The Brave

by James Bird

  She pulls the cart over on a small bluff that overlooks a vast field of green grassy hills below us. All reckless sense of adventure in her eyes is gone and is now replaced with a calm collection of every emotion lying perfectly still on her face, like a frozen lake. In her eyes, I see happy. I see sad. I see excitement. I see fear. I see courage. I see heartbreak. I see bliss. I see longing. I see joy. I see a strong young woman, and I also see a nervous little girl.

  She picks up her cane. I jump out of the golf cart and run around it to meet her while she stands.

  “Thanks,” she says as I help her out.

  Together, we slowly walk toward the cliff, which makes me really nervous, given that I’m super clumsy and her legs don’t work very well.

  “We’re here,” she says as she stops inches from the edge.

  “Eight,” I say, and my jaw immediately drops at what I see next.

  In the center of this green field of grass that is spread out in all directions, bookended by forest, there lies a beautiful garden with a small, thin, crystal-clear river running through it.

  Our eyes take in the hundreds of colorful flowers.

  “Wow,” I say, and she slips her hand into my hand again.

  “Isn’t it beautiful?” she says, not bothering to wipe the escaping tear from her eyes.

  “It’s the second most beautiful thing I have ever seen,” I say.

  Her eyes leave the paradise in front of us and meet mine. “The second most?” she asks.

  “You’re the first,” I say, and squeeze her hand, hoping that if I apply enough pressure, our hands will merge into one, so I will always be holding her.

  Her smile grows, but the rest of her face is still crowded with other emotions, and I think I know why. We are here, but I don’t see her mother. As the thought leaves my head, she turns back to the garden in the middle of the clearing.

  “They’re coming to meet you,” she says.

  I look toward the clearing. “Who?”

  “My family,” she says, and a few more rogue tears run down her sun-kissed cheeks.

  I squint. “Eight. Where?” I ask.

  And before she can answer, I see something. Movement. I squint and focus … And then I see it. An entire troop of butterflies flutter up from the garden and head toward us. They’re flapping, zigzagging, and floating in the air like a multicolored cloud, moving closer and closer. I stand perfectly still as they reach us. They dance around Orenda and me, spinning around us—watching us. Like an exploded rainbow caught in a slow and gentle tornado.

  “Is this real?” I ask.

  She takes in a deep breath. “Very real,” she says, and as she exhales, her warm breath forms a cloud.

  The butterflies range in sizes from small as a nickel to as big as my hand. And even though they don’t make sounds, there is a constant hum from their beating wings. The kind of comfortable hum that would put a baby to sleep.

  Orenda extends her hand and waits. And a few moments later, one butterfly with brown and yellow wings breaks from the group and lands on her fingertip. It moves its wings up and down, twitches its antennae left and right, and nods its head. In return, Orenda smiles and lets the tears flow freely down her cheeks. The butterfly launches off her finger and joins the group.

  “This is my family,” she says.

  “You have a very … colorful family.”

  “Everyone’s family is colorful … but not everyone’s family can fly like mine.” There is such pride in her voice.

  Orenda is inches away from the edge of the bluff. I want to reach out and grab her, but she seems steadier than ever.

  “Meet the Count,” she says to the butterflies.

  Then all the butterflies change direction and begin to circle me.

  This is by far the most amazing thing I’ve ever experienced. This is magic. Magic is real.

  The same butterfly that was on her fingertip breaks again from the rest and flutters over toward my face. I keep perfectly still as it lands on my nose. My human eyes are inches away from the butterfly’s eyes. It’s so close, it’s hard to focus on it, but then it spreads its beautiful yellow-framed brown wings, which immediately eases my vision, almost hypnotizing me. Wait a minute! I recognize this butterfly. It looks exactly like the one that was in my bedroom the night before I arrived in Minnesota. How is that even possible?

  “Hi,” I say, and my cold breath moves across its little body. It bats its wings at me, gives almost a full-body wiggle, then lifts off of my nose and floats back to Orenda, this time landing on her nose. They share a moment of silence together. Orenda is smiling, and I don’t know how I know this, but the butterfly is smiling too.

  “Yes, Mama,” Orenda says.

  The butterfly extends its wings and slowly bats them twice. They are communicating. Orenda speaks Butterfly.

  Then it lifts off of her nose and rejoins the group.

  And after another full circle around Orenda, the butterflies ride the wind back down to their lush floral paradise. Orenda and I stand speechless for a few moments.

  “You know what a group of butterflies is called?” she asks.

  “No, what?”

  She takes my hand and pulls me close to her. Our bodies are almost touching. Her lips are near mine. Her eyes are near mine. I can feel her breath on my cheeks.

  “A kaleidoscope,” she says, and the exact moment the word leaves her mouth, she leans in and kisses me.

  I’ve been alive for almost 400 million seconds, but this second happening right now is the only one that matters. She pulls away and looks me in the eyes. I don’t know what to say. I should say something. I don’t even know if I remember how to speak. I’m just smiling … but so is she.

  “Thanks,” I finally blurt out.

  She laughs. “You’re welcome?” she says, and with her cane in hand, she slowly walks back to the golf cart.

  I try to join her, but I’m frozen. My legs are still thinking about our kiss. They won’t move. I tell my brain to get back to work, but it’s too busy reliving that moment. The most interesting girl on this planet just kissed me. I finally force my arms up and touch my lips, just to make sure they are still on my face. I’m numb. Not from the cold, but from Orenda.

  My brain finally kicks in, and I turn around. Orenda is in the golf cart, waiting for me. But this time she’s in the passenger seat. I guess she doesn’t want to drive away from her family.

  She kissed me. I should have kissed her back. That’s all I can think as I slowly meander back to her—that and hope my wobbly legs don’t give out on me. I sit down in the golf cart and turn to her.

  “You said ‘Yes, Mama,’ to that butterfly. Yes, what?”

  “She asked me a question about you.”

  “What question?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” she says.

  I tally up her letters and reach for the radio. She stops my hand.

  “No. Let’s hear the wind this time.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  SECOND KISS, FIRST FIGHT   (35)

  Orenda doesn’t say much to me when we finally arrive home. She has been in her head since the breathtaking butterfly spectacle. I haven’t said much either, although I have a thousand and one questions for her now. I met her family—well, I met a kaleidoscope of butterflies that she believes to be her family, and if that’s the case, then I not only met her mom, but her mom actually stood on my nose. Maybe I’m dreaming?

  What I do know is that her mother was a human once. And if she is now a butterfly, that means she’s no longer a human, but has changed. And my mother says Orenda is changing too. So does that mean Orenda believes she will die and become a butterfly? Nope. I still refuse to believe it. I’d rather believe her doctors will find out what’s wrong with her and will help her.

  After dinner, after my three three-minute rounds of boxing, after my shower, I’m in my room, ready for more reading.

  I open the book to where I left off, but I can’t stop thinking of
Orenda. Our kiss plays on a constant loop in my brain, like a movie. And it’s the best movie I’ve ever seen. I’ve titled it My Kaleidoscope Kiss. Starring Orenda and the Count. Playing now in my head. Over and over.

  I even told Seven all about it, but she doesn’t find romance flicks all that interesting. She prefers action movies with tons of food, slobbery tennis balls, and dodgy squirrel villains.

  But this is no movie. This is reality. And in reality, not every story has a happy ending. I need to find out what’s going on with her. I need hope.

  Oh, great. Now I’m crying. I need to calm down. I need to focus. I bury my head in the book and continue reading.

  * * *

  It’s three thirty in the morning. I’m in tears. Chick book? I’m such an idiot. This book was amazing. If anyone is afraid of ghosts, all they have to do is read this book and they’ll no longer be scared of them, but instead want to be best friends with one. Maybe even develop a crush on one. Imagine that.

  I close the book and realize that it is in no way only for girls. Because this story was of a true fearless warrior. And the coolest part is, our hero didn’t start off fearless. She was scared and alone, in a new place with no friends, just like me. But she found her courage by believing in magic and, more important, by following her heart, instead of giving in to her fears. That’s what I need to do. I need to follow my heart if I’m ever going to defeat this numeric beast in my brain. I hope I can figure out how. All I know for sure is that if I did follow my heart, it would lead me directly up into a certain tree house. But first I need to sleep. I have to wake up in four hours for school. I pull Seven up to my chest, listen to her heart song, and drift off to sleep.

  “Good night, Orenda.”

  * * *

  I’m in the middle of math class, where the teacher has suggested I sit in the back, so I don’t bother anyone with my counting. I stare at my worksheet and can’t help but see the irony. All these numbers we are working on, and solving, are perfectly normal. No one bats an eye at them. No one protests them. No one crumples their paper up in frustration because there are numbers written on them … but if I happen to respond in numbers, people label me a freak.

  Literally every single person the teacher calls on blurts out the answer, which is a number. Seriously! I keep my head down and ride it out until the bell rings. The good thing about being stuck in the back is that when we’re dismissed, I am the closest to the door. I dart out of class so fast, you’d think it was filling up with lava. Not only because I am excited to get out of class, but I have a more pressing reason … I need to pee, really badly.

  Buzz-cut Josh is in the bathroom with two of his buddies. They are writing on the mirrors with black Sharpies, and as I run in, they stop and look at me. This is going to suck … but I have to go, so I make a beeline to the urinals.

  I unzip and piss an entire gallon before I hear their footsteps approach me.

  “Hey, freak,” Josh says.

  “Eight,” I say back, hoping this is all they have.

  But I know it isn’t. “Just leave me alone, guys,” I say. “I’ve heard it all a hundred times.”

  “A hundred times? Interesting. Now, are you sure it’s a hundred and not a thousand?”

  “Maybe it was a million?” one of his friends chimes in.

  “Or maybe it was a hundred million?” his other friend adds.

  Their numbers fill up in my skull. I try to think about clouds, hoping they’ll save me. But before I can tally up the letters, they begin laughing.

  Warm. Then immediately followed by cold. Now I know why they’re laughing. I turn around and see Josh with his pants pulled down. He’s peeing on me. First the back of my thigh, but now that I’ve turned to face him, his stream is hitting my front.

  Anger boils within me. I know what I should do. I should treat them all like my punching bag, but I don’t. Last time I threw a punch, I was the one who was expelled. And I don’t want to be sent away again. I think of the book I read last night, but that won’t help me right now because I don’t know any spells to place on these jerks; plus, I’m not a witch. So I try my very best to let the anger dry up inside of me, even with wet pants. Josh stares at me, waiting for me to do something. I think he wants me to hit him. I think he’s looking for a reason to beat me up, but instead, I zip up my pants and stare back at him.

  “You done?” I ask.

  He smiles and zips up.

  “What are you going to do about it?” he asks.

  “Twenty-six. I’m gonna…”

  He laughs. “You’re gonna what?” he says, and steps forward, getting right into my face.

  “Fourteen. I’m gonna wash my hands,” I say, and sidestep away from him.

  I head to the sink. I glance at the mirror and see them staring at me. I try to ignore the wet-cold-sticky feeling on my leg as I scrub.

  Josh walks up to me, pushes me out of the way, and writes FREAK on the mirror with his Sharpie. He wants a reaction, but I don’t give him one. Sure, I want to pound his face in. Instead, I grab a few paper towels and dry my hands.

  “You pissed?” he says, emphasizing the word, which causes his friends to laugh.

  “Nine. That’s no in German,” I say, and walk out of the bathroom.

  I try to collect myself as I walk down the hall. I didn’t even realize how fast my heart was beating and how shaky my hands were. I just want to get home and change my pants.

  I walk out of school and get on the bus as fast as I can. I don’t know what’s worse, people thinking I pissed myself or people thinking I just let someone take a piss on me.

  I take a seat and try ignore the smell coming from my jeans. The bus fills up, and we pull off of campus. I slip my headphones on and hit PLAY. As the song starts, I search for the one positive thing to come out of this pee-stained situation … Well, I’ve had a lot of things happen to me from bullies in school, but being peed on is definitely a first. At least I wasn’t pooped on. There. I guess that’s a good thing.

  Do I tell my mom what happened to me today? I know I should, but she’ll most likely want me to report it to the principal. Her intentions will be good, but that would only make things worse for me. Back in California, the principals said things like “boys will be boys” or “these kids will someday grow out of this phase and become better people—let’s not make life harder for them over this one incident.”

  Which totally sucks, because it completely dismisses what the bullies did. And somehow, it always becomes my fault. I had to transfer. I was the distraction. It’s never them who suffer. Even my dad said I shouldn’t take this stuff so personally, because this is how kids are. But it’s not. I’m a kid, and I’d never pee on someone. I think kids only act this way because sometimes adults let them.

  As I step off the bus and begin walking to my house, I find myself stewing in anger again. I don’t want to hate people. I need to think of people that are good. I know they are out there. Like my mom, who has not yet once showed any sign of fatigue or frustration when speaking with me. She’s a good person. And like my grandma, who barely notices my counting problem. And when she does notice, she makes me feel like it’s some hidden gift that I just don’t know how to use yet. Even those two little kids are good people. They see life the way it should be seen.

  And like Orenda.

  None of these people seem to be annoyed or frustrated with me. In fact, they are nicer to me than I am to myself. I should follow their lead and give myself a break sometimes. But it’s difficult not being normal, especially in your own head. Half of me agrees with what Josh wrote on the mirror, but if being normal means picking on people that are different from you, well then, maybe I don’t want to be normal after all.

  My jeans are still wet because it’s so cold out. I think the pee froze into the denim, which is pressing tightly against my leg, giving me the shivers as I walk up my driveway.

  Orenda’s dad is sitting cross-legged in the center of his front yard staring up at the su
n with his eyes closed. What is he doing, meditating? This is the first time I actually get a good look at him. Yesterday when we drove off in the cart, we were in such a hurry, but now I can focus on him and notice his features, which are quite impressive. He has long straight black hair, like his daughter, and his body is lean and strong-looking. If I thought it was possible, I’d work out every day and devote my life to being able to look like him one day. But it’s not possible. I’m too pale and scrawny. His skin is a shade darker than Orenda’s, probably from doing what he is doing now, meditating out in the sun. I’d be sunburned in twenty minutes. But this guy just sits and soaks it all in … In fact, is he even awake?

  I tiptoe toward my backyard so I don’t disturb him, but more because I don’t want him to see that my pants have a huge pee stain on them.

  I quietly open the gate and shut it softly behind me. I take two steps in and wait for Seven to slobber me with kisses, but she doesn’t. Where is she?

  “Seven?” I shout.

  Nothing. I look around the entire yard, but Seven isn’t here. I pull the sliding glass door aside and search the house. Where is Seven?

  Finally, when I reach my room, I see a note on my bed. It says Took her on an adventure. Love, Grandma.

  I sigh in relief and grab another pair of black jeans out from my closet and run into the bathroom. I want to brush my teeth, just in case I get to kiss Orenda again.

  After dousing my leg with a wet soapy washcloth, I slip my clean jeans on and rush out of the bathroom. The thought of kissing her again makes me nervous. And this sudden nervousness makes me try to run faster than my feet will allow, and at the same time, it feels like my feet are each a hundred pounds of wet cement. I leave the house and make it to the fence while trying to look as cool and calm as possible. I don’t want her to see me so clumsily smitten.

  The rope is down, waiting for me. I smile and grab hold.

  This time, it takes less than ten seconds to reach the top, which is easily my best climb yet.