Butterflies Don't Lie

by B. R. Myers

  My mouth full of fries seemed like a glob of goo. I couldn’t swallow. “I’m sorry,” I whispered around the food. “I didn’t mean to mention your parents…not like that.”

  He finally turned to me. “Jesus, Kelsey! What were you thinking saying all that stuff in front of everyone? You’ll be lucky if you’re ever invited to a party again.”

  I kept my head down, looking for an answer at the bottom of the paper bag. “I’m pretty sure my partying days are over,” I said.

  “You think?”

  I groaned. There was no way to explain to Tanner about Blaine and the spreadsheet. Still, that wouldn’t be enough for him to understand what it was like for me to be with those other kids tonight. How horribly out of place I felt, and how every pretty girl was a reminder of how plain I was.

  He wouldn’t understand because he’s popular. All of the important stuff about high school came easily to him. I was sure Francine had never had to make a spreadsheet for him.

  “I mean, you’re Franny’s best friend,” he started, “and I promised her I’d look out for you this summer, but—”

  “Look out for me?” I interrupted. I buried my face in my hands. God, Francine! She knew I would fail. She knew I was hopeless without her and that I’d need her boyfriend to bail me out. “I’m so pathetic,” I whispered.

  Famous last words.

  Tanner stayed quiet, silently agreeing with my last statement. He took another long drag on the straw. Soon there was the gurgling noise you hear when you reach the bottom. As if that was his cue, he started the car and headed for my house.

  When he pulled into my driveway, I noticed both cars were parked there. I suddenly panicked. “How am I going to get by my parents?”

  Tanner gave me an unsympathetic look. “It’s only nine o’clock,” he said. “You smell like greasy fries. Just do a lot of yawning and head straight to your bedroom.”

  I stayed in the car, not trusting my legs.

  Tanner relaxed. He reached out and touched my shoulder. “Hey, look,” he said, his voice softer. “It’s going to be okay. And when I see Franny next week, I won’t mention a thing about tonight.”

  I stiffened. “What?”

  “She invited me,” he said. “I’ll be there four or five days.” He sniffed, then leaned back in his seat. “She figured you wouldn’t be able to get the time off work. But like I said, I won’t tell her about your screw-up tonight—you know, save you the embarrassment.”

  His tone struck a chord with my memory. An image of Brooke leaning in and whispering in his ear gave me a little backbone. I shook his hand off my shoulder. “My screw-up?”

  “Kelsey.” He said it long and laboriously, like it was tough for him to even explain the intricacy of the situation. “Never mind, you don’t get it.” He reached across me and opened the passenger door.

  Holy geez, he had long arms!

  I stepped out of the car and stood solidly on my two feet. The fact that I couldn’t feel the rotation of the earth encouraged me. I leaned back into the car, still holding onto the door with one hand. I’m not sure if it was the need to avenge all the jilted women of the world, or if I was jealous of Tanner and wanted to lay claim to Francine. But the next words came out strong and clear, hardly the slobbering screw-up from the party.

  “Actually, Tanner, I do get it,” I said. “I wouldn’t want Brooke hanging off my boyfriend’s body. And it may have been totally innocent like you said, but Francine should be the judge of that. So you can tell her about my screw-up tonight and everything else, because you can be damn sure I’ll be telling her about you.”

  I ended my speech by slamming the car door. I marched inside my house expecting to hear tires squeal down the street, but he simply backed out and drove away. Apparently I was the only one auditioning for drama queen tonight.

  So much for my victim-impact statement. Maybe I should just keep my mouth shut from now on. Monologues didn’t seem to be working for me lately.

  Dad was sitting at the dining room table, making piles of paper slips. Bit early for getting things together for tax time, I thought. Dad barely lifted his head. “Chet just fell asleep,” he said.

  I waited for him to ask me how my night was. I even yawned, but he was already engrossed in some budgeting scheme. I wondered if this had something to do with the tutoring program at the library. Realizing I’d been given a gift, I went straight to my bedroom.

  I could hear Mom clicking away on the keyboard inside her office. I blinked at my bedroom ceiling, unable to stop replaying all the catastrophes of the night. What the hell was wrong with me? A girl puts her hand on Tanner’s shoulder and I accuse him of cheating on Francine?

  Sleep wasn’t coming easily. I pulled out my laptop and stared at the spreadsheet. Unfortunately, “Throw up on Blaine” wasn’t part of Operation Tongue.

  My eyes welled up. I had no chance with Blaine, I had pissed off Tanner, mortified Chloe, and Francine, my best friend, hadn’t even considered inviting me up to her cottage.

  A creak sounded outside my bedroom door. The doorknob started to turn. I slammed down the laptop, threw the covers up to my chin, and rolled onto my stomach.

  Mom tiptoed in. She whispered my name. I did the long, slow breathing of someone pretending to be asleep. Her fingers gently combed through my hair, then she left, gently shutting the door behind her.

  I wished I could tell her about my night. The words were in my head, all jumbled up. I opened my mouth, but only a creaking sound came out. All I needed was to hear her say it wasn’t my fault and that things would be better tomorrow. But I knew she’d be upset about the drinking, and I’d get another lecture about responsibility. I pressed my lips together and cried into my pillow.

  THE NEXT MORNING, I was woken by the roar of a lawn mower. It stayed under my bedroom window for longer than necessary. Mom must have smelled booze on me last night and told Dad, who felt the proper punishment was attacking my sense of hearing.

  My head was throbbing and I was starving. I took some Tylenol and ate half a loaf of toast and peanut butter. Chet and Mom had already left the house for the Sunday flea market. The lawn mower finally stopped. I jumped in the shower to avoid crossing paths with Dad. By the time I was ready for work, the lawn was done and Dad had disappeared as well.

  I pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, deciding to leave my wet hair down to dry. Who cares what your hair looks like when you can pile it under your nightcap at work? I could even have a mohawk and no one would know. The image made me cringe, remembering How-hole’s pitying expression.

  I wish I’d gotten drunk enough to forget everything. No such luck, though. I grabbed the bottle of Tylenol to take to work, then rummaged around my room looking for my Kipling bag.

  Bacon turds!

  My stomach took a nosedive. I had left my bag on the floor of Edward’s study. My yellow gorilla! I could never get it back. The only—very small—consolation was that I hadn’t had my wallet with me last night. Having the owner of the Queen’s Galley arrive at work with my bag would be too humiliating. Mr. Deveau would probably set up a video camera to catch the whole thing live.

  I grabbed an old backpack and dragged my sorry butt outside. My bike was waiting in the driveway, another form of silent punishment from my parents.

  It was warm and sunny and the stupid birds were singing. Didn’t they know how crappy this summer was? I paused at the top of the steep hill, the Queen’s Galley waiting below. I used my brakes the whole way down. My hair didn’t even flow off my shoulders, let alone fly straight behind me.

  I locked my bike in the driveway by the kitchen. I frowned; usually How-hole’s bike was there too, but this morning it was missing. In the kitchen, Loretta and Clyde were deep into Sunday brunch preparations.

  “…that crazy dog, last night,” Clyde said, whipping the scrambled eggs like they deserved it.

 
“Dog?” My heart rate sped up. Had Cujo-the-land-shark come back? What had it destroyed with its massive teeth and paws this time? The theme from Jaws played in the back of my mind.

  Loretta had her upper body all the way in the fridge, reaching to the back. “The driveway was covered in shredded garbage this morning,” she told me. She pulled out a long container of bacon slices, then closed the door with her foot.

  “Maybe it’s only a raccoon,” I suggested.

  “No,” Loretta said, laying strips of bacon on the flat grill. She sprinkled a mixture of flour and brown sugar on top. “It’s definitely a dog. Raccoons are cleaner.”

  “This beast roams freely throughout the night.” Clyde had a flare for the dramatic too.

  Maybe I should party with him from now on.

  Loretta snorted. “It’s not a werewolf.”

  “Werewolf?” I shuddered. Don’t even get me started.

  “Talk with Luke,” Clyde ordered Loretta. “He must lock all the garbage in the shed from now on.”

  Music thumped from the driveway outside. I peeked through the kitchen window. A red sports car had pulled up. How-hole stepped out of the passenger’s side. The mohawk was gone, and the usual ball cap was back in place. He waved at the driver as the car backed up and pulled away.

  I couldn’t see the hummingbird tattoo, but I still recognized Brooke. How-hole straightened up and looked in the kitchen window. I ducked back just in time.

  I carried a weird hollow feeling around for the rest of the shift. I decided it was best to avoid the kitchen as much as possible. Whenever I had a tray of dirty dishes, I pushed through the swinging door making sure to keep my head down. I stared at the coffee-stained cups and smeared plates. How-hole moved in the corner of my vision. His hand reached out and helped me with my tray a few times, but other than that contact he seemed as reluctant as I was for us to acknowledge each other.

  He must have been too embarrassed for me, or maybe he was like Tanner, bored with my outbursts and screw-ups.

  Julia and Ronnie were the only other girls working. Chloe had the day off. My stomach tightened. I wanted to know if she hated me for being such a loser at the party. Tanner’s remarks about never getting invited to another party had hurt me more than I’d let on.

  Plus, I hadn’t let him finish his sentence last night: You’re Franny’s best friend and I promised her I’d look out for you this summer, but…

  But…what?

  Sometimes I hate having multiple choices.

  EIGHTEEN

  Brunch turned out to be crazy busy and the staff worked non-stop. It was a buffet where everyone served themselves, so I mainly brought out coffee and tea orders, and of course cleared away the dirty dishes. But I was grateful to have something to keep my mind busy instead of replaying last night’s episode of Kelsey’s Moment of Shame.

  It was so hot I was downing ice water in the pantry after every table-clearing. More than once I thought I smelled vodka. I think it was oozing through my pores.

  Yup, that’s me: one classy lady.

  After the shift, while Ronnie and Julia were counting up tips—and more importantly figuring out my ten percent—Mr. Deveau marched into the dining room where I was setting tables for the supper crowd. His outrageously bright coral shirt made me blink a few times. He started with the usual enquiries:

  “Silverware polished?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Floors swept?”

  “Yes.”

  “Napkins and tablecloths counted?”

  I hesitated. “Um…no. Not yet.”

  He looked satisfied. “Good, I suggest you get started.” He checked his watch. “The laundry needs to be ready in an hour for pickup.”

  I nodded curtly and made my way to the basement door.

  Frickin’ bacon turds! I hated counting the linen. Chloe usually volunteered for this task, but since I was the only busgirl today, the job was mine.

  I went down the stairs to the basement where the laundry shoot emptied. I pushed open the heavy door and a wave of dampness escaped. Unlike the rest of the Queen’s Galley, this area was untouched by a decorator’s palette. I kept the door open with my foot while I stretched my reach inside the darkened room. I found the thin chain and pulled. A single light bulb glowed, bringing the creepy room to life.

  The walls were the original stones used by Captain Bowsky’s crew to build the foundation. The cool air was nice at first after having worked in a sultry restaurant in a long skirt, but one look at the huge pile of dirty linen overshadowed any silver lining.

  I pulled a tablecloth from the mound and laid it out flat on the stone floor. Then I counted out fifty napkins, tossing each one into the middle of the tablecloth. I tied up the four corners of the tablecloth making a thick knot and then rolled the bundle to the doorway. I straightened up and heard my back crack.

  Or was it a squeak?

  I whipped my head around, squinting into the dark corners. Julia told me she once saw a rat down here. I tucked my skirt between my legs, then loudly cleared my throat. I read somewhere that rats don’t like noise. I proceeded to stomp my feet, whistle, snort, and cough as much as possible while I counted the next batch of napkins.

  It took longer this time since I kept stopping to look in the direction of every noise.

  Rats like to attack from behind, I bet. First the ravenous dog and now this? I should get danger pay.

  It couldn’t be a rat, I tried to tell myself. Julia was just trying to scare me. Besides, a rat would be wary of a smelly busgirl, right? I glanced around the room again, hoping to find a stick or something, but there wasn’t even a loose stone to throw.

  Squeak.

  One of the napkins moved.

  I screamed and lunged for the bundle of linen by the door. I grabbed the thick knot and swung it over my head, ready to crush my assailant. I heard a pop! and the room suddenly went pitch black. Glass shards scattered on the floor around my shoes.

  I’d hit the light bulb by mistake.

  Squeak.

  My fight-or-flight response kicked in and I started blindly whacking the floor. Something scratched my ankle. I swore with the gusto of ten pirates and pounded the ground even harder. “Die, die, die!”

  I had no idea I was so brave.

  The door burst open, sending a splash of light into the room. I froze, bent over with the linen bag spilling its dirty napkins. I squinted at How-hole’s outline. Neither of us spoke; even the rat stayed quiet.

  When it was apparent no one was being murdered—well, at least the two-legged variety anyway—he said, “Need help?” It came out so easily, like a commercial jingle that rolled off the tongue.

  Ignoring his aloofness, I dropped the linen and pushed past him to freedom. Only once I slammed the door behind us could I find my voice. “Rat,” I said breathlessly. Then I recounted my close encounter of the creepy-critter kind.

  How-hole stayed quiet, letting me blabber on. It was hard to tell if he was taking me seriously because it was impossible for me to make eye contact. I flicked my gaze between his chin and his forehead. My insides were in knots, wondering what he must think of me. Two mortifying moments within twenty-four hours must be a record.

  He simply nodded, then told me to wait. He returned quickly with a small tool kit and what looked like a humongous mousetrap. He’d taken off his usual white apron and was wearing a green T-shirt underneath. It had a logo of a giant “V” with two dudes in a canoe. “Nova Scotia Voyageurs” was written across the top.

  Was How-hole part of a portage club or something? It didn’t make sense for him to practice a serene sport. He seemed like more of a whitewater rafting kind of guy.

  Within minutes, How-hole had replaced the light bulb and cleaned up the remnants of the broken one. There was a relaxed confidence about him as he fixed my mess. I found myself star
ing at his hands while he worked.

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “No problem.” Then he sat on the stairs and hung out while I continued working on my linen bundles in the safety of the well-lit and rat-free hallway. I had to admit, a calm sense of relief had settled nicely in my nervous stomach. We were talking again and it wasn’t weird or forced.

  “It’s steaming hot today,” he said.

  “Seriously.” I counted off ten more napkins.

  He fiddled with a pair of pliers. “Looks like Loretta’s curried chicken was a hit with the brunch crowd.”

  “Ronnie had to refill the heating pan five times!” I raised my voice at the end like I was giving him the most awesome news in the world. When had I become so excited about curried chicken? I realized this was the most fun I’d had all day.

  It was nice being with How-hole this way. When I was around Blaine, I couldn’t form a sentence without stammering. It was almost painful sometimes, the ache to impress him.

  I pulled at the corners of the last tablecloth and made a tight knot. I surveyed my five bundles all ready for the laundry dude. How-hole joined me up the stairs, the tool box tucked under his arm.

  I was grateful he hadn’t brought up last night. I hoped my outburst wasn’t as bad as I remembered. Perhaps someone else had done something even more embarrassing later, conveniently pushing my performance to the back of everyone’s memory. The possibility gave me comfort.

  We reached the top of the stairs and sauntered across the dinning room toward the kitchen. “You know what bothers me the most though,” I said, now confident enough to look at him directly. “When people leave that one last bite on the plate. How could they not have room for that one last bite?”

  He looked confused.

  I continued, “Sometimes it’s even on the fork. Why would someone put the last piece of chocolate cake, or baked potato, or even chicken curry on their fork, and then just leave it there?”