Butterflies Don't Lie

by B. R. Myers

  It was close to the end of the lunch shift, three tables were on dessert, and one group of middle-aged tourists were finishing up their main course. A travel guide to the South Shore was sticking out of one woman’s purse.

  I was hovering like a vulture, ready to clear away the dishes. Chloe had been hopping around all afternoon, checking her watch fifty million times. Mr. Deveau was strict about the staff:patron ratio. I wanted to clear out this crowd so she could leave early for her rendezvous with Sam. She had been so nice to me, this was the least I could do for her.

  I puttered around the dining room, smoothing out tablecloths and placing candles on the tables for the supper shift, waiting for the signs that my table was done.

  After almost two weeks as a busgirl, I could predict when people were ready for the bill: laying their napkin across the plate, leaning back in the chair, taking that last sip of water.

  I approached the table of tourists with my busgirl smile firmly in place. “How was everything?” I asked, taking away their dishes.

  “Just lovely,” they praised.

  “I’m so glad,” I said. (Insert bigger busgirl smile.)

  I stacked the dirty plates on the tray waiting on the stand against the wall. I glanced at the last plate. She’d left one olive. “Are you finished?” I asked the woman.

  Her white visor turned up to me. “Yes, thank you,” she said, leaning back so I could take the plate.

  I stared at the olive, impaled on the end of her fork.

  “Are you sure?” I nettled. A little sarcasm snuck out by mistake.

  Julia came up behind me, and I felt a gentle nudge in my side. She took my place, offering them dessert menus. “You’ll be sorry if you leave without trying the raspberry cheesecake.” She winked at the faces around the table.

  I sheepishly took the last plate away and carried the teetering tray of dirty dishes into the kitchen.

  How-hole was wiping off the counter that ran alongside the massive industrial dishwasher. A half-filled tray of dirty plates and saucers sat on the stainless-steel track. He looked up when I plunked down my tray.

  “This is the last of the main course,” I told him. “A few tables are still on dessert, though.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  I wanted to think of something witty. It had been so busy today, I’d barely spent any time in the kitchen.

  I waved a hand at the lone olive. “Told you,” I said, wondering if he’d remember.

  He sadly shook his head. “That’s unacceptable,” he said.

  “Exactly,” I smiled. I helped him fill the dishwasher rack. Under his apron, I noticed he was wearing the T-shirt with the canoe dudes again. My hands were jammed inside my pockets fiddling with the bits of paper and peppermint wrappers. “So,” I started nodding to his T-shirt, “you like the outdoors?”

  He hefted the loaded dish rack into the washer, then slid down the door and hit a few buttons. How-hole was kind of on the skinny side, but the ease with which he moved those heavy racks around made me a little light-headed. He wiped his hands off with a dishtowel. “Sure,” he said.

  I counted to five in my head, hoping he would elaborate, but he stayed quiet. We had a staring contest, but instead of waiting for the other to blink we were waiting for the other to talk. A half grin was pulling at the edge of his mouth.

  The Cellophane wrappers crackling in my pocket gave away my nerves. I focused on keeping my nostrils still.

  “Here, Luke.” Loretta plunked a half-litre container of what looked like “Bowsky’s Bowl.” “Make this disappear for me, handsome.”

  “Consider it done,” he said. “Thanks.”

  “Anytime,” she sang back, already moving to the salad station, focused on the next task.

  I looked at the container and then at How-hole. His cheeks were rosier than usual. “Late lunch?” I asked.

  He sniffed and pushed the container to the side. “Supper,” he simply said. “My dad travels a lot.”

  “Oh.” The silent staring contest was about to start again. “Well,” I said, “it beats my dad’s macaroni and cheese. It’s always runny,” I explained. “And sometimes the bread crumbs on top get scorched.” I rocked back on my heels, wishing I hadn’t started this topic. “Chet likes it though. So, yeah.”

  I don’t think there has ever been lamer conversation in the history of lame conversations.

  “He’s cute,” he said.

  I smiled. “He knows it, too. He uses his charm to get whatever he wants.” I paused. “Even scorched macaroni and cheese.”

  He bent down, leaning on his elbows, looking up at me. “So,” he started, “what do you want?” He didn’t say it in the way Julia or Ronnie would ask a patron what they would like off the menu. His suggestive tone hinted at something more than “Bowsky’s Bowl.”

  My face grew warm. This was becoming a habit. How did he manage to turn the most innocent conversation into Confession ���?

  The answer was on the end of my tongue, but I refused to say it out loud. My heart was pounding. I held my breath, clutching a fistful of wrappers. “It doesn’t matter what I want,” I said. I grabbed my tray and pushed through the swinging door back into the dining room.

  Julia was serving a round of cheesecake to the tourists. I spied Chloe clearing the last of the tables in her section.

  My hands were jittery. I swallowed a few times. “Hey, Chloe,” I said. “Julia and I can handle that last table. I’ll do the linen count and everything. You can take off.”

  “Thanks,” she beamed. “I owe you.” She stacked a couple of coffee cups on her tray.

  “Um, hey,” I said, scooping up the dirty flatware. “How did you meet Sam?” I asked.

  She slipped off her cap. “He was a year ahead of me at school. We knew each other, but our paths didn’t cross so much.”

  I frowned. Now that she mentioned it, Sam did look a little familiar. I guess my popularity radar only went up so many grades.

  She lightly laughed. “He was kind of a jock in high school, but he’s really filled out since he went to university.”

  “No kidding.”

  “Anyway, he’s home for the summer and we just started hanging out again.” She smiled then turned, ready to change for her date.

  I jogged after her. “Wait,” I stopped and looked around, making sure a certain dishwasher wasn’t hanging out in the holding bar. I leaned in closer, “How do you know Sam is worth it? I mean, how do you know he’s the right guy for you?”

  God love Chloe. She didn’t laugh or give me a look full of pity. She only said one word: “Butterflies.”

  My shoulders dropped. I didn’t have the best luck with butterflies. When I was ten, I biked to a friend’s birthday party. It was only down the road from my house. Where that butterfly came from, I’ll never know, but that freak of nature fluttered right at my face and landed on my nose. I screamed and landed in the ditch, cutting open my knee. The scar is still there if you look closely enough.

  “Butterflies?” I said. And I’d swear that scar on my knee stated to throb.

  “You know,” she laughed. “It’s that funny swooping feeling you get in your stomach.”

  Chloe could tell I was disappointed. She put a hand on my shoulder. “The butterflies never lie,” she said.

  After Chloe left and the tables were cleared and prepared for the supper shift, I counted the linen in the basement, trying to remember the last time Blaine had given me stomach butterflies.

  I changed into my cut-offs and T-shirt and left through the kitchen porch. How-hole’s bike was gone. I glanced in the direction of the lido. A twinge of guilt pulled at my heart.

  I should have taken Mom up on her offer to help Chet in the pool.

  It wasn’t his fault I hated the wet stuff. I could have at least helped him master the float.

 
Instead of calling Dad for a drive, I opted to walk home. I needed to clear my head. I was so confused about what I wanted. I needed to focus. I wished I could talk to Francine, but the thing with Tanner was too awkward to ignore and I didn’t want to face that issue just yet.

  Half an hour later, I was dragging my feet up our driveway. I noticed the flower beds at once. Perfect edging with fresh mulch? Who knew those marigolds Chet and I planted a month ago could look so good? Dad must have been getting his green thumb on. Chet was crouched down beside one of the shrubs, staring at a butterfly fanning its wings.

  He jumped up and entwined himself around my legs. “How-hole,” he said, pointing to the flower beds.

  “Yeah, I get it,” I told him. “I see the butterfly too.” I ran a finger over my knee, looking for the bicycle-accident scar. Weird that Chet and I both think of How-hole now when we see butterflies.

  Mom cleared her throat from the doorway. She’d changed into her usual overall shorts and ponytail.

  Yes, overall shorts. Can you blame me for missing the fashion gene?

  “Supper’s almost ready,” she said.

  The house smelled like cheese…and burnt toast.

  Great.

  I slouched in my chair at the dining room table. My fork scratched around my plate while Chet bounced in his chair already asking for seconds.

  “Kelsey, please eat,” Mom said, not even looking up from her own plate.

  “I’m not that hungry, I snacked at work all day.” I pushed a few noodles around with my fork. Actually I snacked on peppermints all day, but that still counted as food to me.

  Mom sighed, then took her plate out to the kitchen. She grabbed a chocolate pudding cup from the cupboard. Seconds later, the door to her office shut and the keys on her computer started tapping.

  I glanced at Dad. The dark circles under his eyes would make an insomniac look radiant by comparison. He caught my eye and nodded to my neglected supper. “Just finish it, honey,” he said tiredly.

  I thought about How-hole and his little bucket of “Bowsky’s Bowl.” Was he eating by himself tonight? I pictured him hanging out on the couch in front of his television, the bucket of pasta in one hand and a fork in the other. My mouth watered.

  The funny thing is I don’t even like olives.

  I suddenly had an idea. I shovelled the rest of my supper into my mouth—even the very last bite on the fork—and went straight to my room. I closed the door and opened my laptop.

  Mom’s keys had stopped momentarily. I heard the squeak of her office chair. I put my earbuds in and started listening to my summer playlist. Hedley came on and I turned it up.

  The lyrics to “Kiss You Inside Out” filled the space in my head. I started my search engine and typed in “Nova Scotia Voyageurs.”

  After checking out the top sites it was obvious I was a dummy. The Voyageurs wasn’t a canoe club; it was an old hockey team that was once based in Halifax. What the heck was a thrill-seeking risk-taker doing wearing vintage sports logos?

  I went on Facebook and typed in “Luke+Nova Scotia Voyageurs.” I had no idea what How-hole’s last name was, but maybe he played hockey somewhere and was in a team photo.

  I must have looked at a billion photos of guys named Luke, but none of them were How-hole. I rubbed my eyes with my palms. I pulled the earbuds out; the playlist was getting on my nerves.

  My bedroom door creaked open. Dad stuck his head in.

  “Does Chet want me?” I automatically asked.

  Dad shook his head. “He’s been asleep for a while. He’s had a full day.”

  “Oh,” I said, remembering all the yardwork they’d done this afternoon. “The flower beds look nice, Dad.”

  “What? Oh, they do don’t they.” He sounded confused.

  What the hell was going on with him?

  “Lights out, Kels,” he said, nodding to my Snoopy alarm clock.

  Lights out? What am I a baby or something?

  “Yeah, sure. Good night.”

  He backed up and slowly shut my door. I stayed still. Mom’s keyboard was quiet.

  My eyelids were heavy. I glanced at the time.

  Sweet bacon turds! Midnight!

  My laptop glowed back at me accusingly. I’d spent my entire evening online searching for clues about How-hole and I hadn’t even looked at my spreadsheet.

  I fell back in bed and stared at the ceiling.

  Oh my God, I think I’m in love with How-hole.

  TWENTY

  I changed into my uniform and filled the water pitchers with ice. It was going to be another stinking hot day. I’d helped Chet practice his float a bit after his lesson and was still enjoying the coolness of the lido. This time, Mom had been early and she’d watched us from the bleachers. She’d ridden my bike down so I wouldn’t have to call home for a drive after my shift. It was an uncomfortable gesture. I’d never asked her to bring my bike. I wondered if she needed the car for something else and wasn’t telling me.

  Mr. Deveau paraded into the holding bar and handed out our paycheques. He was certainly dressed up for the occasion—white and blue-striped pants with a white crewneck sweater, topped off with a silk navy scarf, knotted twice in the front.

  I ripped open my envelope.

  “Don’t look at the gross amount,” Julia advised, “just the net. It’s too depressing to see what you actually earned.”

  Mr. Deveau glared at Julia. “When you’re done dissecting the tax system, give the brass bell in the bar a good polish,” he said. “We want everything perfect when Edward returns.”

  We watched him make his way to the kitchen. “Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Julia said.

  Ronnie giggled, then gave me a nudge. “I remember my first payday,” she said. “Are you going to buy something special to celebrate?”

  I thought of my holey Toms. “Maybe shoes,” I answered.

  “Oh, excellent choice,” Ronnie beamed.

  Julia moaned about polishing the bell. “I swear,” she complained. “Mr. D. lies awake at night thinking of extra mindless chores for us to do.” She mimicked his voice. “We want everything perfect when Edward, my love, returns.”

  Ronnie laughed, but the image of Edward abandoning his family to start a new life with someone half his age gave me the queasies.

  “I heard he left his wife,” I said quietly. I folded my cheque and slipped it into my apron pocket, a little embarrassed by my ability to gossip so easily.

  Julia was unaffected. “Meh,” she said. “Whatever. I’m sure it wasn’t a shock. Most people know when someone is cheating on them.” She leaned against the bar. “My last boyfriend was always working late, then he started going to the gym more often. He’d pick fights with me about stupid things. Finally, I broke up with him. And that’s when I found out he’d been seeing someone else. He called his other girlfriend and she came by and picked up his stuff.”

  My jaw was on the floor. “What? Weren’t you furious?”

  “Of course.” She gave me a funny look. “But life is like that, you know, totally unpredictable. You can’t plan anything because it turns on a dime.”

  “No one should ever get married,” I said, more to myself.

  Ronnie gave me an amused expression. “You’ve never been in love.”

  I rolled my eyes. “You’re the romantic type,” I said. “It’s easy for you to believe in love when you’ve got guys falling all over you.”

  Ronnie and Julia shared a look, then started to laugh.

  “What?” I said, feeling my cheeks heat up. “You’re blonde and bubbly, any guy would date you.”

  Ronnie composed herself. “Well, my girlfriend would agree with you on that one.”

  I stared at Ronnie.

  She only laughed at my dumb reaction. “Like Julia said,” Ronnie reminded me, “life is unpredictable. I guess some
things are more fun when you discover them on your own.”

  I spent most of my time that day re-folding napkins and making up excuses to avoid the kitchen. I’d seen How-hole earlier when I arrived at work on my bike. He was dropped off by Brooke.

  I ignored how the sight of that red car burned like an ulcer in my gut. I took this as a sign from the universe I was taking the right path.

  That morning, I’d woken up determined that I, in fact, did not love How-hole, but was rather intrigued by the mystery of him. I’d even convinced myself that the stomach swoops I felt when I pictured his blue eyes were NOT butterflies, but probably nervous gas bubbles.

  Most importantly, I had this simple fact to rely on: Blaine was my perfect match, always had been. Chloe may think butterflies never lie, but neither do magazines. I was pinning all my hopes on the proven psychology of Modern Teen and Cosmo Chick.

  Lunch went by quickly. I pictured myself biking back home way before I was ready to enter the gloomy zone.

  Between Mom’s reclusive pattern and Dad’s chronic fatigue syndrome—or whatever he had going on—work was far more hospitable.

  Thankfully, a flurry of reservations came in for the evening crowd, and Mr. Deveau asked me to do a double shift. Loretta made up plates for Ronnie, Julia, and I from the lunch leftovers.

  We met in the holding bar and ate off our laps. I warmed up a basket of bread for us. I told them about Chet and the work Mom and Dad did. I didn’t say too much after that; I had an uncomfortable ache in my stomach that had nothing to do with butterflies or blue eyes.

  I pushed my food around, making patterns with the rice while Ronnie and Julia talked. I stayed quiet. Things were weird at home. Julia’s story about her ex-boyfriend lurked around the back of my brain, colouring every thought with a sense of foreboding.

  I called the house to say I’d be working extra hours. Dad tiredly answered the phone. His only concern was me biking home late at night.

  “Dad, we don’t live in Vegas,” I grumbled. I pictured Frank’s shiny red SUV, but I shrugged off the image. It wasn’t like he trolled the streets or anything—at least not on purpose.