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

by Denise Deegan

  I sigh. Back to this again.

  ‘I’m giving you a chance, Sarah. You can stay at Strandbrook. As long as you stay out of trouble and your grades improve.’

  Oh my God. Seriously? ‘They will. They will improve. I swear.’ I don’t know how but they will.

  ‘Life is serious, Sarah, OK?’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Good. OK. That’s it then.’ She nods, once, firmly, like she’s decided. ‘Let’s try and get on with our lives.’ Then she does something I haven’t seen her do in a long time. She smiles.

  Normally, the first person I’d ring is Rachel. After her offer of help, though, it’s Alex I call.

  She answers the phone with, ‘This is the command centre.’

  I smile. ‘No, this is the command centre.’

  ‘This is the global command centre.’

  ‘Well, this is the universal command centre.’

  ‘Shut up,’ she says, laughing.

  ‘No, you shut up,’ I laugh back. And suddenly I want to tell her in person. ‘We’re still on for tonight, right?’

  ‘Yup. Want Mike to pick you up?’

  ‘Nah, it’s OK. I’ll get Louis to drop me over.’ I want to tell him. And Mum gives him the car when he’s working at the pub so he can get home OK at two in the morning. ‘So, eight, right?’

  ‘Yup. Don’t forget your togs.’

  ‘God, I love your house.’

  I change out of my uniform and into my togs. I throw on my Juicy bottoms, an Abercrombie T and a zip-up hoodie. I leave the door open so I can hear Louis come in from the Jitter Mug.

  At the sound of a familiar pounding on the stairs, I go out onto my tiny landing, lean over the banister and call down to him.

  ‘Can I bum a lift to Alex’s?’

  He looks up. ‘I gotta shower.’

  ‘It’s OK. I’ll wait.’

  Fifteen minutes later, I’m not even ready when he calls up for me. I throw everything into a bag and run down – because he will go without me.

  In the car, he turns to me. ‘So, go you. Staying at Strandbrook.’

  ‘How do you know?’ I was looking forward to telling him.

  ‘Just tried to put in a good word for you with Mum.’

  ‘Aw, thanks, Louis.’

  ‘For what? You did it yourself.’

  He drives with the window down, elbow out and a cigarette hanging from his mouth.

  ‘It’s freezing!’

  ‘Fresh air’s good for you,’ says the smoker. He’s just too relaxed to be normal.

  ‘Don’t you ever worry?’ I ask.

  ‘Eh. No.’

  ‘Not even about exams?’

  He laughs.

  ‘Did she tell you? If I don’t do well in the summer exams, she’ll move me.’

  ‘So do well.’

  ‘It’s not that easy.’

  ‘Why not?’ asks the guy who thinks everything is.

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’

  Eminem’s ‘I’m Not Afraid’ comes on the radio. I turn it up. The two of us shout the lyrics. Which is weird. Louis starts swerving the car from left to right, messing. Which is when I decide I’m not going to worry. I’m not going to think about it. At least, not for tonight.

  Louis is getting very paternal. He waits in the car at the bottom of the steps until Alex opens the door.

  ‘I can stay at Strandbrook,’ I say, as soon as she does.

  She screams and throws her arms around me. Then she grabs me and starts bouncing me up and down. I laugh. She’s tiny compared to me.

  Louis pulls away, shaking his head.

  We go up to Alex’s room. Rachel hugs me too. She seems really pleased but doesn’t go as mental as Alex.

  ‘What made her change her mind?’ she asks.

  ‘I don’t know. She’s been talking to this friend of hers who’s also separated. And I think that’s kind of helping.’ Then, after telling myself I wasn’t going to worry, I tell them about having to do well in the summer exams.

  ‘Are there even exams in Transition Year?’ Alex asks.

  ‘They’ll probably have something,’ Rachel says.

  ‘You’ll be grand,’ Alex says confidently. But she doesn’t know what it’s like to be me.

  ‘We’ll help,’ Rachel says. ‘If you like.’

  ‘Can you do brain transplants already?’ I ask. It’s sweet of her to offer. But I imagine Rachel trying to explain stuff to me. I’d feel even stupider than I am.

  She smiles. Then says, ‘You’ll be great, Sarah. And there’s loads of time. She opens out a white cloth she’s been holding in her hand. It becomes a triangle. ‘Come on. Back to work.’

  ‘What are you doing?’ I ask.

  ‘Putting on a sling.’ She looks at Alex. ‘OK, give me your arm. Let me try again.’

  I sit on the floor, leaning against the bed, watching them, so happy to be here, not getting ready to move schools. Homer comes over and rests his head on my lap, making it the perfect moment.

  Rachel turns the piece of cloth this way and that, trying to work out how to do it. She has a safety pin in her mouth.

  Alex groans.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘You’re hurting me.’

  ‘How could I be hurting you?’

  ‘My arm’s broken, remember? You’re yanking it around all over the place.’

  ‘Oh. Sorry.’

  I check out the diagrams in Rachel’s first aid book which is open on the bed beside me. I stand up. ‘Here, let me try.’

  ‘It’s really hard,’ Rachel says.

  I don’t see why, but say nothing. Just put it on.

  ‘Hey, how did you do that?’ she asks.

  I shrug. ‘Just followed the instructions.’

  ‘In, like, seconds.’

  ‘Maybe I’m like Forrest Gump. A fucking genius.’

  We laugh.

  Rachel squints at the diagrams again. ‘Let’s take a break.’

  We go downstairs and Barbara makes us smoothies. God I’d love a Barbara.

  Rachel raises her glass. ‘To Strandbrook.’

  ‘To Strandbrook.’ We all clink together.

  ‘Oh my God, Barbara – these are amazing,’ I tell her. ‘Like, the best thing I’ve ever tasted.’

  She bursts into a wide smile. ‘You would like another one?’ Her French accent is so exotic. I love this house.

  ‘Would you mind?’ I ask. Seriously, they don’t use her half enough. If she was in my kitchen, I’d live in it.

  ‘So where were you rushing off to today?’ Rachel asks.

  I wasn’t going to say anything, but because things seem to be working out now, I say, ‘I’ve started helping out at a home.’

  ‘A home?’

  ‘For disabled people.’

  They stare. ‘But you hate places like that.’

  ‘It was actually fine.’

  ‘Why are you helping out at a home?’

  I shrug. I feel sick, having to lie. And try to make it as short as possible. ‘Mum’s idea.’

  ‘She’s been getting a lot of ideas lately,’ Alex says.

  I’m shrugging again. ‘She wants me to be a better person or something.’

  Rachel gets cross at that. ‘What’s wrong with you? You’re perfectly fine the way you are.’

  Her concern makes me want to cry.

  ‘What’s wrong with the people in the home?’ Alex asks.

  ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘Have they Down’s syndrome or something?’ Alex asks.

  Rachel looks appalled. ‘People with Down’s syndrome aren’t disabled.’

  ‘What else can you call them? You can’t call them retarded, can you?’ Alex says. ‘That’s just politically incorrect.’

  ‘So you just say they’ve Down’s syndrome. Or something,’ Rachel says.

  ‘They’re in wheelchairs,’ I say. ‘I don’t know why.’

  ‘And what do you do?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘Help th
em play Bingo.’

  ‘Bingo?’

  I nod. ‘They love Bingo.’ I tell them about it. And how happy everyone is. Apart from the guy at the window.

  ‘What’s wrong with him?’ Rachel asks.

  ‘I don’t know. I think he’s paralysed or something.’

  ‘No wonder he doesn’t want to play Bingo.’

  NINE | WHOLE NUT

  Saturday morning, Mum pulls up outside an old Georgian house close to the city. I look up the steps to a purple door with a shiny brass knocker. Then I look back at Mum.

  ‘How many times do I’ve to go?’

  ‘As many as it takes.’

  I sigh and slowly open the door. ‘I’ll find my own way home.’

  ‘OK. Good.’ She pulls away.

  I watch the car disappear down the street. At the end, there’s a Starbucks. I’m so tempted to spend the next hour there. But I know she’d find out. So, I climb the steps. Like Everest. The plaque on the wall reads: ‘Mary Gleeson, Clinical Psychologist’. I don’t know why she has to tell the world. I stand blocking the sign, my back to the street, while I push the bell. I stay there till the door buzzes open. Then I don’t hang around.

  Inside is just a hallway. I stop, confused. I look around. The first door on the right has her name on it. Hesitantly, I open it. Inside is a waiting room, posher than a GP’s surgery, but not by much. It’s empty. Directly opposite is a door to another room. It also has her name on it. Her office, I assume. I imagine her inside, on a comfortable chair with a notebook and pen. I imagine a patient, lying back on a couch. Maybe it’s just her, though. Maybe there’s no one in front of me. And she’s just waiting inside for me. I don’t know whether to knock or wait. So I wait. Because the less time I’m in there, the less talking I’ll have to do. I look around. Sigh. Sit down. On the coffee table are the usual magazines. Out of date. But not totally dog-eared. I pick up a copy of Hello and try to be positive. The community service turned out OK.

  I can’t concentrate. Weird, since it’s Hello. I stand up, restless. I walk to the window, look out. Then I start to freak that someone might see me, so I come away again. I walk around the room, wondering how many times I’ll have to come here. I took two things. I don’t have mental problems. It can’t be many. Maybe just enough to keep the cops happy. Hopefully.

  The door to her office opens. A boy of about seven comes out. He’s blond and kind of angelic looking. I can’t believe that a kid that young would need to see a shrink. He doesn’t look at me, head and eyes lowered, walking silently as if he wants to disappear. ‘It’s OK,’ I want to say to him. ‘I know. It makes you feel a like a loser but that doesn’t mean you are one.’ But, of course, I say nothing – because that would just make it worse. His parents (mum pretty and worried-looking, dad rugby-ish and kind of caliente) follow immediately behind him. She doesn’t see me at first because she’s miles away, but when she does cop that I’m there, she looks at me like she’s wondering what’s wrong with me. And I have to remind myself, I wondered the same about her son.

  After a few minutes, Mary Gleeson appears at the door to her office. She wears a long leather skirt, high boots, a fitted black shirt and a smile. She’s younger than I expected. And prettier. Not how I imagined her at all.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘Eh, yeah.’ I stand up and start to walk over.

  She holds out her hand.

  I make sure my grip’s not too limp, but not too firm either. Normal.

  ‘Thanks for coming,’ she says.

  I meet her eye – because honest people do. ‘Thanks for fitting me in.’

  ‘Come on in.’ She smiles.

  I follow her in, not believing that, at a time like this, I’m wondering where she got her boots. She gestures to an armchair, then lowers herself into one opposite. I’m relieved I won’t have to lie back and close my eyes. I take a seat and wait. She crosses her legs. I wonder if any of her patients fancy her. I know Simon would.

  ‘So,’ she says. ‘Welcome.’ Her voice is suspiciously calm, like she’s been practising. She takes a notepad and pen (ha!) from the arm of her chair and she puts them on her lap. ‘Before we start, I want you to know that anything we discuss here is completely confidential. It stays between us. I also want to reassure you that I was recommended to your father by a colleague but I don’t know him personally.’

  I nod, wondering how much Dad’s told her.

  She smiles. ‘So, why don’t you tell me why you’re here?’

  She knows why. You don’t just land into a psychologist’s office with no explanation, no background. She just wants me to say it, admit it. And I resent her for that, sitting there in her smug leather skirt, judging me. Still, the last thing I want is to have to come back so I do my best to give her what she wants – and still hold on to a bit of dignity.

  ‘I took a dress. From a shop. A dress that didn’t belong to me.’ Funny all the words you have to use to avoid saying ‘stole’. ‘It was a mistake. I’m really sorry about it. It’s not going to happen again.’ Can I go?

  She looks at me calmly. ‘And why do you think you “took” the dress?’

  She’s using my word back at me. Trying to put me at ease. But I’m not at ease with “why?” I hate why. I’ve grown up on why.

  ‘I took it because I wanted it and I didn’t have the money.’ Simple.

  ‘It wasn’t your first time, was it, Sarah?’ She says it like she knows, and I think that Dad must have told her.

  So I tell the truth. ‘No, but I only took one other thing. Eye shadow, that’s it.’

  She nods. ‘And when did your parents split up?’ Like they’re linked.

  And that’s it, the reason I didn’t want to come here.

  ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘Your father moved out, didn’t he?’

  ‘So? Loads of people separate. It’s not the end of the world.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re very sure of that.’

  ‘Yes, I’m very sure of that.’ I feel my jaw clenching.

  She writes something in the jotter. ‘You have a brother?’

  ‘Louis. And before you ask, nothing bothers Louis. Not my parents splitting up. Nothing. Ever.’

  She tilts her head, like she’s considering that. ‘I don’t know, Sarah. Don’t you think we’re all affected, in some way, by what happens around us?’

  ‘No,’ I say. Then to sound reasonable I add, ‘Not always.’

  ‘How often do you see your father now?’

  Hel-lo. ‘Look, I told you. This has nothing to do with my dad. I’m fine about my parents splitting up. I took two things – because I needed them – not for any other reason.’

  ‘You needed them?’

  ‘OK, wanted them, then. The thing is, I’m not here because I’ve psychological problems. I’m here so I don’t get a criminal record. So could we just talk about the stealing?’

  ‘Good,’ she says.

  ‘What’s good?’

  ‘That’s the first time you’ve actually come out and said you’ve stolen something. The first part of solving a problem is admitting you have one. You’ve just done that.’

  Oh my God. ‘No I haven’t. Because I don’t have a problem. I stole – twice. I’ve explained why. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  How retarded is this person? ‘Because I don’t want to.’

  ‘Sometimes that’s not enough.’

  ‘So what, I’m like addicted?’ I ask sarcastically.

  ‘Shoplifting can be addictive,’ she says matter-of-factly.

  ‘More importantly, it can be a cry for help.’ Oh my God! ‘I’d like to explore the motivations behind your actions, to make sure you don’t offend again.’

  Offend. ‘There are people out there doing a whole lot worse than I have.’

  ‘Sarah,’ she smiles calmly, the way she does everything. ‘I’ve been given a
job to do. And it’s my responsibility to the person who hired me, to the police, and to you, to do it well.’

  She looks like the bloody Mona Lisa with that wishy-washy smile. But I know she’s won. If I don’t co-operate I’ll be coming back forever.

  ‘So, has your father tried to contact you?’

  I take a deep breath. ‘Yes, but I’ve nothing to say to him.’

  She writes something. I feel like knocking the notepad off her lap.

  ‘Does Louis see him?’

  So, she’s good with names, big deal. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do they get on well?’

  ‘I don’t know. Probably.’ They do.

  She uncrosses her legs. Then crosses them in the other direction. She settles further back in the chair.

  ‘When did your parents separate, Sarah?’

  ‘Months ago.’

  ‘How many months?’

  And suddenly, I flip. ‘Oh my God. You people are all the same, reading stuff into stuff. I told you. This has nothing to do with my family.’

  ‘Your father’s a psychologist.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I’m feeling a lot of anger. I’m just wondering if it’s towards him.’

  ‘It’s not,’ I say through gritted teeth.

  ‘Not for walking out on the family?’

  ‘What are you trying to do, make me angry?’

  ‘No, but if you were angry, it would be perfectly understandable. Anger is a very honest emotion.’

  I feel like telling her to fuck off – and my language is usually pretty good.

  ‘How’s your Mum doing?’ she asks.

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘She’s not angry?’

  ‘Yes, she’s angry. She’s furious. With everyone. All the time. My mum has enough anger for everyone. OK?’ Happy now?

  ‘And you don’t want to be like her?’

  ‘Of course I don’t want to be like her. Who would?’ I stop suddenly. I shouldn’t have said that about Mum. Who is trying now. She’s going to see a shrink. She apologised. I feel so disloyal.

  ‘Well, Sarah, I think we’ve made great progress here today.’

  Is she kidding? I was fine before I came here. Now I’m so angry I could shove her off her chair. And I don’t do anger. As she so wisely pointed out, I don’t do my mum.