Butterflies Don't Lie

by B. R. Myers

It rocked with his weight. I grabbed the handrail, probably getting more germs into my cut. “Then why aren’t you teaching sailing instead of washing dishes?” I asked him. I was impressed I’d managed to think of a question to help solve one of his little mysteries.

  He stood in front of me, dripping. I was too frightened to even give his nipples a glance. “All the jobs at the yacht club were gone by the time I moved down from the city.” He reached for me again. “Don’t be scared,” he said. “The water is great.”

  “My blood will attract the sharks.” I held up my prune-like hand as evidence, but he was unconvinced. “Look at my outfit,” I pleaded.

  “Take off your skirt,” he suggested. “I’ll be in the water, turned the other way.” He stayed quiet, waiting for me to release my death grip on the handrail. “You’ll feel better.”

  “No.”

  “We’ll play Marco Polo.”

  “No.”

  “Why are you so determined to turn me down?” His voice had lost its teasing. He stared back at me, unflinching.

  Dammit! I’m always the one to look away first.

  “It’s not you,” I finally sighed.

  “So you do like me,” he smiled.

  “I didn’t say that.” I sat back down. “Besides, you’ve got Brooke and her red car. Isn’t she enough?”

  He seemed to enjoy that last remark. “I already told you, you and Brooke are nothing alike.”

  This guy was like the Mad Hatter; he made no sense.

  “I don’t like the water. Okay?” I played with the end of my skirt.

  “Sharks?” he guessed.

  “No.”

  “Leeches?”

  “No.”

  “Jellyfish?”

  I huffed. “No. It’s the water!”

  He screwed up his face. “Seriously? Even in a p—”

  “Yes, even in a pool!” I blew on my hand.

  “Always?

  “No. And that’s enough questions, all right?”

  He sat down beside me. I could see some kind of scrollwork along his scar. I tried not to stare at the tattoo. “What if someone was drowning?” he asked me. “Would you jump in then?”

  “I’d call 911.” I thought for a second then changed my answer. “Unless it was Chet, then I’d jump in and save him.”

  He nodded, then let himself slip back into the water. His head disappeared.

  “Very funny,” I said. I turned back to the Queen’s Galley. The windows of the bar were open. The sounds of laughter and clinking glasses echoed down. I pictured Blaine leaning against the wall, a beer in one hand, his eyes roaming around the room. What if I changed into my clothes and slipped into the bar? Would Blaine notice me then?

  He had smiled before I closed the door. It was so loud when I let him and his friends in through the French doors. He probably hadn’t heard me say I was finished my shift. I closed my eyes. I can’t give up on him yet, I thought. Not after all the time I’ve spent dreaming about him.

  I glanced at my watch—maybe it wasn’t too late to try. Besides, I’d thrown up on the guy and he’d still smiled at me. That was worth something, right?

  “I’m going back up,” I announced to the still water. I counted to five. “I’m going back up!” I shouted. No bubbles.

  What had Julia said about him the first day?

  “He’s not dangerous, he’s crazy.”

  I dropped to my knees and brought my face close to the water. “How-hole!” I screamed. I reached my hands in up to my elbows, blindly searching the water with my fingers. My heart was slamming against my chest. How long had I been daydreaming?

  “I need help!” I screamed.

  Something grabbed my wrists and pulled.

  I tipped forward and plunged face-first into the black water.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I was flailing, but moving nowhere. My fist hit something soft. I coughed out a mouthful of water.

  “Kels!” His voice was urgent. “Calm down…ouch!” His voice was near my ear. Hands were suddenly pushing me up out of the water. I scrambled onto the float. My hair was plastered over my face. I pushed myself to sitting. My skirt was heavy and stuck to my legs, weighing me down.

  I ran a hand under my nose and glared at How-hole through my stringy hair. He was sitting on the edge of the dock, staring at me intently, his eyes wild.

  “I told you!” I blurted out.

  “You told me you were afraid of water, not that you couldn’t swim.”

  I was a soggy lump. “Same thing,” I muttered.

  “Hardly,” he said. “Lots of kids are afraid, but they still learn.” He watched me a little while longer. “How does someone who lives on an island—”

  “Peninsula,” I interrupted.

  “Fine,” he sighed. “How does someone who lives very close to the ocean, not know how to swim?”

  “It’s a long story,” I told him.

  He leaned back on his hands and crossed his feet in front of him. “I’m listening,” he said.

  I pushed the hair off my face and took some deep breaths. “My parents didn’t put a lot of stock in summer sports. I was almost eight before they thought to put me in swimming lessons.” I met his gaze, but this time I didn’t turn away. I fixed my skirt and continued.

  “I still remember how exciting it was to get that first sticker for putting my face in the water. I envisioned myself winning an Olympic gold medal. I couldn’t wait to earn a real badge.”

  I paused and tried to read his expression. No hint of a sarcastic grin. He nodded for me to continue.

  “Then Mom got pregnant, which was a total surprise, and when Chet arrived, what little time my parents had for me went straight to him. By the next summer everything had changed, but I hadn’t forgotten about my Olympic dream. I begged my parents to sign me up for swimming again.”

  I hugged my knees to my chest. “I wanted that badge so badly. Most kids my age had at least three badges sewn onto their towels.

  “The first few days went really well,” I continued, trying to keep the quiver out of my voice. “Mom would be on the bleachers with Chet on her lap while I did my lesson. He was so busy, though, constantly wiggling out of her arms. Mom was terrified he’d topple down the stairs.”

  A loud explosion of laughter from the bar echoed down to us. I turned my head toward the noise, but How-hole kept looking at me.

  “It’s his nature to wander,” he said, matter of fact. “Wanderlust,” he smiled.

  “Yeah,” I said, remembering how I’d lost Chet only two weeks ago. “I don’t blame Chet for what happened.” My stomach began to twist. I let out a long sigh. “The class was doing this game called ‘Bombs Away.’ The instructor stands in the water and all the little kids jump off the edge of the pool. Then they have ten seconds to climb out and jump in again before the instructor calls out ‘bombs away’ again. Each time the instructor counts lower—until the end, when you only have one second to get out of the pool.”

  “How far did you get?” he asked.

  “Four,” I said proudly. “I was killing the other kids. But it was hard to tell who was in the lead because everyone was supposed to keep jumping in and climbing out. The water was a mass of kids splashing and screaming.”

  I took in a deep breath. “The thing is, when it happened, no one was watching me—not even my mom.”

  How-hole stayed quiet. He hadn’t moved an inch. I don’t think anyone but Chet had ever been so focused on my words.

  I ignored the fluttering in my chest. “The last time I jumped in,” I continued, “someone came down on top of me. All I could see were bubbles. It felt like my arms and legs were frozen. I wanted to swim up, but my head hit the bottom instead.” I looked at him. “I remember that part so clearly. I thought I’d hit the pool cover or something. I was completely disori
ented. I thought I was swimming to the surface.

  “Then hands were under my arms lifting me out. I coughed at the side of the pool while the instructor made sure I was all right. I must have swallowed some water because my throat burned for the rest of the afternoon.” I paused my story, watching the moon reflect patterns off the water.

  “Mom didn’t understand why I kept asking for ice cream that day,” I said. “She never saw what happened, even when the instructor wrapped me up in my towel and was patting my back.”

  How-hole waited a few beats, making sure my story was finished, then he asked, “Why didn’t you tell her?”

  “I was angry at her,” I said. “I almost drowned. Then I was too embarrassed to say anything. It would only sound like I was looking for attention. I thought it would go away by the next week, but the fear of being trapped under water stayed with me…Mom talked to the instructor, but by that time my incident in the pool had shrunken to a mishap that no one considered important. I hadn’t been hurt, so Mom let it go.”

  How-hole tilted his head and studied my expression. It was unnerving to be listened to with such attention.

  “And since I was dead set against going back to lessons,” I explained, “that meant she wouldn’t have to wrestle with Chet at the pool anymore that summer.” Then I added bitterly, “It was an easy out for her. I never got back to the pool that summer. I never went beyond that sticker.” I traced a line in the wood with my fingers. It was strange to share this with him, but I wasn’t embarrassed or even ashamed.

  How-hole spun around, letting his legs dangle in the water. We watched the phosphorous glow around the tiny waves. “So, yeah,” I said. “I have aquaphobia. Now you know my big secret.”

  He ran a hand through his hair. It was starting to dry and the blue bits were sticking up. “But you’re making your decision based on fear,” he said.

  “That’s because I’m afraid of drowning.”

  “No,” he said. “You’re afraid of how the water makes you feel. Like you’ve failed at something.”

  I let out a very ladylike snort of indignation. “That sounds like something a psychiatrist would say.”

  “Maybe that’s because I see one.”

  Water was still dripping from both of us. The night was hot enough to keep the chill off my skin. Oddly enough, How-hole had been right about the dip; I did feel better, less sticky. He sensed my mood had improved and shifted his body nearer. I leaned forward, taking a closer look at the scar that was partly covered with a tattoo.

  He lifted his arm, letting me see the whole phrase. “No one is to blame,” I read. My eyes lingered on his skin longer than necessary. My gaze slowly moved up his chest and met his eyes. “What does it mean?” I asked.

  “It’s from a song,” he explained. “An old song. I heard it on the radio, when…” He shifted his weight again, letting the end of the sentence drift off.

  “The one you were singing that day?”

  He grinned sheepishly, and I knew he was blushing. “Yeah, but you should hear it properly, like on iTunes or something.” There was an innocent quality to his voice that I found intriguing. I could’ve listened to him talk all night. “Anyway,” he continued, “it’s about when something doesn’t seem fair and how to handle it. If you can’t change it, then you just have to wait.”

  “Wait for what?”

  “For the thing you’re supposed to care about.”

  The air was so still around us, but it felt charged. I was afraid to blink and mess up the perfect simplicity of the moment. This boy didn’t sound crazy or dangerous to me.

  He leaned closer still, and faced me directly. “What do you want?” he asked, his eyes searching my face. “Like right now, more than anything in the world?”

  I realized this was the second time he’d asked me that. It’s a simple question, really. Only four little words. But coming from How-hole, the way his mouth formed the sentence, gave the question a weight that made me blush.

  The words were in my heart, but the answer didn’t come out. My lips trembled and I looked away. “I don’t know,” I lied. “For Chet to always be okay, I guess.” I tried turning the tables. “And you?” I asked him.

  He took a deep breath, then looked at the stars. “I want to make my dad proud,” he simply stated.

  We stayed on the float, listening to the crowd wind down at the bar. My skirt slowly dried. How-hole slung his T-shirt over his shoulder and gave me a hand up. “I could give you private swimming lessons,” he said. “I’m pretty comfortable around water.”

  “Clearly.” I fluffed out my white peasant blouse, extra glad I’d worn a plain white bra today for my impromptu wet T-shirt contest. “You know,” I said, stepping onto the lawn, “we still stink. You’ll have to shower before Brooke picks you up.”

  He stopped and asked, “Why do you think I’m dating Brooke?”

  “She drives you around,” I said. “And she wears crocheted stuff and likes flirting with guys.” It had sounded much more sane inside my head.

  “She lives close to me, that’s all. Plus, I have a landscaping job she sometimes offers to drive me to.” He smiled widely, like he was enjoying a secret joke.

  “Convenient.” I gave him my best “yeah right” face and continued walking up the green slope.

  “She’s only a friend,” he called out, laughing at me.

  My heart felt a little bit lighter. “Makes no difference to me.”

  I let him catch up with me. I tried to remember the tune to his song. We crossed through the shadow of the shed. I felt his hand on my elbow and I stopped. We were standing toe to toe. “Since we’re talking about dating,” he said. “There’s this thing coming up and I want you to be there. I mean—”

  “LUKE!”

  Our heads snapped up. The kitchen door was wide open. The owner of the Queen’s Galley, Blaine’s soon-to-be-married uncle, filled the doorway. His face was the colour of beets.

  “Edward?” I said, so surprised to see him I’d forgotten to address him formally. “I mean, sir,” I squeaked.

  His fierce expression made me wish I’d stayed quiet. This wasn’t going to be a cozy conversation.

  “Mr. Mulder is enough, Kelsey.”

  My cheeks grew warm. Mr. Mulder it is, I thought. Not that I’d ever want to be on a first-name basis with someone who treated their family like crap.

  How-hole took a few steps ahead of me. His hands were out by his sides. “I can explain,” he began.

  “Please do!” Mr. Mulder said. He stomped down the stairs and waved an arm at the mess all over the ground.

  “Oh shit,” I repeated. The dog must have come back and feasted while we were contemplating each other’s fears. All the garbage was strewn across the grass. The smell was putrid. I saw a pile of what must have been dog barf.

  “I come off the plane and rush to get here,” he started, “and the first thing I see is this mess.”

  How-hole and I were so fired. I didn’t care so much about me, but what about his psychiatrist and jail work term or whatever? God! There was so much I didn’t know about him.

  Mr. Mulder tilted back his head and looked down his nose at me. His glare was unsettling. I looked at the dog barf and had to hold my gut, worried I would add to it.

  Mr. Mulder broke off the stare, satisfied he’d scared the crap out of me. Cool and suave one second and lethal the next. I was glad my skirt was still wet, because I was in danger of peeing my pants any second.

  He looked at How-hole and waved a hand at the mess. “Clean this up,” he ordered. A box of garbage bags was on the ground by his feet. “You told me you were taking responsibility for your actions now.”

  “A dog chased us!” he said.

  I nodded quickly. “He’s right, sir.” I gulped, then corrected myself. “I mean, Mr. Mulder.”

  Mr. Mulder focuse
d on me again, his face softening this time. “You look like you’ve worked hard today, Kelsey.” He remembered my name. I hated how special that made me feel. “But Luke knows this is his mistake to take care of.” Then he reached out and patted my shoulder. “Time to get home,” he said.

  I snuck a peek at How-hole, but he was already moving toward the box of garbage bags. “You’ll need gloves,” I said softly. Mr. Mulder beat me to it and produced a set from his pocket.

  I ran into the kitchen and ducked under the window. If Mr. Mulder was going to fire How-hole, I intended to say something—including all the crap he’d covered up for me.

  Mr. Mulder began a lecture about garbage and responsibility. He kept on like a sergeant, but How-hole was silent until the very end. Then all he said were two words.

  “Sorry, Dad.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  I rolled onto my side and pressed the pillow against my ear, but I could still hear them arguing. Mom had been out when I came home still smelling of garbage in my damp uniform. Dad was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at an alumni magazine. I watched him from the doorway and gave a few standard lies about how well work was going.

  I noticed that he didn’t turn a page the whole time I’d been standing there. His eyes were fixed on the print, but he obviously wasn’t reading. That uncomfortable feeling swirled around in my gut again. He finally looked up when Mom’s car sounded in the driveway. For some reason, I didn’t want to be there when she came through the front door. I had a quick shower and slipped into bed.

  My head was pounding. Luke was Mr. Mulder’s son, and Blaine’s cousin. Oh, God! The things I had said that night at the party to Chloe about him, and all the while his son had been listening to every word. I’d had no idea how much of a how-hole I’d become.

  Mom’s voice was growing urgent. I couldn’t make out the words, but I didn’t have to. Dad sounded tired, almost desperate. What the hell was going on? I couldn’t remember the last time the four of us had done anything fun together.

  I’m never getting married, being in love sucks.

  The voices finally stopped. Footsteps came down the hall. I heard Mom and Dad’s bedroom door click shut, then the sound of Mom’s keyboard tapping away in her office. I glanced at my Snoopy alarm clock. It was past midnight.