by Amir Abrams
I may not be well versed in street lingo, or have a lot—no. Scratch that, any—experience dating boys. But I had a father who always talked openly with me about boys, and some of the mind games they play. So I might not be from the hood, so to speak, but I’m definitely not overly naïve, either.
I know boys will say all types of things just to get what they want from a girl.
Unfortunately for Shawn, I’m not like most girls. I have nothing I’m willing to offer him, so there’s not much he can try to get.
I’m not easily manipulated.
No matter how cute and sexy some boy is.
I look at Shawn, wondering if he’s sincere, or if he has some hidden motive.
He grins. “Yo, like I said, ma. It’s cool. You ain’t gotta admit. I already know what it is.”
I smirk. “Then why’d you ask if you already know your version of the answer?”
He laughs. “Oh, word? My version? Haha. Is that what it is?”
I shrug. “Probably.”
“Yeah, a’ight. Whatever you say. But dig. You mad sexy, ma. But you already know that, though.”
I cover my nervousness with a chuckle. “No, not really. But I bet you say that to all the girls.”
He bunches his brows together, shaking his head. “Nah, nah. Just the ugly ones.”
Oh.
So he thinks I’m ugly.
That stings.
Hurts my feelings.
But he’s entitled to his feelings.
Still...
My heart sinks.
He smiles. “I’m just effen wit’ you, yo.”
His chocolate-brown eyes lock with mine.
I smile back at him. Then look out into the night. The ocean is ours—Shawn’s and mine—just for tonight. More waves crash, and hiss into white foam, rushing up the sand, then stopping just below out feet, which we’ve planted slightly beneath the sand.
He smiles again, then leans in. And, this time, when I glance over at him, my heart thuds loudly in my chest. Ohmygod! That smile of his. I’ve never been stupid over a guy before. What is wrong with me?
“I like you, yo,” he murmurs, lightly brushing his lips against my ear. His warm breath kisses my cheek. And I shiver. He takes a finger under my chin and turns my head to him.
He leans in closer.
Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohhhhhhmygod!
I’m really about to let this boy kiss me.
I close my eyes.
Anxious.
My heart racing—no, stuttering stupidly in my chest.
Waiting.
Wanting.
Needing.
62
“How you?” Omar asks, stepping into the house. He’s been gone for almost three days, sending me the occasional text to check in on me. But what does it matter?
I’m leaving in two days.
Crystal’s parents have finally returned from their travels. Crystal called me all excited this morning and gave me the best news of my life. I can stay with them for as long as I want.
I don’t need Omar’s permission, or his blessing.
And I don’t need to ever hear back from Aunt Terri.
I can simply get on the plane and go.
Back to California, where I’ve always belonged, where I never should have left.
“You good?”
I’m sitting cross-legged on the sofa, watching reruns of How to Get Away with Murder when he disrupts my marathon moment.
I glance up from the television and look at him.
“I’m fine,” I say, my tone clipped.
Omar shuts the door behind him with his foot.
I narrow my eyes, scrutinizing him. He’s wearing a pair of True Religion jeans and a brand-new pair of Jordans. There’s more jewelry dangling from his neck. And bigger diamond studs in each earlobe.
For some reason, I’m annoyed.
I’m not sure if it’s because he’s back, or because he’s been gone for days, obviously up to no good.
Either way, I’m irritated.
“Yo, sorry ’bout not being around much,” he says, plunking down in a chair across from me. “I’m tryna handle some things.”
Oh, really? I reach for the remote and mute the television. “It’s fine, Omar. I’m learning to manage without you.”
I shift my gaze back to the television, turning the volume up.
I can’t get out of here and away from him soon enough.
“Ouch,” he says. “You have my digits, though. You know you can hit me up anytime, right?”
Umm. That works both ways. I shrug. “I guess.”
“Yo, why you say it like that?”
It doesn’t even matter. “No reason.”
“Listen, baby girl. I know I already said this, but I know I can’t bring back ya pops. And I can’t take back what I’ve done. Or the time lost. But I’m hoping one day, you can forgive me.”
I blink back tears.
Forgive him?
What is there to forgive?
Like Daddy said in his letter to me, what Omar did was really selfless.
So why am I really mad at him?
Because Daddy’s gone.
And he exists.
Because he’s appeared out of nowhere and, and—
“You hate me, don’t you? I see it in ya eyes.”
No. I’m mad at you.
I don’t want to be. But I am. I just don’t know how not to be.
But is it him I’m really mad at?
Honestly?
No.
I’m still mad at Daddy.
I’m still mad at God.
And I’m mad at Aunt Terri.
Daddy didn’t turn his back on me; he just died on me. And I still blame God for taking him from me.
I hold my hands over my face and smooth away the tears. “I don’t hate you, Omar,” I say, in between sobs. “I just want my life back.”
He gets up and walks over to me, sinking into the space next to me. “And I wanna be in it,” he says, softly. “In whatever capacity, feel me?”
I bite into my bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “School starts in a few weeks,” I say pensively. “I’m going back to California.”
“When?”
I tell him in two days. He plops back in his seat. Runs his large hand over his face. And then he’s upright again. Looking, staring, at me. “Is there anything I can do to change ya mind?”
More tears.
I shake my head, allowing my tears to wet my cheeks. I choke back a sob, shifting my body in my seat so that I can let him see me. Hurt and broken.
“Look at you. Look at me,” I say, my lips quivering. “We’re both homeless, Omar, staying in someone else’s place. What kind of life is this for either of us? You can barely take care of yourself, let alone a teenager. If things were different, maybe.” I shake my head. “But they aren’t. Things are a mess. I’m a mess. You’re a mess. We’re both two big messes, Omar.”
The tears keep flowing. And I can’t stop them even if I wanted to.
I don’t want to.
This is the first real conversation Omar and I have since I’ve been here. And I’m afraid if I don’t get it all out now, there may not be another opportunity to. I catch my breath, then straighten myself. “No disrespect. But you made a baby. Me. But you didn’t raise me. You didn’t parent me. You gave up your rights to me the day you signed your name on the dotted line. Don’t forget that, Omar.”
He runs a hand over his face. “I can’t ever forget that. It’s been effen wit’ me for the last sixteen years. And, now, all I gotta do is look at you ’n’ see what I gave up. Sixteen years of my life, Nia. Sixteen years of not having you in it. I regret ever givin’ up my rights. I swear, yo. I did what I had to do.”
“For who, Omar? You?”
“Nah,” he says softly. “For you. I thought I was doin’ what was right for you. I knew I had a mad long bid to do. I ain’t wanna put that kinda pressure on ya moms. She wasn’t built for that life. Sh
e didn’t deserve that ish. Jailin’ wit’ some nig—cat. So when she came to see me wit’ you in her arms to tell me she wanted out, that she’d met someone . . .” His voice cracks. He looks over at the muted TV, then back at me. “I did what I had to do. What she asked me to do. I let her go, yo.”
“And me, Omar. You let me go, too.”
“Because I loved you, yo. I’ve never stopped lovin’ you, baby girl. You a part of me; no matter what, I’m still ya father.”
I wince. “No, you’re not. You’re a sperm donor. That’s all you are. Just some man who impregnated my mother. Then wasn’t man enough to stay on the streets long enough to take care of his responsibilities.”
There’s a flicker of shock in his eyes when I say this. And I almost feel bad for saying it. But, right or wrong, it’s how I feel. And I won’t apologize for that.
He gives me another pained look. “You really don’t like me, huh?”
I stare at him. “I don’t know you, Omar.”
“I wanna change that. All I’m askin’ for is a chance to make it up to you. I know things been kinda crazy lately. But I’m workin’ on makin’ things right; feel me?”
“No, Omar. I don’t feel you. What I feel is abandoned. I feel empty. I feel alone. I feel lost. And I’m tired of feeling this way.”
He winces. “On e’erything I love, yo. We can get through this.”
I shake my head. “No, we can’t. Sorry. I gave it all the chances I’m going to give it. I’m still miserable. And, right now, all I know is, you’re not ready to be a grown-up, Omar.”
He opens his mouth to say something, but I put a hand up, stopping him from getting his words out.
“Are you working?”
“Nah, not—”
I shake my head. “My point exactly. How do you expect to provide for me, or for yourself, huh?” He gives me a dumbfounded look. “I may not be from the hood, Omar. But I’m not stupid or slow, either. I’m smart enough to know when someone’s in way over their heads.”
“Yo, you gotta understand, baby girl, I been locked up for close to sixteen years. I’m just gettin’ home. Shit ain’t the same. I mean, the streets are the same. But e’erything else around me is different. Ain’t no one tryna hire a muhfuggah like me. A cat wit’ a record.”
“Sounds like a bunch of excuses to me,” I say, feeling emotionally exhausted.
His brows furrow. “Ain’t no excuses, yo. It’s fact. Mofos ain’t checkin’ for a cat like me. Period.”
“Well, have you tried looking for work?”
When he doesn’t respond right away, I keep going. “What you do with your life, Omar, is none of my business.” I swipe away more tears with my hand. “But it’s real selfish of you to want to drag me into it. You should have never brought me out here knowing your living situation was chaotic. You say you care about me, then prove it. You gave me up once because you couldn’t be there for me, or take care of me. Well, you still can’t. I don’t deserve to live like this. And you have no business trying to make me.”
He blinks. “On e’erything, yo. I’m sorry I wasn’t in ya life, a’ight. Sorry I wasn’t able to love you. I’m sorry another man had to step in and do what I couldn’t do. I’m sorry I missed out on sixteen years of ya life. I can’t change what’s already done. But I’m here now. If you’d let me be.”
I don’t say anything. Just stare at him.
I want my daddy.
Not this fill-in, this, this . . . imposter.
I close my eyes, then open them. “You’re not ready to be responsible. Not for me.” I pause, swallowing. “And not for you. I don’t belong here, Omar. This isn’t my life. It’s yours.”
In the flickering glow of the television, I think I see hurt illuminating from his eyes, maybe something more. “You right,” is all he mutters, before silence creeps in and swallows us whole.
63
With the same backpack over my shoulder I came here with—what feels like forever ago—and my leather journal tucked under my arm, I make my way toward the gate, feeling freer than I’ve ever felt since Daddy’s death.
I’m going home.
Crystal and her mom will be at the airport waiting for me with open arms, welcoming me back home, where I’ve always belonged.
I am leaving behind every bad memory of being here in New Jersey. But I am taking back with me some good memories, too, like my brief time with Shawn.
He was my lifeline when I felt myself sinking.
He saved me.
And I can never, ever, forget him for that.
Oh, and that night on the beach, we’d kissed the sweetest kiss I’d ever experienced, then he wrapped his arm around me as we both stared out at the endless expanse of the shimmery Atlantic ocean under a full moon, and watched the waves crest against the shore.
It was a beautiful moment. One I will cherish, always.
But we both knew nothing would ever come of it. We’re from two different sides of the world. And, honestly, he reminds me too much of Omar. His—uh, um, how do they say—his swag, that is. I kept seeing my mother’s face, and thinking I don’t want to end up in a romance similar to what she had with Omar. That kiss on the beach was enough for me.
So much has happened since losing Daddy. I miss him more than I imagine is humanly possible and I can’t wait to lie in the grass, kiss his headstone, and be near him again. I lost both of my parents. And, yes, I miss my mom, too. But not the way I miss Daddy. Maybe because I had sixteen years of my life with him, ten years more than what I had with my mom. The memories run deeper with Daddy.
I don’t care what anyone says. Julian Daniels is the only father I have. Have as in the present tense, because, although he’s physically gone, he is still alive inside of me. His memory is stamped in my brain, inscribed over my heart.
Nothing can take that from me. Not a judge. Not a blood test. Not some stupid ole adoption papers. Nothing.
Omar may be my biological father. But he will never be my real father.
Ever.
He’s not built—as they say—for parenting.
I only have one father.
One Daddy.
And he’s gone. But never, ever, forgotten.
I look back at Omar again. He’s not a bad person. He’s just not someone I wish to know. Not right now, anyway. Maybe one day.
Still, I’m glad I know the truth. Aunt Terri—whom I still haven’t heard from—was right. I had a right to know. However, there’s also a part of me that wishes I didn’t know. In knowing, it made me feel like I’d been living a lie. But then Daddy’s smiling face pops in my head and I know everything about him is, and was, real. And the truth is, he loved me unconditionally. And, no matter what, I’ll always be his little girl. His butterfly.
As I glance back over my shoulder, and take Omar in one last time before boarding my flight, I wave.
He waves back, a sadness flooding his eyes as if he knows I am never coming back here. Ever.
I smile.
He smiles.
We both know.
There’s nothing here for me.
I’d left my life and heart back in California.
And now I am going home to reclaim them both.
I hand my ticket to the agent, then disappear through the passageway leading to the plane. I let out a soft sigh as I slip my bag off of my shoulder and slide into seat 2C in first class, courtesy of Crystal’s mom. I spoke to her this morning to confirm everything. And during our telephone conversation she mentioned that she’d gotten in touch with Daddy’s attorney. He’s drawing up papers and presenting them to the courts recommending she be granted physical custody of me until my eighteenth birthday, while he continues to oversee my trust fund until my twenty-first birthday.
I’m ecstatic.
When the plane finally ascends into the sky, it’s as if my own wings are stretching. Spreading. I gaze out of the tiny window at all the bright, puffy clouds floating in the sky and imagine Daddy, Mommy, and Nana holding ha
nds. I can almost feel their smiles on me.
My time in New Jersey, though brief, was one of the longest experiences of my young life. I’m not mad that I came, though. I’m actually glad I did. I harbor no regrets.
It broadened my horizons.
Gave me new perspective.
And has helped me evolve into my true self.
I really feel like I’m a whole other person because of it.
A new being.
Daddy said to never be afraid to spread my wings and soar.
And I’m not. I am jumping out of my storm.
Peeling back layers of skin, and metamorphosing into everything Daddy has always encouraged me to be. There’s nothing (or no one) that can give me what I’ve always had. Love. God, I miss Daddy so, so bad. But I know, in time, I’m going to be okay. But, for now, everything I’ll ever need lies within me, and all around me. Daddy’s love and his memory live on forever inside of me.
I will never stop loving him. Or holding onto the memories of what the last sixteen years of my life has been like having him as a father. I know what unconditional love is because of him. That will always be with me.
I settle back in my seat and wipe tears from my face. But this time they’re happy tears. But for some reason Sha’Quita’s face appears in my head, then her mother, Kee-Kee’s. Good or bad, they’ve both left impressions, prints in my sand. Taking a deep breath, I take a moment to pull my words together. Then open my journal, and remove the cap from my pen and write:
Pen poised over the page, I stop writing, then do something I never imagined I’d do. I say a silent pray for all the Sha’Quitas in the world, wishing, no, hoping, they one day find peace of mind, peace of heart, and, most importantly, self-love.
I inhale. Exhale. Then write:
A READING GROUP GUIDE
CHASING BUTTERFLIES
Amir Abrams
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The following questions are intended to
enhance your group’s reading of
CHASING BUTTERFLIES.
Discussion Questions
1.) Most people take for granted what they have, like family and friends, while chasing after the things they think they need. What did you think of the book Chasing Butterflies? Do you understand the concept of chasing butterflies?
