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

by Denise Deegan

  Finally, it’s over and I go straight home – which almost kills me.

  At seven, I make sure I’m studying when Mum comes in. I make sure I’m doing it somewhere obvious (kitchen table). I make sure I look like I’m concentrating (frown). She raises an eyebrow. But says nothing. I learn French verbs while she prepares dinner. Nobody talks. Which is good. Because no one’s giving out.

  At dinner, I wait for her to tell me what she’s decided. My stomach feels like there’s a fist around it. I’m so tempted to bring it up myself, just get it out there. To at least know. But I say nothing. In case her answer is the wrong one.

  ‘I took your advice,’ she says.

  I look at her. I don’t remember giving any.

  ‘I called Ellen.’

  ‘Oh.’ I’m so surprised, I only just remember to ask how she is.

  ‘Separated.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘Two years ago.’

  ‘God. Poor Ellen. What happened?’

  ‘Her husband left her.’

  ‘For someone else?’

  ‘Sarah, a man never leaves a woman unless there is someone else.’ She doesn’t sound bitter. She sounds like this is just a fact. ‘Anyway, we talked. It helped.’ Speaking of talks, this is the longest conversation I’ve had with Mum since … I don’t know when. ‘I think we’ll stay in touch,’ she says.

  ‘Cool.’ I’m happy for her. She could seriously do with a friend.

  ‘By the way,’ she says, and something about her changes, her voice turning hard. ‘Your father has set up your community service.’

  I think of litter. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Visiting a home for the disabled,’ she says casually.

  If she knew anything about me, she’d know not to be casual. These places freak me out. That Alzheimer’s home, last year … Oh my God … All those people totally out of it, thinking I was trying to poison them. I start to feel sick. And I’m not even there.

  ‘What’ll I have to do?’ I ask cautiously.

  ‘I don’t know. Whatever they need. I’ll drop you off, Friday, after school.’

  ‘This Friday?’ It hasn’t even been a week since I got caught.

  ‘This Friday,’ she confirms.

  ‘Won’t you be working?’

  ‘I’ll finish early.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll get the DART.’

  ‘No. I’ll bring you.’

  Suddenly, I get it. She wants to make sure I go. I want to tell her she can trust me. But then I guess I’ve shown her that she can’t.

  ‘Then you’ve the psychologist on Saturday morning.’

  Oh my God, this is seriously depressing. Did she have to bring one up right after the other? And Saturday? Jesus.

  ‘Do they even work on Saturdays?’

  ‘Don’t moan. She’s fitting you in. Be grateful.’

  And just like that, it’s back to the way it always is between us.

  Thursday, at break, Alex asks if I want to go for a walk.

  I look around. ‘Where’s Rache?’

  ‘Gone somewhere with Mark,’ she says.

  ‘Probably the cafeteria.’ Like normal people. Why the walk? It might be spring. It’s cold outside. And walking? Not, like, my favourite pastime.

  ‘Let’s get our coats,’ she says, cheerily.

  I look at her and think, Something’s up.

  Outside, I turn my collar up and shove my hands in my pockets. I look at her, waiting for whatever it is she’s going to say. But she doesn’t say anything. For ages. Just walks. I’m beginning to think that maybe this is really just about walking when she says, ‘So, any news from your mum on the school thing?’

  I feel suddenly down. ‘No.’

  She looks off into the distance, then back at me. ‘I was wondering … you know … if it’s a money thing …’

  I feel myself blush.

  ‘I just want you to know that you don’t have to worry. My dad went to Strandbrook and he’s been meaning to do something for the school for ages. So, he’s, like, setting up this fund for people who are kind of stuck for their fees and stuff, you know, with the recession, and that? Anyway, after next week, anyone in, like, trouble can apply for a grant …’ She looks at me, questioningly, like she wants to know if this will make everything OK.

  And I’m so touched. That she would go to her dad. And get the whole thing moving. For me. When I haven’t always been the best friend in the world.

  ‘Thank you so much, Alex.’ My hand is on my heart because I just can’t believe it. ‘It’s so sweet of you. Of your Dad.’ I pause. ‘But it’s not money.’ I wish I could tell her. And still stay friends.

  ‘Oh.’ She looks so surprised.

  ‘But thanks, Alex. Really, thank you.’ And I wonder if you really only find out who your true friends are when you’re in trouble.

  EIGHT | BINGO

  Last night, I googled the home I have to go to. There were photos of the people in there. I got the hell out of the site. And have been dreading it ever since. Now Mum picks me up from school with a, friendly-for-her, ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, thinking, It’s not over yet.

  We drive the, unfortunately short, distance to the home. It’s near the sea, halfway between school and home. Outside the single-storey, modern building, she cuts the engine and looks at me. I know there’s no point arguing, so I just open the door.

  ‘You can leave your bag in the car,’ she says. Like I give a shit about my bag.

  I walk towards the home. I stop and look back, waiting for her to leave. She doesn’t. She just sits there, looking at me until I go through the front door. And it’s not like I can hide in some corridor and sneak back out when she’s gone because I’ve walked straight into a huge, bright, open room, full of people – people in those modern wheelchairs with engines and headrests and gadgets. They’re organised into a giant semi-circle, all of them facing me, well, actually, facing some kind of podium that’s in front of me. It’s like some talk is about to begin. All these strangers are looking at me like they’re trying to figure out who I am and what I’m doing here. There are helpers too, sitting with the residents, people like me dressed in ordinary clothes. I wonder if they just volunteered or if they’re on community service too. Mostly, they’re middle-aged and kind of mumsy looking. So, volunteers, I guess. Someone in scrubs with a pretty face is coming my way, wearing the biggest smile. She’s the first non-scary thing about the place. So I focus on her.

  ‘You must be Sarah,’ she says, holding out her hand.

  I’m embarrassed because mine is clammy. I wipe it on my coat before we shake.

  ‘Eh, yeah. Hi.’

  ‘I’m Christina. You’re just in time for Bingo.’

  ‘Oh.’

  She looks around the room. ‘Everyone loves Bingo.’ Then she looks back at me. ‘So, what would be great is, if you could help someone with their counters, just put them on the board for them.’ I look at her blankly, no clue what she’s talking about. She lowers her voice. ‘Some of our residents can’t see that well; others can’t move their hands. So, it’d be great if you could sit with someone, like John over there, and give him a hand.’

  I look at John and remember the photos on the website.

  ‘Come on, I’ll introduce you,’ she says.

  I follow her when all I want to do is run. As we approach John, I start to feel sick, then guilty that I feel sick. Oh God. This is so not me. This is not what I’m good at. John’s head is tilted to one side, like he can’t support it. His face is twisted into a tight, uncomfortable expression. I force a smile. And when he doesn’t smile back, I know it’s because he can’t. I take a deep breath and pretend I’m Rachel. I’m good with people. All people. I’m cool in all situations. Oh God, I’m not fooling myself. This is not working.

  ‘John, this is Sarah. Sarah’s going to give you a hand today.’

  ‘Hey, John,’ I say.

  Only his eyes say hello.

&
nbsp; Christina puts a chair beside his wheelchair.

  ‘There you go,’ she says to me.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say and sit. Be cool, I tell myself. Just look at the board. Look at the big, blue buttons that must be counters. And try to work out how to play Bingo.

  It feels wrong, though, sitting beside him, like he’s not here.

  ‘So,’ I say making my voice cheery, ‘someone just calls out random numbers and, if we have any, we cover them with counters, right?’

  He looks at me and groans really loudly like he’s trying to answer. Oh, sweet Jesus. He can’t talk. I look over at Christina in panic. She should have told me. I think of John, the man inside the body, trying to communicate and not being able to. My heart kind of breaks for him. He needs a Rachel here – not a Sarah. I’ve never felt so useless in my entire life.

  This one guy who’s been turned away from everyone else, just staring out the window, turns his whole wheelchair around and glares at me like I’m a total idiot. I die again. Blush and look away. Oh God, if only this thing would start. If only someone would just come and call out some bloody numbers. Please. Somebody. Anybody. Hell, I’ll call them out.

  The guy at the window goes back to staring out. It’s like he doesn’t want to be here. Which makes two of us. I look at him. Everything about him is different. The way he’s facing. The way he looks – his hair a mess, his beard unkempt. Even from over here, I can feel his anger. And I can feel that people are avoiding him as much as he is avoiding them. I can feel that he is trouble.

  At last, a voice at the microphone. I turn. A middle-aged, tubby, soft-looking woman has taken to the podium.

  ‘Everyone ready?’ she asks cheerily. ‘Great prizes today. Our best yet, I think.’

  I glance over, knowing, automatically, that the guy at the window won’t be impressed. I’m right. His head falls back against his headrest, like things just couldn’t get any worse.

  For me, things get better. It’s easier with something to do. And Bingo really is just matching numbers. It takes a while, though, to cover the whole board. And it’s not our lucky day. We’re beaten to it every time. Someone called Mary wins bubble bath. Someone called James wins a candle. A guy called Brian wins a box of chocolates. They all get genuinely excited. It’s so lovely. The prizes are tiny. It’s only Bingo. They’re in wheelchairs. But none of that seems to matter. These people are happy. They live in a home with so many restrictions, but they are happy. Well, all except the guy at the window.

  After about an hour, I’m holding a big, blue button in my hand and sneaking a look around the room to see where everyone else is at. We have only one number left uncovered on our board. I look at John. He raises his eyebrows. I LOVE that he can do that. Then, she calls it – our number. Four.

  I shout, ‘Bingo!’

  John groans with excitement. I realise that I’ve jumped up. We look at each other and I swear to God, I can make out a smile. I slap him gently on the arm. He makes a sound like laughter. He is definitely laughing. Oh my God, I wish he could high five.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘That was brilliant.’

  I sit down. And another game starts. I look around, feeling part of this now. Feeling at home. Me, the person who wanted to run. And I wonder if there’s something magical about Bingo. Or this place.

  When it’s time to go, I’m not running to the door. Actually, I wouldn’t mind another game. It’s so warm here, so friendly. Everyone is just so up. I think about home, the radio trying to fill the empty kitchen with sound. I wonder if there’s anything else they want me to do. Christina’s coming up to me. Smiling.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she says. ‘You were great. Fitted right in. Didn’t she, John?’

  John groans. And instead of freaking, I simply understand. I smile and put my hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Bye, Partner, see you next week.’

  He groans again and I actually hug him.

  Christina walks me to the door.

  ‘Wow,’ I say. ‘Everyone’s so happy here.’ Then I remember the guy by the window. I look over.

  She follows my eyes.

  ‘Is he OK?’ I ask, when what I really want to know is what’s wrong with him. The top half of his body is perfect. His legs, though, seem wasted.

  Her eyes fill with compassion. All she says is, ‘Shane’s new to this.’ She’s a nurse, I think. She’s probably taken vows of secrecy or something. ‘Anyway,’ she says. ‘Thank you so much for coming. I think everyone enjoyed your company. So we’ll see you next week?’ she asks.

  ‘Yeah, sure. No problem.’

  Then I push open the door. Cool March air chills my face. Suddenly, I feel lucky to be walking out, lucky to be walking at all.

  I get the DART home. Mum’s car is outside. Beside it is one that I don’t recognise. I walk into the kitchen expecting someone new. What I’m not expecting is to see my mother crying in their arms.

  Ellen, Mum’s friend, sees me first. She lets Mum go. Then Mum turns and sees me.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ I ask nervously.

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ Mum says quickly. She clears a tear with the back of her hand.

  ‘Did something happen?’ I ask. Mum never cries. Anger is her thing.

  ‘No. Nothing happened.’

  ‘Nothing new, anyway,’ Ellen says, so I know she means Dad leaving.

  ‘OK,’ I say. I back out of the kitchen.

  Upstairs, I raid my chocolate stash. I don’t want to see Mum sad. But she’s sad Dad left. Which is good. Because it means she did love him. She did care that he was going. And maybe it wasn’t easy, after all, for her to make him choose. Or maybe I’m reading too much into a few tears. I don’t want to give her a break unless she deserves one. And I don’t know that she does. I suck on a Curly Wurly (they last longer that way) and try to think of something else.

  Today it’s easy. Because of the home. I wonder what it must be like being in a wheelchair. Maybe it’s not that bad when you get used to it. I go over to my swivel chair, sit on it and pretend it’s one. I wheel around my room. I can reach the light switch. I can open my drawers. I can’t get anything that’s hanging up, though. After a while, I need to go to the loo. I scoot over to the bedroom door and open it. Then I’m stuck. I can’t go downstairs. Unless I pretend that the house has been adapted and that we’ve a lift. I pick up the chair and carry it down to the bathroom. Inside, I wheel over to the loo. Then I’m stuck again. I can’t get on without standing up. How do they do it? Oh my God. Don’t tell me they need help to go to the loo. I’d die. I look over at the shower. How do they do it? I sit there trying to figure it out. Then I have to get up and go to the loo before I burst. Afterwards, I carry the chair back upstairs. I lie on the bed. And wiggle my toes. I look at them wiggling. Appreciate them wiggling. It’s something I have never appreciated before.

  At eight, Mum calls me for dinner. I go down, hoping that everything’s back to normal – or as normal as they are in our house. I walk into the kitchen. Mum’s at the table, opening two pizza boxes. We never get takeout. I stare at her.

  ‘Cooking doesn’t make me a better mother,’ she says, misunderstanding.

  ‘I know.’ I’ve been trying to tell her that.

  She sits at the table. I join her. She slides a box my way.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She pours two Cokes.

  I look at her. ‘I thought you hated Coke.’

  ‘I love Coke.’

  She takes up a slice of her pizza – without actually putting anything on a plate, without insisting on knives and forks.

  ‘How did the community service go?’ she asks.

  ‘Good.’

  ‘What was good about it?’

  I shrug. ‘The people were so positive, I guess.’

  ‘In what way?’

  She wants to talk? She wants to have an actual conversation? Not just go through her usual agenda – Have you done your homework? Have you tidied your room?

  ‘I don’t kn
ow. They were all in wheelchairs and they seemed really happy.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘Helped them play Bingo, moved the counters for them and stuff.’

  ‘Bingo?’

  ‘Yeah, they love it,’ I say, kind of animated.

  She puts down her pizza and looks at me for a long time. ‘I’m sorry for hitting you, Sarah.’

  I almost choke.

  ‘The shoplifting thing. I panicked. I’ve seen too many people go down that road.’

  I don’t know what to say. So I don’t say anything. Neither of us does, for a while.

  She takes a deep breath. ‘I’m going to start seeing someone, a therapist.’

  ‘Really?’ I thought she felt the same about them as I do.

  ‘I don’t want to be like this, angry all the time, taking it out on you and Louis. I need to talk to someone. Ellen gave me a name.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a good thing you’re going to someone too. Maybe the shoplifting …’ Her voice trails off. ‘I don’t know.’

  Maybe the shoplifting what? I want to say but don’t.

  She looks at me, her eyes sad. ‘I’ve forgotten you in all of this.’ She starts to cry.

  And before I know what’s happening, I do too.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she says.

  I swallow back tears. ‘It’s OK.’

  ‘No. I’ve been too hard on you, Sarah.’ I want her to stop crying. ‘But the shoplifting … You have to promise me you’ll never do anything like that again.’ She looks kind of desperate.

  ‘I won’t, Mum. I swear.’

  ‘You have to be responsible. Work hard. Stay out of trouble. It’s up to you. Your whole life is up to you. You have to make your own way. Depend on no one.’

  I know where this is coming from. I’ve heard it before. Don’t depend on men.

  ‘I want your grades to improve, and I mean drastically improve, at the summer exams.’