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

by Denise Deegan

  ‘I am not discussing my sex life with you.’

  ‘Ooh, so there is a sex life.’ Rachel looks stunned.

  ‘Not that it’s a big deal,’ I say to make her feel better. ‘Actually, I think it might just be the world’s biggest disappointment. After Santa.’

  Alex looks at me comfortingly. ‘It’s different with someone you love.’

  I look at her like I’m deeply offended. ‘Are you saying I don’t love Simon?’

  ‘Do you?’ She looks shocked.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ I say. And we laugh. I’m not stupid. I know the first rule of survival: don’t love someone who doesn’t love you.

  ‘It is different, though,’ she says, like she wants me to find love. She’s not the only one. I don’t make the same mistake twice and tell her how lucky she is to have David but she is lucky. I look at the necklace he gave her and wonder what it’s like to be in love. Really in love. To have someone who’d die for you. To have someone you’d die for. Simon has his good points. Sometimes, though, I wake in the morning (obviously) and wonder if today’s going to be the day my life starts, the day I fall in love. I look at Rachel, who’s helping herself to the last prawn katsu, and wonder what it’s like to have your life totally sorted. To be with a guy you love. To know what you want to be. To do and say everything right – automatically. Sometimes, when I’m around Rache I mess up on purpose, just to get it over with.

  She catches me looking. ‘Oh, sorry. I took the last one.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’m totally full,’ I lie. ‘Let’s go shopping.’

  At my favourite cosmetics counter, I pick up an eye shadow. It’s bluey-green, like peacock feathers. When I move it under the light, it sparkles. I find a tester and try it out. Oh my God. It’s amazing. It makes my eyes stand out. In a good way. Not like a frog’s or those people you see with thyroid problems. I check the price. And put it back. I try to think of a way. If I went without smoothies for a week … But then you can’t exactly sit with nothing in front of you while your friends suck away for hours.

  ‘Sarah?’

  I turn. Rachel’s holding up two eye shadows.

  ‘Which one?’ she asks.

  I hesitate. They’re practically the same.

  ‘Oh, what the hell, I’ll get them both.’ She smiles, like she’s totally mad. She goes to the counter – so easily, like money’s air.

  Alex is at a clothes rail. But she’s barely touching the clothes, just gliding the hangers along without really looking. I know she’s thinking of David. Having the person you love on the other side of the world must be so romantic. All that anguish. All that longing. Alex and David were meant to be together. Like Dolce & Gabbana.

  I look back at the eye shadow. Would they really miss one? I mean, how many just roll off the counter every day and get kicked under? Not that I’d take one. I’m not that kind of person. I run a finger over the colours. Longingly. Then I slip one into my palm. Just to see how easy it would be …

  Very easy. All I’d have to do is put my hand in my pocket and let go.

  I walk over to Rachel, the eye shadow still in my hand. It’s no big deal. I can put it back at any moment. Only, I’m not putting it back. I’m slipping my hands into my pockets. Just to see…

  That’s when I remember security cameras. They must have them. Every shop does. Oh God. My heart starts to pound. I try to look casual while I check, glancing around as if for no particular reason. Jesus, they’re everywhere. OK, don’t panic, I tell myself. But my heart is really pounding now. My mouth is dry. I can’t believe I’m in this situation. Now, there’s only one thing to do. Keep walking. Over to Rachel. Who’s at the checkout now.

  I stand beside her. Fold my arms. She looks at me and smiles. I smile back. But I’m freaking. Alex is coming over. If I get caught, I will die.

  ‘Find anything?’ Rachel asks her.

  ‘Nah. I’m kind of tired. Must be jet lag.’

  The checkout girl hands Rachel her change and a paper bag with rope handles. Oh my God. We’re going. Moving. Towards the exit. My heart feels like it’s going to burst through my chest. I’m going to be stopped, called. Caught. Any minute.

  ‘Was that seriously extravagant?’ Rachel asks me. We’re walking through the door.

  ‘What? Eh, no. No, it was fine.’

  We’re three steps from the shop. Five. Ten. Fifteen. Could I have made it? Could there really be a God? I glance at Rachel and Alex, chatting away like it’s another ordinary day. They wouldn’t believe me if I told them. Which makes me feel wild. And dangerous. And free. I put my hand in my pocket and feel the compact. I didn’t have to rely on anyone for this. I didn’t need Mum’s money. I didn’t need to borrow from my friends. I did this myself. I was in control. I lived on the edge. And flew.

  ONE | LITTLE BLACK DRESS

  There’s this dress that I love? It’s short and black and sleeveless with big square leather patches on each side of the waist. It has this cute belt. And it would be amazing with knee-high black boots. Or actually tan-coloured boots – to match the belt. I’ve tried this dress on, like, three times. And I’ve been saving up for it for so long it’s almost a joke. Every time I go into the shop, I’m afraid it’ll be gone, that someone with money will have come and snatched it up without thinking.

  I’m in the fitting room. Again. I’m looking at myself in the mirror. Only, in this dress, it’s not me. It’s someone confident and successful and gorgeous. I know how easy it would be to take it. I knew that the moment I walked into the cubicle and saw a shirt already hanging there. If I put the dress in my bag and replaced it with the shirt, I’d end up with the same number of items I came in with. Just the possibility has my heart pumping.

  I think about the shop being down all that money – two hundred and sixty euro. Then I think of insurance. These places are covered for this. They expect a certain amount to be taken. There’s probably even a name for it. If I listened in Business Studies, I’d probably know. I slip out of the dress. I tell myself that, actually, they’re the real robbers, here, charging so much.

  I get dressed back into the Abercrombie top that Alex didn’t want anymore and the skinny jeans I got for practically nothing in Penneys. I’m me again. I look in the mirror and remember how I felt when I took control. Took what I wanted. I want to be that person again.

  I check for security cameras. Then wise up. They can’t have cameras in fitting rooms – because then pervs would be getting jobs in security. I look myself in the eye. And decide. I’m going to do this.

  Quickly, I roll the dress up as small as I can get it and, heart pounding, I slip it into my bag. I zip it up, collect all the other dresses I brought in with me, add the shirt, take a deep breath and walk out. Jesus.

  I hand the bundle to the assistant. Can she tell I’m freaking?

  ‘Nothing was really great,’ I say and can’t believe how calm I sound.

  I leave the fitting rooms. I force myself to look around at a few more things, then I’m walking towards the exit. It seems to take forever to get there, like everything has switched to slow motion.

  I’m almost at the door when the bleeping starts. Oh my God. Is that me? It couldn’t be. There wasn’t a security tag. I checked. Could I’ve missed one? Oh God. Maybe I checked the wrong dress. I had four. My heart is pounding so fast. I know I have to keep walking. I try to look natural, like this has nothing to do with me.

  A hand falls, hard, on my shoulder and I jump off the actual ground. I tell myself to chill. Be cool. I can talk my way out of this. Of course I can. I take a deep breath and turn. The security guard is huge – like an Eastern European Robocop. For one totally mad second, I think about making a break for it. Then I imagine how that would look – running down Grafton Street with a uniformed security guard after me.

  I make my eyes big. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Come inside.’ His voice is deep with authority. Like he’s used to this.

  I glance into the shop. The girl at the cash r
egister is staring. Customers too. I feel myself blush. Thank God Rachel and Alex aren’t here. They’d be so shocked. So disgusted. They’d hate me.

  ‘Inside,’ he says.

  I have to get out of this, get away. ‘Look, I’m in a huge hurry. This has nothing to do with me. Those things go off all the time.’

  ‘Inside,’ he says again, like it’s his favourite word.

  ‘Seriously. This is a mistake.’ I’ve almost convinced myself now.

  ‘I said, “Inside”,’ he says, through gritted teeth.

  The only reason I do is so I can be out of sight, away from the eyes, the scene. And as I follow his huge bulk deeper into the shop, I’m seriously starting to freak. Will they call the police? My mum? Which is worse?

  The room he takes me to is small and poorly lit. Racks of clothes line the walls. Two or three handbags are thrown in a corner. Is that a good idea, I wonder, leaving bags where they bring shoplifters? A stock of toilet paper juts out from the top of a cupboard. He closes the door and stands in front of it, folding his arms, and staring at me. Oh God. He could do anything. I take a step back, feel for my phone, wrap my hand around it. If I screamed, people would hear …

  The door opens and he moves aside. A dark-haired woman in a black trouser-suit walks in. She’s in her thirties and looks like work is her life.

  ‘Open your bag,’ she says.

  My heart jumps. My mouth is dry. Should I ask for a lawyer like they do in the movies – do nothing, say nothing, in case I incriminate myself? What am I talking about? I don’t have a lawyer. And this isn’t Hollywood.

  ‘Open your bag,’ she says again. Like I’ve no option.

  I shift the strap on my shoulder, trying to think of a valid reason why my bag contains a little black dress with the security tag still on.

  ‘Look, that thing just went off. It has nothing to do with me.’

  She looks at me like I’m stupid. ‘We have CCTV.’

  ‘In the fitting rooms?’

  They look at each other, knowing they have me. And I know now why lawyers tell you to say nothing.

  ‘The bag,’ she says.

  I can’t do it.

  ‘Do you want me to call the police?’

  Oh God. My stomach knots. If they call the police, do I go to jail? I look down at the bag. But then I picture my mum’s face and hesitate. I look up and try to think of something, anything I can say. The Suit puts out her hand for the dress. I close my eyes. Take one second. Then I’m doing it, unzipping the bag, taking out the dress. Why didn’t I just keep saving? Why didn’t I wait? She snatches it from me.

  ‘Shoplifting is a crime.’

  Ten minutes ago, I was a normal teenager. Now I’m a criminal. She looks at me like I’m every dirty thing squished together. Which is pretty much how I feel.

  ‘What age are you?’ she asks.

  Suddenly, hope. ‘Sixteen.’ Maybe they can’t prosecute.

  ‘We need to call your parents.’ I almost throw up. ‘And the police.’

  I stare at her. ‘I thought you said you weren’t calling the police.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  I can’t let this happen. ‘Look. I’m so sorry. This was a mistake. I’ve never done anything like this before. I swear.’ OK, I’m lying. The important thing here is, I’ll never do it again. ‘If you just forget about this, I’ll leave the shop and never come back. I swear.’

  ‘Forget about it!’ she scoffs. ‘This may come as a shock to you, but I’m trying to run a business here. I’m trying to keep staff employed in a recession. Do you know how hard that is with people like you swanning in here and just helping yourselves?’

  ‘People like you.’ She says it with such disgust, lumping me in with every single person who’s ever stolen. To her we’re all the same. But the real shocker is, maybe we are. Or maybe I’m worse than people who steal for a living. Because I don’t need the stuff. Not really. Not desperately.

  ‘I need your parents’ number.’

  I swallow. My parents haven’t had the same number for three months.

  TWO | ROBOCOP

  I don’t know if, in situations like this, they deliberately make you sweat? But they’ve left me alone in here for ages. (With the handbags.) When the door finally opens, it’s my dad. Last time I saw him, he was leaving home. Everything he said then sounded like it came straight from a manual. A manual entitled, How to Tell Your Children You’re Leaving in Ten Simple Steps. Seems like years ago now. He looks different, hair shorter, clothes trendier. He doesn’t look like a dad. He looks like someone’s ‘partner’.

  ‘You OK?’ he asks. I want to run to him and feel his arms wrap around me like they used to when I was a kid.

  ‘Where’s Mum?’ I ask, like I don’t need him.

  ‘Coming.’

  That’s what I was afraid of.

  Robocop carries in a few stools. Dad thanks him, but ignores the stools. Robocop leaves again.

  ‘How’re you doing?’ Dad asks, softly.

  I shrug. If I speak, I’ll cry.

  He looks at me for a long time. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  I thought I’d got over it. Completely. Seeing him here, all concerned, makes me realise I so haven’t. I wish he’d leave. Go back to his life. Back to her.

  I make my voice hard. ‘Your choice.’

  He shifts. ‘I didn’t leave you, Sarah. I left your mother.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it.’ Which is why I’ve been avoiding his calls. I don’t want to know. I don’t want to know where he’s living now. I don’t want to know what she’s like. I don’t want to know how pretty or young or sexy she is. Unless she’s a complete hag. Which wouldn’t be so bad. Except that it wouldn’t explain why he chose her over us.

  ‘Sarah, we need to talk.’

  ‘Are you coming back?’

  He doesn’t answer. Which is an answer. Should I be happy that he looks guilty?

  ‘Then there’s nothing to talk about,’ I say.

  ‘I’m still your dad. We can still get together, do things together.’

  ‘What about Mum?’ He mightn’t feel any loyalty to her. But I do.

  I hear people outside.

  He looks towards the door, then at me. ‘This is serious, Sarah.’ Referring to the stealing, not the leaving. Which, if you ask me, is pretty serious too. But it’s not a crime. So it’s OK, right?

  The door opens. It’s The Suit. With my mum. Oh God. She looks at me. Then at my dad.

  ‘Hello, Joanne,’ he says, his voice flat, cautious.

  She closes her eyes and shakes her head like she’s nothing to say to him. She sighs, then looks at me and, I swear to God, I can hear her thoughts: You’ve surpassed yourself this time.

  The room fills. In comes Robocop with a uniformed policewoman. She’s young and pretty. And I hope that means she isn’t a total bully? The Suit introduces her as Sergeant Carmody. Then all eyes zoom in on me. I swallow.

  Sergeant Carmody takes out a notebook and pen. She looks at me, then at my parents.

  ‘I need to take a statement.’

  Does this mean I’m being arrested? I look at Dad in panic.

  He clears his throat. ‘Excuse me, Sergeant. I wonder if I might make a point in Sarah’s favour?’

  She looks at him. We all do.

  ‘This is the first time that Sarah,’ he glances at me like a loving father, ‘has done anything like this. She’s a good kid … We’ve had some … family issues …’

  I roll my eyes. Oh my God, he’s not bringing that up.

  ‘I understand that, Mr Healy,’ she says politely. ‘But if the shop wants to press charges—’

  ‘We do,’ The Suit interrupts, cow that she is.

  Dad’s caught off guard. Which is when Mum finally comes out with what sounds like she’s been holding in since she got here.

  ‘This is your fault, Michael.’ Since he left, everything is. Broken dishwasher. Cracked vase. Dogs pooing in our garden.

&
nbsp; And suddenly, I’m tired of it. ‘No. It’s my fault.’

  She ignores me. Looks only at Dad. ‘You got us into this. You get us out.’

  He looks at Sergeant Carmody. ‘I wonder if I might have a moment alone with my family?’

  Family. Doesn’t sound right.

  The sergeant looks from Dad to Mum. Then, slowly, she nods. She glances at the other two, as if to say, ‘let’s go’. The Suit doesn’t budge, at first, but finally wilts under Sergeant Carmody’s gaze. When the door closes behind them, Dad turns to Mum. He looks tired.

  ‘I don’t know what you think I can do. They’re pressing charges.’

  ‘Convince them not to. You’re the psychologist. Manipulating people is your forte, isn’t it?’ She says it with such bitterness. And I want to leave, just walk straight out, screw the consequences.

  Head down, Dad starts to pace. He runs his fingers through his hair. Finally, he stops. And turns. He looks at her.

  ‘I mentioned family issues. I could suggest a therapist. As an alternative to the legal route.’

  ‘A therapist?’ I say in shock. I’m not the one who needs a therapist here. ‘Isn’t there anything else?’ I grew up with a therapist. They screw you up.

  ‘Community service, maybe.’

  ‘Yeah, OK, community service,’ I say. Anything but a shrink.

  Mum glares at me. ‘You are in no position to be picky, young lady.’ She looks at Dad. ‘I don’t care what you suggest. Just make this go away.’ Now she’s looking back at me like she wants me to go away. Not for the first time, I wish I was someone else, someone like Rachel who never messes up, who makes her mother proud.

  In a deal hammered out between Dad, Sergeant Carmody and The Suit, I’m barred from the shop. I have to see a shrink. And do community service. Everything is to be monitored, forms filled and returned to the police. You’d think I murdered someone. I thank Sergeant Carmody because I know that, without her, it would have been worse. She’s saved me from a criminal record. And though The Suit looks at me like I’m some kind of spoiled, lucky piece of poo, I thank her too. If I didn’t, my mum would never let me forget it.