’t understand,” I say, pulling Mom’s attention away from Reef. “Butter doesn’t have anyone else.” I want to explain our bond and how much we need each other, but I don’t know how to put the tug of love I feel for her into words.

  “Marvel, this is absurd. A goat is a farm animal. We don’t live on a farm.” Mom examines one of her saplings and groans. “These leaves will take weeks to regrow.”

  I’m relieved. “That’s good news! I was afraid she’d killed them.”

  Mom blasts me with a death glare.

  Oops. I offer her an apologetic smile. Then I return to what’s important. Mom’s plants will survive. Without me, Butter won’t. “She needs a home.”

  “Our house isn’t zoned for farm animals, and there’s no way we’re keeping a goat in our backyard.” Mom sounds like she means it.

  “But Butter needs me. I understand her.” I pull Butter’s face toward me.

  “Yeah, Mom. Marvel understands Butter.” Reef’s not even trying to hide his laughter.

  Both Mom and I shoot him evil looks.

  Mom spies Butter’s tag and points to it. “She has an owner. Otherwise she wouldn’t have that.”