The Boxer and the Butterfly

by Sasha Hibbs

  “What do you mean?”

  “You say this boy is hopeless,” Mary said, a bit of humor glinting in her eyes. “Then it sounds like to me you need to find the hope in him.”

  Chapter Three

  After talking with Mary I went to my room and lay on my bed for a long time. I don’t know how long I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, before I actually fell asleep. I heard my mother pull into our driveway, but for some reason, I didn’t have it in me to see her. It felt strange dealing with a new emotion, the shame inside of me. As I lay there, the shame I felt soon gave way to another feeling: guilt.

  ****

  Hearing the screeching of my alarm clock, I sluggishly sat up in bed, peeling my lids back. In a hurry, everything that happened yesterday came rushing back to me. I thought about Mary, about facing the music, dancing to a strange new tune. If I were to go through with all Principal Oliverio and my new conscience wanted me to, I needed a strategy. I needed a plan of attack that didn’t involve my parent’s money. This would be a first for me.

  After taking a hot shower, I assessed myself in the mirror. I looked at my wet, limp brown hair and makeup-free face. After dressing, blow drying my hair, and adding some mascara, I trailed downstairs.

  Mary was in the kitchen. As I turned the corner, the clunk hitting the bottom of the trashcan told me my mother must’ve had her usual nightcap which generally involved a bottle of wine. Mary used to have my mother’s mess cleaned up before I came downstairs in the morning. But after I caught Mary one morning sometime back, cleaning up broken glass in addition to the strong smell of alcohol, we both stopped pretending. Mary knew I was aware and we simply didn’t discuss it.

  “Is she still in bed?” I asked.

  “Yes,” Mary said. She pulled out a turkey and began seasoning it. I knew we would be having a good supper tonight. In addition to her keeping our house spotless and cleaning up my mother’s messes, Mary was an amazing cook.

  Clutching my purse, I grabbed a banana and went to walk out the door.

  “Stop!” Mary shouted.

  I turned to see Mary quickly shuffle over to me, a brown paper bag in hand.

  “You didn’t eat any of my cinnamon rolls last night,” Mary said, a smile on her lips.

  “Mm. Thanks, Mary,” I said, taking the bag and walking out the door. While not rehashing last night’s conversation, Mary and I both knew why I didn’t eat. Her sermon displaced my hunger.

  Opening the car door, I slid into my seat and plopped my purse and Mary’s cinnamon roll down on the other seat. Strapping my seatbelt into place, I fired up my Jetta. Shifting into reverse, I paused. On second thought, I wanted the cinnamon roll now. It sounded better than a banana anyway.

  As I drove toward Clarksburg High, I thought of ways to wrestle the Mickey situation. The gooey cinnamon roll filled my belly with courage, but once it was gone, my brain came up empty.

  Should I approach him? Try to reason with him? Beg him? No, not the last one. I was a Chamberlain. We didn’t beg for anything. We took what we wanted. Made it happen. Suddenly I remembered the look in Mary’s eyes, the guilt I felt last night and waking up this morning telling myself I was going to do things the way most people did. I was going to do this on my own. No help. Only I didn’t have any experience in that department.

  I pulled into the paved parking lot at 7:45 a.m., right on time. Turning my Jetta off, I grabbed my purse and fished out my iPhone. While they permitted us to have cell phones, there was zero tolerance for them ringing while in class. I turned it to silent and walked into school. I had no classes with Mickey except now, apparently, the last class of the day. Principal Oliverio assured me Mickey’s schedule would be switched to allow for that.

  My heels clacked down the hall as I made my way to my locker. I took care in choosing my outfit today, something else I generally didn’t pay too much attention to. I wore snug jeans, black heels and a white textured lace camisole I ordered online from Nordstrom.

  Grabbing a few books from my locker, I quickly became self-conscious. Were the heels too much? The camisole? The jeans started to feel too tight. What would I look like to him? Oh, God. I took a deep breath and shut my locker. I needed to calm down. I never cared what I looked like before, today should be no different.

  I held my head high, clutching onto my books, and made my way into Calculus. Maybe in there I could solve the equation of how to approach Mickey come Honors English.

  ****

  Nothing. No sign of Mickey all day long. Not even at lunch. Where was he? Walking into the very last class of the day, I held my breath, hopeful and scared at that same time he would be there.

  I strolled in and glanced at the clock: 1:29 p.m. One minute until the bell would ring. I took my usual seat in the front row. The boy who always sat behind me, Dakota Rollins, I noticed was now seated two seats behind me. Was this for Mickey? My palms became sweaty. Why would Mr. Romano seat him right behind me where surely his gaze would burn hellfire holes in the back of my head? I needed my brain.

  I flicked my gaze toward the doorway, waiting for I-wear-vintage-t-shirts-and-ripped-jeans-bad-boy Mickey to walk in, but the sound of the bell rang in my ears. I jumped at the noise, nearly knocking over my neatly stacked books and notes.

  Where was he? Was there a change in plans? No, or Dakota wouldn’t be seated differently. I nervously eyed Mr. Romano. He sat quietly behind his desk tapping a thumb across the wooden desktop. When he scooted out of his chair and stood up, my heart pounded in my chest. He glanced at me momentarily and then pulled out roll call. I watched him go down the list of names, quietly marking off all those in attendance. He murmured a name, quickly glancing at the empty seat, flicked his pen across his clipboard, and then resumed class.

  Mr. Romano never said anything directly to me, but I could occasionally feel his gaze on me and the empty seat behind me. The one where Mickey Costello was supposed to be. Did Mr. Romano blame me for Mickey’s absence? Would I get in trouble? Doubt swam through my mind. I couldn’t focus on anything Mr. Romano was saying.

  Somehow through my clouded thoughts, I heard the faint roar of what sounded like a motorcycle outside. The sound grew closer and closer. I glanced out the window and saw a dark figure pull in, a girl clutching onto the driver for dear life.

  I forced myself to look at Mr. Romano in the hopes he’d believe I was paying attention to him and the class in general. After what I felt was a few believable seconds, my gaze was drawn back to Mr. Motorcycle. Glancing out the window, I scanned the parking lot until my gaze landed on the girl, the guy, and the oh-so-cool bike. I watched the girl, lithe legs, too-short skirt, and bottle blonde, rear her head back in laughter as I watched the boy ease out of his helmet.

  Mickey.

  Of course it was him. I rolled my eyes and felt my blood boil. Not because of the girl. I didn’t know who she was nor did I care. My grade was what I cared about. And it pissed me off that Mickey was out gallivanting with some cheap blonde instead of attending class. He could ride all he wanted after the bell rang. In a spur of the moment decision, I raised my hand.

  “Yes, Autumn?” Mr. Romano said.

  “May I be excused?”

  “Class is almost over,” Mr. Romano said, insinuating I could wait.

  “It’s an emergency.” I grabbed my purse and pulled out enough of a tampon for Mr. Romano to get the idea.

  “Stop, stop. Just go.” Mr. Romano waved his hands for me to halt pulling out something he didn’t want to see.

  I lied, but it was necessary. I grabbed my notes, book, and purse and quickly ran out of class. I didn’t have a plan mapped out yet, but something told me if I didn’t catch Mickey before he went on his next joy ride, today would be a preview of the rest of the week. And I needed this grade. Not just any grade. I needed to make a damn A, which meant Mickey did too. Skipping class was the best way to ensure someone wouldn’t pass, and I had every intention of passing.

  My heels snapped against the hard tiled hall
s as I ran out towards the parking lot. My gaze landed on the blonde girl walking away from Mickey toward what I assumed to be her car. I frantically searched for him.

  As I ran through what felt like the biggest parking lot in the world, I heard the last bell ring, signaling the end of last period. Within seconds, students would be filing out. I found him talking to two other boys standing beside a pick-up. I recognized the one on Mickey’s left as Daniel McGregor, and his younger brother, Sean, on the right. They were laughing and that fueled my anger even more that he would deliberately shirk his responsibility to school, to class, to me. I ran toward the group, paying little attention to anything going on around me.

  I was almost there, ready to tell him exactly what I thought and how things were going to be from now on, when I forgot how deadly heels could be when not paying attention. I tripped. Purse, book, and notes all went flying above me as I shot my arms out to break my fall.

  My face didn’t meet the pavement like I anticipated in the split second I had to assess the situation. It met Mickey. He grabbed me, pulling me up toward him. My mouth opened, but words didn’t come out, only jammed-up syllables.

  “I, uh…” I trailed off, acutely aware of being so close to Mickey. My anger evaporated and turned into something else entirely. Those blue eyes. Those damn blue eyes.

  “To what do I owe the great honor of you throwing yourself at me?” Mickey said, a smirk playing at the corners of his perfectly shaped mouth.

  I only heard half of what he said, because I was caught up swimming around in the blue oceans of his eyes. My gaze trailed down to the bruise surrounding his left eye, and then the nasty cut above his right eye.

  “Huh? What?” I heard myself say as Mickey straightened me out, dropping his arms as he must’ve felt confident I could stand on my own.

  “I was just saying that instead of throwing yourself at me, all you have to do is ask,” Mickey said, Daniel and Sean both suppressing a chuckle.

  I felt my cheeks grow hot, anger rising up in me. I was embarrassed, and it only gave way to more irritation.

  “I didn’t throw myself at you. I wanted to catch you before you left. And how about you try wearing heels and running, see how easy it is,” I said. It was a lame comeback.

  “It looks like you could use a little more practice.” Mickey’s gaze roamed over me, making me squirm. I felt ridiculous. This wasn’t going as planned and it didn’t help that Daniel and Sean were here to witness it. I was outnumbered and I wasn’t going to take it.

  “Listen, Mickey—”

  “She knows my name,” Mickey said, cutting me off. Daniel and Sean ribbed him like it was some kind of inside joke.

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. Mickey, I’m supposed to tutor you and you know it. We need to map out plans to begin so we can put this behind us.” I figured a matter-of-fact tactic was about all I had left.

  “Tutor? Huh. That could be interesting,” Daniel said, grinning. I didn’t miss his implication but chose instead to ignore him.

  Mickey stepped closer to me, causing me to take a step back. I stopped. I was going to stand my ground.

  “Tell you what, Autumn,” Mickey said, cupping my chin like he did outside Principal Oliverio’s office. “The day you ask me to kiss you will be the day I let you tutor me.”

  I slapped his hand away from my chin and sneered.

  “Hardly. I will never ask you to kiss me.”

  “Then I guess you can kiss your good grade good-bye.” Mickey winked at me with his left eye.

  He actually winked at me.

  Jerk.

  I would figure out something else. I couldn’t talk. Not right now. I had to get away from him, his smirking friends, and those damn blue eyes.

  Chapter Four

  An entire week had gone by since I decided to graffiti the side of Clarksburg High. Four days passed since meeting with Principal Oliverio and my first encounter with Mickey. On Friday, it was exactly three days since approaching Mickey face-to-face in an effort to reason with him, and behind me sat an empty seat. I imagined crickets chirping behind me in place of Mickey.

  He’d deliberately ditched Honors English all week and it was starting to get underneath my skin, this itch that my parent’s money could always scratch. But I was haunted by two pairs of eyes: Mary’s, the ones that saw through me, casting shame for always leaning on the shoulder of my parent’s financial support. And then there were Mickey’s. They were blue, taunting, teasing, a challenge lying within them. I didn’t want to give up, but on Friday with no progress and Mr. Romano’s keen eyes staring me down, I was nearly ready to cave.

  As the last bell rang, I sprang from my seat. I grabbed my purse and was ready to run through the door, but with a cringe, I listened to Mr. Romano’s voice behind me.

  “Miss Chamberlain,” he said. I could hear a lecture coming on.

  I reluctantly hung back as the other students filtered out the door. When I turned to face him, I caught a look that suggested contemplation flitted across his face and it felt like time stretched on forever. He finally looked up.

  “Miss Chamberlain, Mickey is a … complicated boy. I don’t expect you to understand him, but I do expect some evidence that you’ve been holding up your end of the bargain. Otherwise, we’ll have to figure out some other kind of restitution to the school. But I was truly hoping we could resolve it in the manner all parties agreed to.” There was something else in his voice, something I couldn’t quite identify. I decided to be completely honest with him.

  “No disrespect, Mr. Romano, but I tried. I asked him Tuesday and…” I thought about our exchange, kissing, or Mickey asking me to kiss him. Or was it the other way around? I could feel my cheeks growing red thinking about it. I hoped Mr. Romano assumed I was getting flustered for other reasons.

  “And?” He arched a brow.

  “And he more or less blew me off.”

  “He’s missed the entire week of my class. You need to figure something out,” he said. His voice was gentle, concerned almost, which confused me.

  “I tried. I’ll tutor him, really. I don’t mind. But I can’t do it by myself, and it’s not like I can force him. But it doesn’t make any sense. This is Honors English, after all. It’s not like if he fails your class, he’ll fail school. What difference does it make?”

  He opened his mouth as though ready to give a prompt answer but then closed it. Mr. Romano glanced to the floor momentarily and then looked back up at me.

  “Because if he fails this course, he’ll blow other opportunities, and I’m not going to pass him, even if he’s—” He stopped abruptly and I could feel my eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Find a way, Miss Chamberlain. Find a way,” he said with a weary voice.

  I walked out, trying to digest our bizarre conversation when someone called my name, startling me.

  “Dear God!” I gasped. Dakota nearly scared the crap out of me.

  “Hey, I overheard some of what you and Mr. Romano were talking about,” he said, pushing his huge glasses back up on the bridge of his nose.

  “Okay?” I wasn’t sure what he wanted or where this was leading.

  “Just thought I’d tell you if you happen to be in Anmoore around, let’s say, eight tonight, and happen to be in the vicinity of the old boiler plant, you should go in,” Dakota said. A geeky smile formed around his lips like he’d thrown me a free level pass in the latest video game he’d played. I relaxed, going for a less intimidating approach and decided to play along.

  “Is there a certain prize in the building?”

  “You could say that,” he said with a coy smile, enjoying our talk-in-code conversation. “Oh, and I’d make sure to have ten bucks in cash with me, and perhaps park behind the building, and maybe follow the broken yellow line to the bottom level.”

  “Thanks,” I said giving him a genuine smile.

  He winked like we shared an inside secret, part of some underground club. And I was okay that he thought we did, but what I was really
concerned with was the secret inside the boiler plant. My mind raced. Obviously Dakota was referring to Mickey, but what in the world would he or anybody be doing at the old boiler plant?

  I didn’t know Dakota extremely well. He was smart, quiet, and came from a good family. I mean, I guess he could still be a serial killer in the making, but watching his tiny frame walk off towards the exit, I didn’t get that kind of vibe from him. I truly didn’t feel like Dakota would go out of his way to put me in harm’s way, but couldn’t figure out why he’d help me, either.

  ****

  I parked behind Dad’s Mercedes. I’d been so engrossed with the mystery of the boiler plant that I’d forgotten Dad would be back from his business trip. That meant my mom would be home. She’d be up, running, functioning, alcohol-free. Or at least not drunk. She typically waited to tie one on after my dad was safely out of the state.

  Mary usually prepared meals for my mom, but on Fridays we always went to the Country Club to dine. Crap. I had to come up with some kind of excuse. But what? I had around four hours to figure it out.

  I walked in, the door clicking behind me. We generally left around six-thirty, so technically I only had a few minutes to concoct a plan, an excuse, because it had to look like something just came up. I couldn’t wait or they’d be suspicious. I sauntered through the foyer into the library where I was sure my dad would be. I didn’t have a lot of time to think of something. Sick? Maybe I could tell them I was sick and needed to stay home. No. That wouldn’t have worked. What if I slipped out and then they got back before me? Then I’d be caught. I ran into my mother.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said, my voice a bit high-pitched.

  “Hi, honey. How was school?” she asked, both hands up to her earlobe, trying to latch the back of her diamond studded earring.

  She turned to look at the mirror in the hallway.

  “Good. It was good.”

  Just then I heard the library door open, my dad’s tall frame lumbering through.