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

by Denise Deegan

  ‘OK.’ But she doesn’t sound OK.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I just thought you were worried he’d think you want to get back with him.’

  ‘No. I was careful.’ Really careful. But I start to panic. Was I careful enough? What did I write exactly? ‘I just said sorry. And I explained why I pushed him away. And why I still think that was the right thing. No. It’s OK. It’s definitely OK.’

  ‘And you don’t expect anything?’ she asks, still cautious.

  ‘No. God. No. You know I don’t.’

  ‘Not even him to write back?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘That’s all right then.’ Finally, she looks relieved.

  But suddenly I’m not. ‘Oh God. You don’t think he’ll think I expect him to write back?’

  ‘No. Not from what you said. No.’

  ‘OK.’ But my stomach’s in a knot. I knew I shouldn’t have written it.

  THIRTY-THREE | GRAND MASTER

  Days pass. I stop worrying. Tell myself it was good to set the record straight, apologise. But then I imagine him getting the letter, opening it, reading it. And I start to freak. What’ll he think? What’ll he do? Oh God. This was a total mistake. I’m supposed to be remembering what we had, not wondering if he’ll get back to me.

  Two weeks, and I hear nothing. I remind myself that that was the plan. But, in weaker moments, of which there are many, I wonder why he isn’t replying. Didn’t he get it? Maybe he got it and didn’t open it. Maybe he does hate me and just isn’t getting back. I know only one thing for sure: I shouldn’t have written that letter.

  I don’t ask Dad if there’s post for me. Though I’m dying to. I don’t ask Rachel if she’s heard anything. Because she’d kill me. But I am wondering what happened. Because David understood. He always understood.

  I go into Facebook. His profile pic is new. I stare at that face, so familiar yet so changed. His hair is longer now and lighter, his skin darker, his teeth whiter. I thought I wasn’t strong. But I must have been. To let him go.

  I look at his ‘Friends’. Rachel’s there. Mark, of course. Sarah. Even Simon Kelleher. There are new faces. Guys. Girls.

  I’m not there. It still hurts.

  I have to use Sarah’s password (‘caliente’) to access his wall. It makes me feel like a stalker. And I know it’s a mistake. Even before I do it.

  Any photo that I was in is gone. All evidence that I ever existed, wiped out. He has deleted me from his life. The way I deleted him. Now I know what it feels like. Like a punch in the stomach. Good. I deserve it.

  ‘He forgot me pretty quickly, didn’t he?’ I say to Rachel, next day, at the same time I realise I’ve no right.

  ‘How can you say that? I mean, seriously. How?’ She looks so angry, Rachel, who doesn’t do anger. ‘You ended it. And, yeah, I know why but, seriously, Alex, you broke his heart. What do you expect? Of course he moved on. He had to. I didn’t want to have to spell it out. But there it is. I’m sorry.’

  It’s hard to breathe. Hard to believe how stupid I’ve been. How did I think that one letter would make a difference to him after what I did?

  ‘He didn’t write back, did he?’ Dad asks one day when I’m feeling particularly crap.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then tell him you love him.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Why not? Look at you, you’re miserable.’

  ‘Only because I wrote that stupid letter. I should have let it alone.’

  ‘You did the right thing.’

  ‘I was getting over him.’

  He gives me a look that says ‘yeah, right.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘I don’t see why you have to get over him at all! You’re alive, he’s alive. You love each other –’

  ‘Stop, Dad, please. It’s too late. It’s over.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  My eyes widen.

  ‘Then it’s not too late.’

  ‘He didn’t answer my letter.’

  ‘Then write another. And another. And another. And, for God’s sake, tell him you love him.’

  ‘He’s on the other side of the world.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘We’re teenagers.’

  ‘So were Romeo and Juliet.’

  ‘Who died.’

  He looks straight at me. ‘You just don’t want this, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t.’ Because nothing’s changed. He’s over there. I’m over here. With a big ocean and life in the way.

  Everyone’s talking about Uganda. Most of the class are going. Rachel and Mark can’t wait. Rachel doesn’t talk about it though, because Sarah and I aren’t going. Sarah’s parents can’t afford the trip. And I didn’t tell Dad about it. He’d have tried to get me to go. And I know it’s silly – nothing would happen him if I went – but I still couldn’t leave him. Now, I’m glad, because I’m here when his back sorts itself out, when one day he just gets into the pool and swims, and something clicks. He’s tried physiotherapists, a healer, a chiropractor, a ‘body balancer’ (whatever that is), a hospital consultant and two osteopaths. And just like that, it’s over. He’s still careful, but he doesn’t guard his every movement. He doesn’t look rigid. And the pain’s gone from his face. I’d take that over Uganda any day.

  In the Jitter Mug one day after school, Sarah has some news.

  ‘Simon Kelleher asked me out!’

  ‘That’s great!’ I say.

  ‘I thought you didn’t like him.’

  ‘Sarah. You’re the one going out with him. Not me. You’re happy, I’m happy.’

  ‘You think I’m mad, don’t you?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘You think he’s not as good as Mark or David.’

  ‘Sarah. It’s not a competition. You like the guy. You’re going out with him. Be happy.’

  ‘I am happy.’

  ‘Good.’

  That Friday, Dad and I are chopping vegetables together.

  ‘Why aren’t you going out any more?’ he asks.

  ‘There’s not much on,’ I lie. Sarah’s asked me to go to the rugby club with Simon and a friend of his.

  Dad looks doubtful. ‘I only grounded you for a week.’

  ‘I know that.’

  ‘I don’t want you giving up on your pals.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘So why not go out tonight?’

  ‘I don’t feel like it.’

  ‘It’d be good for you, though, to have some fun.’

  And, maybe, I think, he’ll stop nagging me about David if he thinks I’m happy here.

  ‘All right, then, I’ll go.’

  We meet Simon and his friend, Anakin, outside the rugby club. Anakin looks like he grew up in a commune. Extremely skinny with Rapunzel hair – blonde, straight and down to his ass. His goatee reminds me of Jesus. But he has a nice smile. He looks gentle. And totally out of place. Sarah and Simon lead the way inside, like A-listers now that they’ve found each other. Brad and Angelina. But the other way round, obviously.

  I try to make Anakin feel more at home. ‘So what kind of music you into?’

  ‘The Dubliners.’

  And I thought I’d weird taste.

  ‘Sarah tells me you play chess,’ he says, and I think maybe he’s not shy after all.

  ‘Eh, yeah. Sometimes.’

  ‘Maybe we could have a game.’ He pulls an electronic gadget out of his jacket.

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Yeah, why not?’

  He’s obviously never been here before.

  Inside, Sarah finds seats. Simon heads for the bar. It’s an easy order. All Cokes. Except for Anakin who just wants water.

  Sarah leans towards him. ‘Not sure how water’s going to taste with vodka.’ From her bag she produces a naggin.

  ‘I don’t drink,’ Anakin says.

  ‘Great! More for everyone else!’ She looks like nothing could get her down tonight, sitting so straight with her bum sticking out, looking around, moving t
o the music.

  Simon gets back with the drinks. Sarah takes her glass below the table and pours vodka into it. She takes Simon’s glass and does the same. He smiles over at me. She reaches for my glass.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘It’s OK, thanks.’

  She rolls her eyes. Then shouts something at Simon. Anakin taps my shoulder. I look at him.

  ‘Ready?’ He has the electronic thing out.

  I stare at him. Then look at Sarah and Simon. And decide, what the hell?

  ‘Jesus H. Christ,’ Sarah says when she sees what’s going on.

  Sarah and Simon disappear for most of the night. After my fifth game, I’m seriously thinking of going home when Sarah appears again. She grabs my hand and pulls me up.

  ‘We’re going to the loo.’

  I look back at Anakin and shrug.

  As soon as we hit the Ladies, Sarah leans towards me conspiratorially. ‘We’re going to do it.’

  ‘What?’

  She looks at me like I’m an idiot. ‘It.’

  ‘Oh. Right. OK. Sorry.’ And I hate to burst her bubble but, ‘Don’t you think you should wait?’

  ‘For what?’

  And the only reason I go out on a limb here is I wish I could take back what happened with Louis. ‘I don’t know. Love?’

  She bursts out laughing. ‘Why?’

  ‘Because then it would mean something,’ I say passionately. ‘It would be special.’ Not something to file away under Big Mistake.

  Her eyes pop open. ‘Oh my God. You did it with David! Didn’t you?’

  I colour. ‘No.’

  ‘Then what do you know?’

  Just that I totally messed up.

  ‘Look. We’re off, OK? So – good luck with the nerd.’

  ‘He’s Simon’s friend, Sarah.’

  ‘Don’t remind me,’ she says, and with a faultless swirl, she’s gone.

  When I get back to Anakin, the others have gone. He’s playing away on his gadget, looking like something out of The Lord of the Rings with the hair.

  ‘Mind if we go?’ I ask. Mike should be outside by now anyway.

  He looks up and smiles. ‘Sure.’ He puts away the gadget. He walks me to the car.

  ‘Well, bye,’ I say, ‘And thanks for the games.’

  ‘You’re not going as far as Monkstown, are you?’ he asks.

  ‘Eh, yeah.’

  ‘Mind if I take a ride?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Anakin talks about chess – about playing Russians online, how he was beaten by an eight-year-old. And how he’d love to be a grand master. I’m kind of tired and, I realise all of a sudden, not that into chess. But I let him talk on and on like some kid obsessed with trains, or Lego or something.

  ‘Who was that guy?’ Mike asks, when he finally gets out at Monkstown.

  ‘I’ve no idea. Anakin something.’

  ‘Ah,’ he says, as if that explains it.

  Next morning, I wake early. I look out the window and see nothing. Fog has blown in overnight. I wrap up, get Homer and walk to Killiney Hill. It’s eerily quiet. Nothing moves. All I can see is what’s right in front of me. But I really do see it. Cobwebs covered in moisture. Drops suspended from branches. And Homer, like a ghost, disappearing in and out of view. He looks like one of the white tigers in Singapore Zoo.

  We get totally soaked.

  When we get back, Dad’s in the kitchen.

  ‘You know what I think we need?’ he says, looking out at the fog.

  ‘Porridge?’

  He laughs. ‘A holiday. A complete break. Just the two of us.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I think a change of scene would do us good.’

  I think about escaping from Sarah. From school. From the cold. ‘Where would we go?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. The main thing is to get away, spend some time together, no one in the way.’

  ‘You mean, no Mike, no Barbara, no anyone, just us?’

  ‘Just us.’

  That would be amazing. ‘But what about work? You’ve missed loads of time already.’

  ‘I’ve spoken with Ed. We’re putting things back a bit.’

  ‘An album release, a world tour?’

  ‘It’s not open heart surgery.’

  ‘No but –’

  ‘If a person’s wife dies, he’s expected to take compassionate leave, right?’

  ‘Of course –’

  ‘Well, this is mine. Everything else can wait – except you. You’ve waited long enough. Let’s have our holiday.’

  I hug him. ‘Thanks, Dad.’

  The following Monday, I don’t mind when Sarah looks at me like she has one up on me, like she knows something I don’t, like she’s part of some secret club. Nothing bothers me today, because Dad is booking the tickets and telling the principal that he’s taking me out of school.

  THIRTY-FOUR | ON THE BEACH

  Two weeks later, Mike drops us to the airport. Dad has a share in a private jet, but this holiday is about being normal, doing things the way normal people do. So he has grown the beard again, reverted to a tracksuit and pulled the type of hat fly-fishermen wear down over his face, on the basis that the holiday won’t stay normal if he’s spotted by fans. So I walk with this strange-looking man to the check-in desks. I still don’t know where we’re going. He wouldn’t tell me. Now, though, I see the screen and he can’t hide it any more. I feel suddenly sick. I stare at him. Of all places.

  ‘Oh my God. Don’t tell me you’ve set something up.’

  ‘I’d never do that.’

  ‘Then why San Diego?’

  He shrugs. ‘Just giving you an opportunity, if you want to take it.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Fine. Then we’ll just have a good time.’

  ‘If we go.’

  ‘San Diego’s a big place.’

  I’d be thinking about him the whole time, hoping I wouldn’t bump into him, hoping I would. It’d be a nightmare.

  ‘You’d better decide, Alex. We’ve cut it a bit fine.’

  ‘I can’t believe you did this.’ But when I see his face I see the truth. He was thinking of me. He really has changed. He’s sorry. And he’s trying. Which decides me. ‘OK. We’ll go. But this is a holiday, like you promised. Just the two of us. No one else. And no diversions.’

  He puts an arm around me and pulls me to him. ‘That’s all I want. Time with my little girl.’

  I’m sixteen. And I like being called his ‘little girl’. Seriously sad.

  ‘You should have told me,’ I say, when we’ve settled into our seats.

  ‘You’d never have come.’

  ‘We could have gone somewhere else.’ Somewhere uncomplicated.

  ‘Would that have been living?’ he asks with a smile.

  ‘Dad, I’m not going to see him.’

  ‘And that’s fine. I just wanted to give you the chance. Is your seat belt fastened?’

  ‘Yep.’ I take out my mobile to turn it off. It rings before I can.

  ‘Alex?’ It’s Gran. ‘Are you on the plane yet?’

  ‘You knew about this?’

  I look at Dad. Who smiles.

  ‘Of course I knew.’ That they’ve been speaking is great.

  ‘You be careful, now,’ she says. ‘Listen to all that safety information. I told your father to get an aisle seat, near a wing.’

  ‘Gran, planes are safer than cars.’

  ‘So, watch the roads. They drive on the wrong side over there.’

  I smile. It’s so not like her to fuss. But then it hits me. She lost her only daughter. I’m all she’s left. And I’m off to San Diego.

  ‘I’ll be careful,’ I say. ‘But Gran?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You watch too much CSI.’

  The air hostess flirts with Dad – so obviously his disguise isn’t 100 per cent foolproof. Either that or she’s into hippies. She’s subtle about it, though.
I don’t think he even notices. She reminds me of someone.

  ‘How’s The Stylist doing?’ I ask.

  He closes the in-flight magazine he’d started to flick through. ‘I don’t know,’ he says, turning to look at me. ‘We haven’t been in touch.’

  ‘Because of me?’

  He clears his throat. ‘Because of the situation.’ He pauses, puts down the magazine. ‘You liked her, though, didn’t you?’

  ‘She was OK.’

  ‘She was genuinely fond of you.’

  ‘Yeah well, you know me – irresistible.’

  And maybe some day I’ll write back to her. Because now I know that she just messed up. Like me.

  Mum would have loved the beach house, all modern and sleek with granite walls and windows. It’s in a totally private cove. When we arrive, the sun is setting. The car glides forward through a tropical garden that could be Paradise. I roll down the window and listen to the surf. Dad was right.

  This was a good idea.

  He has nothing organised, no sightseeing trips, no whirlwind tours.

  ‘I thought we could turn into beach bums for three weeks,’ he says.

  Sounds perfect. Just hanging out. Lying around. Soaking up the sun. Not bumping into anyone.

  For the first few days, we stick to the beach house and the cove. We read. Swim. Dad goes running. After a few days, we explore other beaches. Pacific Beach. Ocean Beach. Mission Beach. We watch surfers, rollerbladers, skateboarders, bikers. We walk boardwalks. Drink coffee. Wear hoodies, board shorts and flip-flops. We fit right in.

  One day, we travel to the Children’s Beach in La Jolla. Seals and sea lions bask in the sun, their skin glistening. I take a tip from them, close my eyes, turn my face to the sky and forget everything.

  ‘I’m going to quit,’ Dad says.

  I turn to him. ‘What?’

  ‘The band.’

  ‘You can’t. You’ve been together for years. It’s what you do.’

  ‘I’ve had enough.’

  I look at him suspiciously. ‘Has this anything to do with me?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’