Red Butterfly Read online

  so much blue water

  I think we must

  be crossing another ocean

  on a bridge that never ends.

  But then the bridge does end,

  and the van sails along

  wide, smooth roads

  rimmed in

  brilliant green trees,

  narrow white paths

  that are sidewalks

  as clean as if

  nobody ever walked on them,

  blue sky

  as if nobody ever

  breathed on it.

  Mrs. Gurnsey glances back at me

  and says,

  We’ll go to the beach

  as much as we like!

  Especially when Grandma

  comes to visit this summer!

  And Rosalie says,

  And we’ll take Kara to Busch Gardens

  and Disney World!

  But I close my eyes, wondering

  if Montana is the same

  as this,

  if it can possibly be

  as clean,

  as beautiful, and

  how long do I have to wait

  until I can go there?

  Drive Through

  You’ve eaten here before, right, Kara?

  Mr. Gurnsey says,

  pulling into a parking lot,

  then a narrow road

  with other cars lined up.

  The kids are all starving.

  At least,

  that’s what they say:

  I’m starving!

  I’m starving!

  He rolls down his window

  in front of a lighted board

  covered in pictures

  of food.

  What do you all want?

  he calls over his shoulder.

  The rest of them know:

  burgers

  fries

  Em wants ice cream

  How about you, Kara?

  he asks.

  I know this place

  with its big yellow M,

  but I’m too embarrassed to say

  I only ate here once

  and didn’t like it,

  that if I eat one of those

  piled-up white ice cream cones

  I might throw up

  all over their beautiful

  (dusty)

  van.

  House

  The Gurnseys’ house

  is down a white, winding drive

  rimmed in funny trees

  with long, smooth trunks,

  prickly leaves

  sprouting from their tops.

  I think the house is a hotel

  until Mr. Gurnsey stops the van

  close to it

  and says,

  Home sweet home.

  The front door makes a

  bleeping noise when you open it,

  and the ceiling soars

  up

  up

  up

  to a high, round place

  where a hanging light

  shimmers with shards of colored glass.

  Downstairs there’s

  a room with a big table,

  colored balls scattered

  that you can roll with your hand

  or plunk with a stick.

  (If you use the stick

  be careful not to scrape

  the green fabric.)

  There is a swimming pool

  through a door in the back

  surrounded

  by windows

  so sunshine

  pours in.

  Mr. Gurnsey asks

  if I know how to swim.

  I shake my head,

  unwilling to tell him

  that even the bathtub

  at the hotel

  scared me.

  My room is

  down a hallway

  with carpet soft as cloud.

  Em is on one side,

  Rosalie on the other,

  Mr. and Mrs. Gurnsey

  at the end.

  The boys are in

  the other wing,

  Mrs. Gurnsey says.

  My wall

  has purple birds flying

  that make me think

  of Jim the bird,

  which makes me think

  of Daddy.

  There are statues of birds

  nestled on the shelves too.

  They look so real,

  if I reach out to them,

  I’m sure they’ll duck away

  and dive for the sparkling window.

  It’s beautiful here.

  My heart shudders with excitement,

  but I tell it not

  to make a racket

  about pretty things.

  This isn’t home.

  It can’t be.

  I won’t trade Mama for a palace,

  no matter how much

  Mrs. Gurnsey smiles and

  squeezes my shoulder and

  gazes at me with hopeful eyes.

  I don’t want to hurt her, but

  how can I live

  in the same country as Mama

  without being close to her?

  Quiet

  After the room of kids

  at the orphanage

  and the small rooms

  in the hotel,

  the Gurnsey’s giant house

  has so much quiet.

  I can’t even hear Mr. Gurnsey snore

  like I could

  through the thin hotel walls.

  I can’t hear

  anyone.

  When I close my eyes,

  listening to silence,

  I can believe

  I’m the only one left

  in the entire world.

  Jet Lag

  I wake up

  expecting early morning,

  but find brilliant day

  and the clock saying

  noon.

  I roll over,

  eyes muddy,

  brain wanting to sleep

  a hundred more years.

  The bed is a cloud

  to sink into.

  It pulls you in, fades

  you away

  before you realize

  you’re sleeping.

  It makes you dream

  before you realize

  you’re dreaming.

  I wonder if Mama’s bed in Montana

  could be as comfortable as this.

  Is it disloyal

  that I forgot about Mama

  while I slept?

  Dinner

  Mrs. Gurnsey taps on my door

  that evening.

  Come to dinner?

  A hopeful question,

  not a command.

  Dinner is louder

  because we’re all together

  in a special room

  just for eating.

  Ethan and David went

  back to school

  today.

  David is tired,

  taps his forehead on the table

  and says,

  Jet lag stinks.

  Mrs. Gurnsey

  reminds the girls

  they’ll go back tomorrow.

  What about Kara?

  Emily asks.

  I pay attention to the answer

  because it’s

  something I want to know too.

  Even though we’re all twelve,

  I feel smaller than Rosalie and Em, somehow.

  Stupider, for sure.

  Mrs. Gurnsey hums like she’s thinking,

  but then the answer comes out decided:

  We’ll keep you out

  till next school year,

  just so you have longer to settle.

  Is that okay with you?

  I nod,

  because it is okay.

  I’m desperately curious,

  but everything I know of school

  is the outside of gray buildings


  labeled with long strings of

  Chinese words,

  and students filing in

  with red scarves tied at their collars.

  I cannot imagine

  Florida school,

  all these glamorous

  American kids in bright clothes

  congregating in one place.

  Even imagining

  is terrifying.

  No fair,

  Emily mutters.

  She seems so determined

  to compare our two worlds,

  to make everything so even

  between us,

  so silvery smooth.

  I think she’d like to see

  her own reflection

  when she looks at the Gurnsey family:

  everything,

  everyone

  focused only

  on

  her.

  Lasagna

  We’re eating something called

  lasagna:

  fat noodles

  too much cheese

  tomato sauce

  Do you like the food?

  Mrs. Gurnsey asks,

  hopeful,

  hovering.

  It’s great.

  I cannot hurt

  Mrs. Gurnsey.

  She cares so much, wearing

  all her caring

  on her face

  all the time.

  I cannot tell her

  how the heavy smells,

  the thickness of American food

  make my stomach churn

  and puff out

  like a balloon.

  School

  After breakfast

  the next morning

  Mrs. Gurnsey takes everyone

  to school.

  I ride

  in the very back

  since

  I don’t need to climb out.

  I like it back here,

  curled up in my quiet corner.

  When Mrs. Gurnsey stops at the curb,

  Em and Rosalie

  bound out

  of the van

  and instantly

  meet

  a friend

  with straw-colored hair

  and sparkly eyes.

  They link arms,

  cross the street

  to the school building—

  a place with arched doorways

  and an American flag

  hanging limp from a pole.

  I try to imagine myself

  here

  someday,

  walking into that

  big

  building,

  my head tipped back,

  so sure of myself.

  But that kind of imagining

  still gives me a headache.

  Mrs. Gurnsey glances back.

  We have the whole day

  to ourselves.

  Want to do something special?

  I already know what to say,

  as if I’ve been waiting for the question

  since I arrived in Florida.

  The beach,

  I say.

  I’ve never been to one.

  Mrs. Gurnsey’s face brightens

  like I’ve handed her a present.

  The Beach

  With every step, I

  sink

  into the sand a little.

  There’s dry, sliding sand

  away from the water

  and sticky, wet sand

  where the waves rush in.

  Those waves have foamy teeth

  that nibble my toes.

  I laugh,

  spring away,

  because it tickles.

  Slap

  slap

  slap

  go my bare feet

  when I run.

  Shrieking birds

  circle overhead.

  Behind me shine

  sloppy footprints.

  Mrs. Gurnsey

  takes my left hand,

  her laugh rippling

  over the

  bright waves,

  the silky wind,

  as if she’s

  never felt

  the scrub of sand

  between her toes

  before.

  Want ice cream?

  she asks.

  Ice cream.

  Jody.

  Mama.

  A cloud

  wanders

  in front of the sun.

  My stomach starts to hurt, because

  I don’t know if Mama

  has ever seen the ocean like this.

  And I don’t know

  if we’ll ever see it together.

  I want to go back to your house,

  I say,

  watch the light

  go out of Mrs. Gurnsey’s eyes.

  I want to explain, but

  I can’t make my mouth form words.

  How a place so beautiful

  can make me feel so sad.

  Nothing

  Mrs. Gurnsey tap tap taps

  on the door of my silent

  alone

  room.

  I’m so tired

  after the beach,

  so tired of trying

  so hard

  not to hurt her,

  I don’t care

  anymore.

  Kara,

  she whispers.

  What are you doing in here?

  It’s so dark.

  Nothing.

  Do you want to read

  Pride and Prejudice together?

  I’m not doing anything . . .

  No.

  Do you need more books to read?

  We could go to the library?

  No.

  Thank you.

  Her breath comes sharp.

  Maybe . . .

  Would it help . . . ?

  I was wondering . . .

  I trace an endless line

  on my bedsheets

  with my fingertip,

  a line with dips,

  jags,

  and angles.

  There’s still some purple

  left on the nail of my index finger,

  just a tiny bit,

  so dark

  it looks black.

  Would you like to call your foster parents?

  She says it quickly

  as if afraid

  slow words won’t make it out of her mouth.

  Eager

  Every day

  I ask,

  Today?

  There’s always an answer

  that means

  “not quite yet.”

  Either

  I’m waiting to hear back from . . .

  or

  I haven’t gotten a hold of . . .

  Until the day comes

  when Mrs. Gurnsey says,

  We’ll call them after lunch today.

  She shows me the laptop,

  how it will work,

  how we’ll call Montana.

  I sit in front of the screen

  waiting,

  barely touching the sandwich

  she puts in front of me

  with folded meat and lettuce inside.

  My stomach

  distracts me with its fluttering.

  I’ll really be able to see Mama?

  I ask.

  Right on that screen,

  Mrs. Gurnsey says, pointing.

  I wish I didn’t notice

  how anxious she is.

  And she wants to talk to me?

  I ask.

  Well, of course she does.

  Mrs. Gurnsey says,

  her brow contracting in confusion.

  Why wouldn’t she?

  I shrug.

  But inside, I worry

  Mama hasn’t written

  or called until now

  because she’s disappointed

  in me.

  Through the Screen

&n
bsp; They are on the screen,

  their faces,

  their voices,

  Mama and Daddy

  with Jody squeezed in

  just like Mrs. Gurnsey said

  they’d be.

  And there I am,

  a little face

  looking back

  from the screen corner.

  You’ve grown a bunch,

  Mama says.

  Your face has changed.

  I don’t know if she means

  worse

  or

  better.

  It’s hard to tell

  through a screen.

  The old disappointment

  creeps up on me—

  that this is not,

  cannot be

  the same.

  Mama’s voice sounds different,

  brittle, like

  a broken peppermint

  crunched in the wrapper.

  Tampa’s being good to you?

  Daddy asks.

  The weather’s nice down there, I hear.

  Jody’s face

  fills the screen when she leans forward.

  Are they being good to you?

  Treating you well?

  Daddy and I moved to Missoula

  to be close to Jody,

  Mama says.

  We’re managing an apartment complex.

  We live on the bottom floor.

  It’s pretty nice.

  There’s a washer and a dryer

  and Daddy fixes things when they’re broke.

  Only thing is,

  we have to be ready any time of night

  if anyone calls.

  Not easy on this old man,

  let me tell you,

  Daddy says,

  grinning.

  But it sure beats the security guard

  hours I used to work.

  The place smells like mildew,

  Jody says,

  but it’s bigger than what you had in China.

  Noisier neighbors,

  Daddy says.

  It feels like they’re

  filling up the empty space

  between us

  with lots of words,

  the same kind of noise

  Jody always brought

  when she visited,

  all the noise I wanted her

  to take away

  when she left.

  Through the screen

  there’s no such thing

  as companionship.

  Mama won’t remind me to do chores

  or fold my clothes

  or ask me to bring her a cup of water.

  Through the screen

  I can’t even bring myself to ask

  why she stopped writing.

  We miss you, sugar,

  Mama says

  in that crumbly peppermint voice.

  I miss you too.

  But not just talking,

  I want to say how

  I miss being.

  How I miss knowing

  exactly

  what Mama’s feeling.

  But saying that

  wouldn’t make any sense

  through the screen.

  Lies

  Okay?

  Mrs. Gurnsey asks