The Butterfly Novels Box Set: Contemporary YA Series (And By The Way; And For Your Information; And Actually)

by Denise Deegan

  ‘Do you know how hard that’ll be?’

  ‘Alex. I couldn’t tell you he was going to ask her out. Of course I know.’

  I hit him. ‘That was so mean.’

  He leans right into me. ‘So,’ he says, ‘is she into him?’

  I mime pulling a zip across my mouth.

  He pulls a face. ‘So mean,’ he says, trying to sound like me. But sounding like a squirrel instead.

  At break, David comes over to sit with the three of us. Mark’s with him. Simon too. (I don’t know whether Mark grabbed him for moral support or whether Simon just invited himself along.) But here we are. After what happened this morning, it feels right – and great – that David’s beside me. Mark acts like Rachel’s not there. She looks everywhere but at him. Sarah’s eyes flit from me to David, and from Mark to Rachel. I’ve never seen her so animated.

  ‘Brave move, this morning,’ Simon says to me.

  ‘Not sure I’d have done it,’ Mark says.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Sarah says to him. ‘Sometimes it’s better to get things out in the open.’ She eyes him meaningfully.

  He coughs like he’s just choked on something.

  But already she’s moved on, leaning across the table to David and me. ‘So, when did you two lovebirds get together?’

  I know that if I don’t answer she’ll never let up. ‘At your party,’ I say, hoping that’s the end of it.

  She sits back suddenly. ‘That was three weeks ago.’ She turns to Rachel. ‘Did you know about this?’

  Rachel glances at me, then back at Sarah. ‘Not till this morning.’

  Sarah looks at me. ‘We’re your friends.’

  Mark and David exchange an uncomfortable glance. And I know they want to be somewhere else.

  ‘Sarah, let’s talk about this another time,’ Rachel tries.

  ‘If it wasn’t for me, they wouldn’t even have got together.’ Her eyes appeal to everyone at the table.

  ‘I gotta go,’ Mark says, grabbing his tray and standing.

  ‘Me too,’ says David. He winks at me. ‘See you later.’

  Simon just stands.

  Then they’re gone.

  I turn to Sarah. ‘Look, I’m sorry for not saying anything but I wasn’t sure where it was going myself.’

  ‘You looked pretty sure in class.’

  Oh God. ‘That was a spur-of-the-moment thing. A vote of confidence in David. Or something. If I’d known it was going to happen, I’d have told you. I swear.’

  She looks at Rachel, then back at me. ‘You don’t trust us to keep a secret. That’s it, isn’t it?’

  ‘No.’

  Then she looks really shocked, like something’s just struck her. ‘So that time in the Jitter Mug when I was trying to set you two up, you were already going out with each other?’

  ‘Not going out. More like seeing.’

  ‘Like there’s a difference?’

  ‘Sarah. I didn’t want this, OK? I guess I just couldn’t help it.’

  She looks at me like she just doesn’t get it.

  ‘I’m new to this, OK? I don’t know what I’m doing half the time. It’s complicated.’

  ‘You’re going out with a guy. How complicated can it be?’

  I feel like laughing. If only she knew. ‘Sarah, I’m sorry, OK? There’s never been any great plan. I’ve just been blundering along.’

  ‘It just that we’re friends. We’re supposed to tell each other everything.’

  ‘I get that, and I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. I swear.’

  ‘People forget their friends when they start going out with someone. It happens all the time.’ And suddenly it’s like she’s this kid that needs comforting.

  ‘I won’t forget my friends. I promise.’

  She looks at me as if she wants to believe me.

  ‘So, are we OK?’ I ask.

  ‘Yeah, we’re OK.’ She smiles. And that’s what I love about her: the way she can just bounce back like that, put stuff behind her, in, like, a second. ‘So,’ she says, leaning towards me again, ‘are you totally mad about him?’

  I smile. ‘A bit.’

  ‘You can’t be a bit mad. You either are or you aren’t.’

  I look at Rachel. ‘OK, then I am.’ Even the thought of him makes my heart flip.

  ‘I don’t blame you,’ she says. ‘He is seriously caliente.’ She sighs. ‘You’re so lucky.’

  And that’s when I realise: things have changed. I am lucky.

  THIRTEEN | POPPADOMS

  On Friday, Rachel wants us to stay over. I know it’s to make up for not coming to mine that time. She says nothing, though. Neither do I. I just go. We watch Mean Girls. Give each other manicures. And talk.

  ‘So, what’ve you done about the costumes for Macbeth?’ Rachel asks me, then goes back to blowing on her nails.

  I look up from watching Sarah work on mine. ‘Plenty of time.’

  ‘Not really, when you think of all the costumes there are.’

  ‘There are costume shops aren’t there? Macbeth’s, like, a standard play. I’ll just go in and order a load of Macbeth gear.’

  ‘How about you, Sarah? How’s sound going?’ Rachel asks.

  That’s when I realise how quiet Sarah’s been. She hasn’t said anything in ages.

  ‘Crap,’ she says now. Which is so not like her. Sarah’s always up.

  ‘What’s wrong with it?’ Rachel asks, surprised.

  ‘Everything. I wish I hadn’t picked it.’

  ‘Why did you?’ I ask. She shrugs.

  I look at her, not believing that something like sound is getting her so down.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  She looks at us for a long moment, like she’s trying to decide something. Then she takes a deep breath.

  ‘Look, this isn’t, like, a big deal or anything. It’s not even worth talking about. But you should probably just know. Because you’re my friends and that. It’s not, like, a disaster or anything.’ All I can think is, what is it? ‘My parents are splitting up.’

  ‘Oh God,’ Rachel says. ‘Sarah!’ She goes straight to her and wraps her in a hug.

  Sarah pulls back. ‘It’s no biggie. People split up all the time.’

  ‘But these are your parents,’ Rachel says.

  ‘It’s their problem, right?’

  ‘I can’t believe you’re so cool about it,’ Rachel says.

  ‘Aren’t you upset?’

  ‘The only thing I’m upset about is that it’s my dad moving out, not my mum.’ When she sees Rachel’s face she adds, ‘It’s OK. It was a joke.’

  The thing is, I know exactly how Sarah feels. At least she had the courage to say it. I’ve never told anyone that sometimes I wish it was my dad who died.

  ‘I didn’t know your parents were having problems,’ Rachel says.

  ‘Neither did I.’ Sarah laughs.

  I hear the pain in that laugh and think, maybe enough questions.

  But Rachel doesn’t know what it’s like to lose someone.

  ‘What happened?’ she asks.

  Sarah looks away when she says, ‘Mum found out he was having an affair and made him choose. Us or her. He chose her.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah,’ Rachel says again. Rachel would die if anything happened with her parents.

  Sarah clears her throat and turns back, chin high. Determined. ‘But it’s their problem, right?’

  ‘Right,’ we both say, with maybe a little too much conviction.

  And then, so Sarah can breathe again, I move the conversation back to Macbeth. For the rest of the night though, she says very little. Every so often, I glance at her to see how she’s doing. She seems miles away. Lost in her thoughts. Around midnight, the house starts to get cold. Rachel and I insist that Sarah take the bed. We slip into sleeping bags on the floor. And maybe it’s the comfort of the bed or maybe she just doesn’t want to be awake, but soon Sarah’s breathing changes and she’s no longer with us.

  ‘Sarah?’ I w
hisper.

  Nothing.

  My tummy rumbles loudly. And we laugh.

  ‘You hungry?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘Starving.’ Which is a totally new experience.

  Still in our sleeping bags, we shuffle out of the room. On the landing, Rachel develops a kind of penguin walk, stuffing one foot into each corner of her sleeping bag, then stepping forward, one corner at a time. It’d be a good technique for sack races, I think, adopting it. At the top of the stairs, we face a new challenge. Rachel tackles it head on, sitting on the top step and slinking down on her bum.

  I follow.

  ‘Race you to the kitchen,’ she says when we reach the bottom.

  We try not to laugh or fall over. But we do both. In reverse order. In the kitchen, we microwave poppadoms and make hot chocolate. Then we remember Sarah.

  ‘I can’t believe her dad did that,’ Rachel says. ‘I always thought he was really nice.’

  ‘You thought mine was nice too.’

  She grimaces. ‘Am I totally stupid about men?’

  ‘Totally,’ I smile. ‘Which reminds me. How’re rehearsals going with Mark Delaney?’ I raise and lower my eyebrows.

  She breaks into a smile.

  ‘That good?’

  She shakes her head. ‘He’s just funny . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Come on, you’re leaving something out.’

  She rolls her eyes at him. ‘He keeps calling me his Lady Macbeth.’ She’s smiling again. ‘He says I’m a bad influence.’ She waves her hand dismissively. ‘Total flirt.’

  Not so fast, Rachel Dunne. ‘You like him. Don’t you?’

  ‘I like the flirting. Does that mean I like him?’ She makes a non-committal face.

  ‘I asked David about the ADD thing.’

  Her eyes widen.

  ‘Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything.’ I tell her about Mark wanting to do medicine.

  Her whole face lights up. ‘Really?’

  I imagine the two of them, operating side by side on some patient with major heart problems, frowns of concentration above their surgical masks.

  ‘OK,’ I say. ‘Here’s what I think. Scrap Plan A. Go straight to Plan B. One date. See how it goes.’

  She makes a face. ‘I kind of like Plan A, though. He tries harder. And he’s funny when he tries.’

  ‘He’ll still try if you go out with him.’

  She looks doubtful.

  I shrug. ‘OK. Stick to Plan A. You know what you’re doing.’

  ‘No, I don’t.’

  ‘That makes two of us.’

  We laugh, and, for at least another hour, we sit chatting at the counter, swinging our legs inside the sleeping bags. Two mermaids having a snack. At 1.00 a.m. we go back up. Rachel falls asleep first. I lie on my back, looking up through her Velux window at the stars. I feel different. Relieved to be able to admit that I care for Rachel and she cares for me (but not in a gay way), and that I’m mad about David and he likes me. I don’t feel alone any more. Or freaky. And nothing bad has happened. The world hasn’t fallen apart. Yet. I look up at Sarah and hope she’ll be OK.

  In the morning, we bring breakfast upstairs and lounge around in our pyjamas.

  ‘I was thinking,’ Sarah says, wrinkling her nose. ‘I don’t know about Mark.’

  Suddenly, she has Rachel’s full attention.

  ‘I think you could do better,’ Sarah adds.

  ‘I haven’t said yes.’

  ‘Yeah, well, I wouldn’t. If I were you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘He’s just a messer. You can’t trust a word he says.’

  Rachel looks at me. And suddenly I have to defend him. ‘He took the Macbeth part to be near you, Rachel. He learned all those lines for you. He’s mad about you. He’s been mad about you for ages.’

  Her face lights up. ‘Really?’

  ‘You’re not supposed to know, OK? Or I’m dead.’

  She’s beaming. ‘David really told you that?’

  ‘He really told me that.’

  ‘Wow.’ Rachel looks like I’ve given her a present.

  ‘He’s not a messer. Not when he knows what he wants.’

  ‘I’d still be careful,’ Sarah says, defiantly, giving me a ‘you’re-not-always-right’ look. And I wonder if this has anything to do with her father leaving. If maybe she thinks all guys are creeps now.

  When I get home, I throw my bag down and go looking for Homer, wondering why he hasn’t come to meet me. I find him in the kitchen. And instead of coming to say hi, he takes off in the opposite direction, head down, tail between his legs. I follow, curious. That’s when I see that he has something in his mouth.

  ‘What is it? What’ve you got?’

  He lies down, big brown eyes looking up at me, like one of those martyred saints in pictures.

  I put out my hand. ‘Give.’

  He drops an oversized pair of shades.

  ‘Homer!’

  On the black Prada sunglasses that The Stylist loves so much there are thick tracks where his teeth have scudded across the lenses, leaving ridges in places.

  ‘Oh my God!’ I frown at him. ‘Bold dog.’

  Maybe they’re not so bad when they’re on, I think. I hold them out in front of me and look through them, hoping the scratches won’t interfere with my vision.

  They’re wrecked.

  Normally, Homer’s not a chewer. He’s never gone for the furniture. Or carpets. Or curtains. The odd sock, maybe. Nothing serious. I don’t know what’s got into him. Doesn’t he like her either? Then I remind myself – he’s a dog.

  I take a deep breath. Better tell her.

  She’s not in any of the main rooms. Not my father’s office. Nor the sitting room. No answer from the bedroom she’s staying in. I’m about to give up when, from the third-floor landing, I see her outside, sitting on a low, cobbled wall in the garden, facing out to sea. I’ve never seen her so still. I’ve never seen her still, full stop. Better get it over with. Downstairs and out into the garden I go, Prada in hand, trying to work out how to tell her it’s mangled Prada. I come up behind her.

  ‘Marsha?’ I say tentatively.

  Her hands go immediately to her face. Then she turns and smiles. The tip of her nose is red, her eyes puffy.

  ‘Oh, God. I’m sorry,’ I say, backing away. ‘I didn’t mean to–’ It doesn’t seem right for her to cry. She’s always so, I dunno, sunny.

  She smiles. ‘Meet the new divorcee.’ She lifts a padded yellow envelope from the wall. ‘Just got the papers. It’s official.’ I’m totally stunned. I didn’t even know she was married.

  ‘Oh God. I’m so sorry.’ Or is that not what you say?

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about. He was just the love of my life.’ She laughs. And wells up. Before I know what I’m doing, I’m putting my arms around her. I. Am. Hugging. The Stylist.

  ‘Here’s a hint,’ she says, when she pulls back. ‘When you love a guy, don’t spend your time on the other side of the world to him.’

  I nod. ‘OK.’

  ‘You grow apart,’ she says, blowing her nose. ‘I didn’t think we could. But we did.’

  A week ago, I’d have thought, your fault for letting him into your life. Now I really feel for her.

  ‘Maybe it’s not too late,’ I say.

  She waves the envelope. ‘He’s found someone else – who has no interest in fashion, who never travels beyond the supermarket, who spends her time making him happy.’

  ‘She sounds boring.’

  ‘He wants boring.’

  We’re silent for a while. And if it wasn’t for David, I might think all men were creeps too. Then I remember the shades. And feel guilty. Homer is my dog.

  ‘Is there anything I can do?’ I ask. But the minute I say it, I feel dumb. What can I do?

  She smiles. ‘Your dad’s been great, letting me hide out here.’

  OK, so now I get it.

  She takes a compact fr
om her bag and checks out her face. She closes her eyes and shakes her head.

  ‘Complete mess.’

  ‘No, you’re not!’ I lie. ‘You’re lovely.’

  She looks at me. ‘Actually, Alex. There is something you could do. You could get my shades? I think I left them in the kitchen.’

  I bite my lip. The one thing. The one thing. I take my hand from behind my back. Make a face. ‘That’s what I came to tell you . . .’

  When she bursts out laughing and says, ‘Good old Homer,’ I can’t help thinking, maybe she’s not so bad.

  After lunch, I go see Gran. Without David. Because there’s something I want her to know.

  ‘We’re going out, Gran,’ I announce, when she asks after her ‘favourite American’. I can’t stop smiling. I want to tell everyone.

  ‘Oh, I’ve known that for a long time, love,’ she says.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘But it’s good to hear you admit it.’ She smiles. ‘So I can give you a hug.’

  She hugs me and I’m smiling again.

  ‘We have to celebrate,’ she says, suddenly. ‘Let me bring you both to lunch.’

  The good thing about that is that Gran will have to leave the house, something she doesn’t do much any more. The bad thing is the questions.

  ‘On one condition,’ I say. ‘Go easy on the questions. Last time he was here, it was like the Gestapo.’

  She smiles. ‘Alright. I’ll go easy.’

  When Mike drops me home, I change into my togs and wetsuit. I did remind David it was almost winter. Then he reminded me that people swim in the Irish Sea all year round. And a lot of them are over seventy.

  He picks me up, looking like a beach bum, reminding me of the sailing course and the chemistry that was between us even then. And when he kisses me, I remember our first kiss.

  I feel like a hippy, driving along in a clapped-out VW Beetle with two bodyboards thrown in the back. The one thing David can’t do is sing. But he sings anyway. Totally out of tune and with no clue of the lyrics. Laughing at him only encourages him. He drives and sings with one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on my leg, like it’s the most natural place in the world for it to be. And it is.

  I tell him about Sarah’s parents.

  ‘Bummer,’ he says.

  ‘She acts like it’s no big deal. But it has to be, right?’ He’s been through it.