Red Butterfly Read online

  after I shut the laptop.

  She’s been standing there, listening

  and chopping onions,

  endless onions,

  while I talked to Mama and Daddy.

  That one word

  okay?

  (or maybe it’s the way she says it,

  like everything should be okay now

  that I’ve gotten my way)

  weaves a sharp strand of anger

  through all the sadness that

  has bound itself

  like a nest of protection

  around my heart.

  It was fine,

  I say, because

  if I tell her

  how disappointed I am

  she might never

  let me talk to them

  again.

  There’s a brochure here,

  she says,

  for summer rec.

  She scoots a yellow booklet

  across the counter.

  The girls will be doing activities.

  I wondered if you’d be interested.

  I can’t do sports.

  I hold up my hand

  as a reminder,

  because sometimes Mrs. Gurnsey

  seems to think

  she can fix every single

  thing that’s wrong.

  And she can’t.

  Sure you can,

  she says.

  You can do anything you put your mind to.

  Not catch a ball.

  Sure you could catch a ball.

  Not play piano.

  Yes, even play piano.

  I turn away,

  feel the weight of her

  determination

  boring into my back.

  There’s nothing I want more

  than to get away

  from her and

  the truth

  that she’s lying to me.

  Mystery

  While the girls are at school the next day,

  I sneak into the front room,

  which smells of peonies,

  the fancy room with high windows,

  a pale blue couch,

  and a palm tree in a glazed pot.

  A ceiling fan rotates overhead

  with blades shaped like big leaves.

  Palm fronds stir,

  miniature versions of the tall palms outside.

  This place feels almost too beautiful to stand in and

  I doubt I’m allowed to be in here

  at all

  because everything

  looks as if it could break.

  The huge piano

  stretches sleek black,

  the lid tipped up so I can peek inside

  at taught strings shining gold.

  I touch the keys

  white white

  black white black,

  but don’t dare press them down,

  not yet,

  because the sound

  may not be soft as flower petals on silk,

  it might be loud,

  obnoxious,

  dream-shattering.

  Someone’s music

  propped up

  looks like the beautiful script

  of a different language:

  black lines, circles, curlicues.

  I know it all means

  something, a code

  waiting to be figured out.

  Question

  Who plays your piano?

  I ask Mrs. Gurnsey.

  She looks up

  from a plugged-in mop

  that lets out steam

  in a whoosh.

  Emily takes lessons,

  she says.

  I tried to convince Rosalie,

  but she’s too preoccupied

  with sports.

  I can’t imagine

  someone with two hands

  not wanting to play

  a luxurious

  piano

  that sits in a front room

  all day and night waiting

  to be played.

  Visiting Hour

  I visit Mama and Daddy almost

  every day,

  hunched close to the screen

  trying to catch every glimpse of their life

  to see if anything familiar remains.

  It’s never enough,

  but it’s better than nothing.

  My biggest fear is

  we’ll run out of things to say.

  Instead of talking,

  I want to see Daddy

  kiss Mama’s cheek,

  hear the door slam

  when he goes to fix someone’s apartment,

  smell the mildew,

  hear the tumble of the washing machine

  and know our clothes are in there,

  hear Mama singing

  in the shower

  through the thin walls,

  my feet propped up on an old coffee table,

  reading Pride and Prejudice

  page

  by page

  by page.

  I’ll never fit here

  in this house with too many doors,

  long hallways,

  and steps on carpet so thick

  my foot makes no sound,

  where everything seems

  perfect,

  from the

  neat green grass expanses

  to the front room

  with its slow-moving, dustless fan.

  Mama and me,

  we were so connected,

  every breath

  taken together.

  Here, everyone moves

  to a separate rhythm,

  confined to a large

  personal space.

  I’ve never been so

  alone.

  Afraid

  Mrs. Gurnsey asks

  if I’ve picked a summer activity

  from the book yet.

  No, I say.

  There’s nothing I want to do.

  What about puppeteering

  or drama

  or a poetry workshop?

  You don’t have to do sports.

  No.

  She tells me I’ve got to try.

  No.

  Then what’s the point?

  she asks.

  You’re going to sit in your room

  all day alone,

  reading?

  That will be your life?

  I can tell she’s angry though

  trying to be gentle,

  pushing her feelings down

  so her words are soft,

  though they cut like jagged glass, because

  I still haven’t read

  a single page

  even though I pretend to

  every day.

  Are you afraid to settle here?

  she asks.

  Are you afraid of liking it?

  No,

  I say,

  my teeth gritted as if I’m lying,

  though I’m not sure I’m lying.

  I’m not sure of anything,

  just that being here makes

  my insides squirm,

  my shoulders tighten up to my ears,

  my lips smash together.

  Maybe for a while,

  she says,

  we should leave off calling Montana.

  My head snaps around.

  No.

  We’re your forever family,

  she says,

  crouching close to me.

  I know it’s hard to let go of what you had,

  but we want you here.

  We—

  No,

  don’t make me . . .

  But I can’t finish.

  I race for the stairs,

  slam my door

  so hard

  the whole

  quiet

  house

  shudders.

  Library

  The next morning

  after everyone has bee
n dropped off

  and all the work

  Mrs. Gurnsey

  does to fill her time

  has been done,

  she takes me to the library

  to rooms of books,

  millions of pages of stories,

  and says,

  Pick whatever you want.

  But I don’t know what I want.

  It’s like standing in an

  American supermarket

  staring at rows of cereal

  knowing milk gives me a stomachache.

  Pick anything,

  Mrs. Gurnsey says.

  But I stand still so long,

  uncertain,

  that she finally snatches books about

  polar bears

  pianos

  piranhas

  from the juvenile nonfiction shelves

  and says,

  Let’s go,

  really short.

  I climb back in

  the big, gold van

  with seats for us all

  that squeak when I slide

  across them.

  I catch her eyes in the mirror

  watching me,

  calculating her

  disappointment.

  Less Than Empty

  Every morning

  I wake

  with a single thought:

  This will be the day

  Mrs. Gurnsey will crack,

  let me open the computer again,

  let me see Mama’s face,

  let me hear her voice.

  But she never cracks.

  Every visit left me wanting,

  but every day without visits

  is a desert without light,

  less than empty.

  Ungrateful

  Emily comes home

  from an end-of-year party

  at a friend’s house

  and all she can talk about is

  everything

  Jolie

  has.

  Jolie has

  a basset hound puppy,

  prettier bedroom furniture,

  a Wii in her room,

  all the dolls from American Girl,

  an entire wall of

  beauty contest crowns.

  Emily stomps at dinner,

  says she hates ravioli

  more than anything in the world—

  the grossest food

  ever made

  for human consumption.

  Rosalie groans,

  but that only makes

  Em madder.

  Mrs. Gurnsey says,

  There are so many people

  in the world

  with hardly anything, Em.

  Try to be grateful.

  Her compassionate eyes

  rest on me.

  I wasn’t talking about the whole world,

  Em yells,

  stomping from the table

  and up the stairs.

  I was talking about myself!

  Mrs. Gurnsey trails,

  standing at the bottom step

  calling,

  Come on, Em.

  Please,

  don’t overreact.

  But Em

  doesn’t come back.

  The house

  falls

  to silence

  of boys sending texts

  and listening to music

  through earbuds,

  of Rosalie staring at her plate,

  slapping tomato sauce

  with her fork.

  I cower, knowing

  Em’s anger has something to do with me.

  It was the way she glared

  before she launched herself up the stairs.

  She wasn’t thinking about Jolie anymore.

  All her eye-fire

  flew at me.

  Tidal Wave

  After dinner

  Rosalie

  hurries upstairs.

  I creep back to my room, but

  in the hallway I

  pause outside the cracked-open door

  of Em’s room,

  stopped

  by the sound

  of their voices.

  Em lies

  facedown

  on her purple bedspread.

  She turns her face,

  a red splotch on each cheek.

  Everything’s about Kara!

  I shrink against the shadowy wall,

  ready to slink away.

  But then Rosalie says,

  Not everything.

  Yes, everything!

  Em insists.

  She’s the only one

  Mom cares about!

  She’s not even careful

  to be quiet,

  as if she wants

  the whole house to know

  how much she hates me.

  Mom walks around

  crying all day,

  worrying about Kara!

  Well, Kara’s new

  and she’s had a hard life,

  Rosalie says.

  A streak of resentment

  cuts through me,

  even though I like Rosalie, because

  how does she know

  anything about my life?

  Most of it was good,

  for her information.

  Em grunts into the pillow.

  Mom loves you

  and you know it,

  Rosalie says.

  But I want our family

  to be the same as before,

  Em wails.

  Before SHE came.

  Something breaks

  in me, a

  tidal wave of anger.

  I sweep past the door,

  not bothering to hush.

  I don’t mind the whole house knowing

  that I heard proof of

  Emily’s resentment.

  Aftermath

  Rosalie knocks on my door.

  I know it’s her

  because she taps

  with her fingernails.

  I don’t ask her to come in,

  which may be mean,

  but I can’t stand

  being with anyone

  right now.

  Even her.

  Em acts spoiled sometimes,

  but she’s not really,

  she says through the door.

  She just . . .

  She just . . .

  feels insecure.

  I don’t know what

  Em could be insecure about.

  Rosalie is making

  excuses

  so I’ll feel better.

  Either way,

  I don’t answer.

  Sometimes silence

  is better at speaking anger

  than a thousand words.

  Pack

  Pack a bag,

  leave everything

  the Gurnseys ever gave me

  behind.

  What I pack

  is almost the same

  as what I took

  to the hospital that day

  a different lifetime ago,

  except now there’s the scarf from Toby.

  In Montana,

  it’ll be cool enough

  to wear it.

  The Plan

  There’s a way of finding out

  what you want to know,

  but don’t want to ask.

  This way is called

  Google.

  I watched Rosalie

  use it one time,

  typing on the screen of her iPad

  to find directions to the water park

  where her friend

  was having a party.

  (She said I could come,

  said it would be fun.

  But I didn’t want to;

  I’ve seen the things people

  wear when they swim.)

  I pull my iPad

  from its cover,

  press the button,

  watch the screen blink aw
ake.

  All I have to do is type at the top

  H-O-W

  D-O

  I

  G-E-T

  T-O

  M-O-N-T-A-N-A,

  letters one by one,

  then wait for the ticking screen

  to spit out

  the answer.

  Cheap flights!

  Cheap flights!

  Cheap flights!

  that aren’t so cheap.

  Greyhound bus:

  Two days

  Twelve hours

  Twenty minutes

  Two hundred and fifty dollars

  Mr. and Mrs. Gurnsey

  give me money

  they call “allowance”

  every Sunday.

  I empty it

  on the bedspread

  and count

  to ninety.

  They said I should

  save some,

  spend some,

  give some away.

  But there’s only

  one thing

  I want.

  It will take

  six more weeks

  to save up

  the one hundred and sixty

  extra dollars

  to get to Missoula

  by bus,

  with twenty more

  for food and emergencies.

  I shove my filled-up

  backpack

  under the bed,

  shift the bed skirt

  to scrape the floor

  so no one can see it,

  stuff the money

  back in the purse

  Mrs. Gurnsey gave me,

  take out the calendar

  with kittens

  Mrs. Gurnsey gave me,

  and count

  six more weeks,

  two days.

  Granola

  Every other day

  I sneak

  a granola bar

  from the cupboard

  and slide it into

  my backpack

  under the bed.

  Granola bars

  are wonderful choices:

  instant food

  in a tiny,

  concealable

  package.

  Summer

  When the school year ends,

  the house has noise

  all day

  with Emily’s piano playing

  and Rosalie and the boys splashing in the pool

  in the slanting rays of light,

  their cell phones perched on deck chairs.

  The boys have loud voices.

  Rosalie shrieks when they toss her.

  The water sploshes,

  waves crashing

  over the concrete edge.

  I stand beside the glass door

  watching them

  and although Rosalie motions for me to come

  I shake my head,

  ducking sideways so she can no longer

  see me lingering in the shadows.

  Besides,

  I like to hear the sound

  of the piano’s soft flutter

  from the other room.

  Even if it is Em playing.

  Luck

  She’s so lucky.