“You stop,” Chance screamed, shooting toward them at the same time.
The boys were bigger than he was, and they were mad. This little third grader was turning a little game into a big deal. But other kids were wandering over, and they didn’t really want Chance spouting off. The taller one gave him a shove and the grunted order, “Beat it, kid.” And that was the end of it. They jogged away toward the soccer field, brushing aside questions on the way.
Chance almost went after them. He even thought about finding a supervisor, which would have been the first time Chance had actually looked for an adult’s help. But he was winded, and he knew he didn’t stand much of a chance with those kids. Besides, he had saved the butterfly.
A new worry occurred to him as he made his way back to the primary end of the grounds. What would stop those boys from going after his class’s butterflies at lunchtime?
Back in class, an hour remained before they were to release the butterflies. Chance wanted to save them, but he didn’t know how. He put up his hand and told the class about the two boys. Ms. Samson was horrified, but she said that they would release them over by the woods, so they wouldn’t be around the school at lunchtime. But Chance knew that it wasn’t that simple. Butterflies would fly where they liked. And insects didn’t understand about danger from humans. Could they take them somewhere else for their release? No, Ms. Samson said. She was sure that it would be all right.
Then they did a times-tables drill. Chance got every one wrong, except the ones. He even missed the zeros, and he usually knew those.
At twenty past eleven, Ms. Samson lined up the class in pairs. Chance stayed at his desk.
“I’m telling you, you can’t do this!” he said, giving it one more try.
“That’s enough, Chance. We all know how you feel,” Ms. Samson said. “Now come join us.”
“I’m not taking one. I won’t.”
“That’s just fine. There aren’t enough to go around anyway.”
But, as it turned out, several children were away that day. There were enough butterflies for one per pair. Ken stood alone at the end of the line. Chance made his way as slowly as he could to take up a position a few feet behind Ken. Ken gave him an angry look, making it clear that he did not want Chance for a partner anyway. Chance took another step back.
Ms. Samson caught each butterfly gently in a paper cup, put her hand over the top, and then transferred the cup to a waiting pair of children. The pairs argued over who should get to hold it until she said that they would take turns. The holder would give the cup to his or her partner on the other side of the adventure playground. Then each pair would hold the cup together during the release. The squabbling died down.
When Ken took his cup, Chance watched, almost wishing that he was up there with him. But Ken did not look back once. He held the cup with great care and followed the class outside. Chance held back a bit, but the first pair was holding the outside door open. They yelled at him to hurry up. So he walked outside into the bright sun. He thought of butterflies lit up by that sun, easy to spot. Easy to crush with rocks.
It was wrong. He knew it was wrong, and he had told. Chance was not going to watch the butterflies being released to certain death. Instead he lowered himself into the tire swing, pushing off with his foot so that the swing moved gently. He lay back, stared up past the chain and the wooden structure at the blue, blue sky. He conjured kites instead of butterflies. And he actually saw a beautiful blue bird with a pointy beak. It flew right overhead.
Then, “Chance, we’re all waiting for you. What are you doing here? You think the butterflies like sitting inside cups while we search for you?” Martha and Preeti stared down at him, their whining, angry voices blending.
Chance thought about ignoring them or crashing the swing into them, but Preeti was holding that precious cup, so he pulled himself up and out and followed them down to the field.
Ms. Samson had kept her word. Everyone was standing against the chain-link fence over by the woods. They looked mad. Chance thought of the butterflies in those cups, airless, hot, jostling more and more as the children grew impatient. He picked up his pace.
“Okay, okay, let them go! What are you waiting for me for?” he shouted.
And that did it. The class did not wait for Ms. Samson’s word. Four hands gripped each cup and together thrust it upward. Several butterflies took to the air, and Chance felt a surge of relief. But there were ten butterflies to release. Children were shaking their cups, turning them upside down, reaching inside to give the butterflies a nudge. Chance wanted to run away but moved closer instead.
One pair had tipped their butterfly onto the ground, where it sat, unmoving. They shouted and danced around the delicate creature, but to no avail. Chance’s heart stopped. Any second a butterfly was going to be stamped to death or crushed between eager fingers.
Then, finally, Ms. Samson blew the whistle. She blew the whistle, and they all did exactly what they always did when they heard that sound outside. They froze. Within seconds she had them sitting down on the grass, being sure not to sit on any butterflies, and waiting and watching for the butterflies to take flight.
“Let them take their time,” she said. “Watch what they do!”
Chance had sat down too when she said that. He found himself near Ken once again. So he watched what Ken was doing. He did not think that Ken had taken part in all the mayhem before. Now, Ken held the cup carefully tipped into the palm of his other hand. As Chance watched, holding his breath, the butterfly crept out onto Ken’s palm. It rested there a moment, then took flight. Together, Chance and Ken tipped back their heads and watched that flight.
Still, even though they were looking right up into the sky, they had no warning. Just a flash of blue, and the butterfly was gone. The bird, the beautiful, blue bird with the sharp beak, had eaten Ken’s butterfly.
In one breath, Chance and Ken gasped. They kept staring into the sky until the bird was gone. Then they turned and stared at each other. Ken did not speak though. He turned back, hunched himself up with his arms around his legs and his face on his knees, until Ms. Samson asked them to line up to go back in.
Chance wanted to tell her what had happened to Ken’s butterfly, but it was already lunchtime by the time they got back to class. The lunch monitors were waiting for them, and Ms. Samson disappeared to the staff room right away.
He had taken his lunch to his desk along with the rest of the class, but he had no interest in eating it. He looked over to see what Ken up to. He wasn’t at his desk. Chance was sure he had come back. He had been right in front of Chance walking into the classroom. There he was, at the butterfly bush. He was staring at something. But all the butterflies were gone.
Then Chance understood. Quietly, avoiding the lunch monitors’ attention and holding his breath to hang onto his hope, he rose from his desk, made his way to the back of the room and across to stand beside Ken. Yes! Matilda’s shell, her chrysalis, was cracked open and empty. Right beside it, hanging by delicate legs from the branch, was a brand-new butterfly. Her wings were small and crinkly, but she was wonderful. Chance knew that she had to hang like that for a while so her wings could fill up with liquid and expand. Then they would dry, and she would be able to use them.
He looked at Ken and grinned. Then his face fell.
“I’m sorry that the bird ate your butterfly,” he said. “And I’m sorry I made your kite fall on Saturday.”
Ken looked at him for a long moment before he spoke.
“I do not think you meant to make my kite fall.” He paused. “Actually, you did not touch my kite. I made it fall. I was not taking care.”
Then they turned their attention back to Matilda. But not for long.
“What are you two doing over there?” Lori Mae, one of the lunch monitors, was on to them. “Get back to your desks and eat your lunch!”
“But this butterfly,” Chance started.
“You heard her,” Harmenjeet, the other monitor, snap
ped. “It’s been nothing but butterflies and caterpillars in this class for weeks. Now, get back to your desks!”
Ken had already gone. Chance followed. But he did not eat his lunch. He waited until Harmenjeet and Lori Mae were deep in conversation again. Then he slipped back to watch Matilda.
She wasn’t there. He had only been gone a moment, but now she was not there. The branch beside her empty shell was bare. Chance found her soon enough.
Matilda had fallen. She was lying on the table on her side, quivering slightly. One of her wings was caught underneath her. That wing would be stunted if she stayed there. Then she would die.
Chance didn’t have much faith in the lunch monitors, but they were all he had at the moment. They did come when he called them, although they wondered what he was doing back over there again.
“It’ll probably be all right,” Harmenjeet said.
“Yeah, and what can you do anyway?” Lori Mae added.
Then they turned their attention back to the class, who wanted to know what was going on. “Just stay put, all of you. You gotta stay put till the bell goes.”
But Ken didn’t listen. He got up to put his lunch bag away and, on the way back, joined Chance at the bush. Chance had noticed before that the monitors were never as hard on Ken as they were on everyone else, because they had been told so many times that he didn’t understand English.
“We must save her,” Ken said.
“Yes,” Chance answered. He had been working on an idea. If he could just bring the branch down to Matilda, maybe she could grab on with her clingy little feet. After all, that was what she had been doing before she fell.
He searched the room. What could he use for a branch? His gaze fell on the yogurt container of paintbrushes beside the sink. Perfect.
Holding the brush end in his hand, he reached under the netting. He held the long handle right over Matilda’s legs, right down, pretty much touching. Just as he had hoped, she reached up with her feet and grabbed hold.
He lifted the brush carefully, slowly. Ken was silent beside him.
But something went wrong. Matilda fell. She just let go and fell. She couldn’t hold on. Ken gasped. Chance choked back tears. Then he stood up stiff, pulled his shoulders back and set himself to try again.
“This time it will work,” Ken whispered.
Chance brought the paintbrush down to Matilda again. Ken was gripping the table edge. Chance guessed that Ken was wishing right along with him. Wishing, “Please Matilda, please hold on and don’t let go.”
Chance lifted the brush so slowly it hardly seemed to move. Matilda held on with her delicate feet, held on all the way. And Chance laid the brush as gently as he could across the edge of the bucket that held the bush. That way Matilda could just stay there until she was ready to fly.
Where she had lain on the table there were little drops of red. When there had been red on the table before, some kids started jumping around and calling out that that was blood. That the butterflies were dying.
But Chance knew what it was and what it meant. They all knew, really. It wasn’t blood. It was the liquid butterflies use to pump up their wings. Meconium, it was called. The extra drips out. It means the butterfly is really living, getting ready to fly. Not dying at all!
Chapter 20
Chance was watching Matilda when the bell rang at the end of lunch. He had no intention of going outside. Ken had gone off obediently right after the bell.
The lunch monitors were annoyed. They had already put Chance’s name on the board to let Ms. Samson know he was being uncooperative. Now they just wanted him out so that they could leave.
“Out, Chance,” Lori Mae said fiercely. “We’re not going to stay around here waiting for you.”
“Then leave,” he spat out. “I don’t care. I have to stay here.”
“Let’s take him to the office,” Harmenjeet said.
“But he won’t go,” Lori Mae responded. “He’s just going to sit there.”
“I’ll carry him if I have to,” Harmenjeet snapped. “We’re supposed to meet everybody outside.”
Chance had a sinking feeling that she meant what she said. He watched her approach. She looked determined.
“I’m not going to the office,” he said, darting past her and out the door, coat forgotten.
He hadn’t wanted to leave Matilda, even though he was pretty sure she would be all right now. But he was also afraid of what he would find outside.
There could be killing going on out there. Just like at recess. Only now there were so many more butterflies to kill. If he saw one kid holding a stone, or raising a foot to stamp a fragile red and black wing, he was going to turn into the Terminator. That kid would never throw or stamp again.
Chance searched the schoolyard looking for children on the attack. He searched the ground beneath his feet for shreds of wings, for broken bodies.
He found nothing.
The butterflies that had struggled to get off the ground an hour before were gone. They must have managed to fly. They must be safe. Chance’s heart started to lift. And as his heart lifted, he looked up to the sky.
And as he stopped listening for sounds of hatred, he heard sounds of joy.
A group of children on the grass field were pointing up and calling, “Look, look!”
Chance followed their gaze. High in the sky, well out of reach of any child, two colorful spots fluttered against the deep blue.
Two painted ladies had stayed behind long enough to say goodbye.
Chance stood for a long, long time staring up into the sky. When he looked down, he noticed Mark up the hill on the soccer field. He had stopped playing and was looking up too. While Chance watched, Mark raised his hand in a sort of salute to the butterflies. Chance glanced once more up into the sky, and then he took off at a run for the playground past the soccer field.
When he got close to Mark, he slowed down and gestured upward.
“You saw them, huh?” he called out.
“Yeah,” Mark answered. “I saw them.”
Chapter 21
After lunch, Chance counted the minutes. He knew it took about half an hour for the wings to extend fully and then another half hour for them to dry. He figured that Matilda’s wings should be dry by now, but he wanted to be sure to give her enough time. He wanted to be sure that she was ready. He had decided that she needed one more hour.
First was shared reading. There was no way Chance could concentrate on a book, but he looked over at Ken, who was reading all alone again. Ken had partners assigned to him for every day, but if Ms. Samson wasn’t paying attention, sometimes they went and read with someone else.
“Want to be partners?” Chance asked.
“Yes,” Ken answered.
It was that easy.
They ended up talking about Matilda.
After shared reading, they worked on their story-boards. Chance had no trouble working on his today. The story was happening right in the room while he was making pictures to go with it. But he left the last square of the paper blank. It might be unlucky to fill it in before it had actually happened.
Finally, he was sure that an hour had passed since lunch. Ken confirmed it.
“Will you help me release the last butterfly?” Chance said.
Ken’s face lit up. “Let’s go!”
Together they approached Ms. Samson.
“I want to let the butterfly go now,” Chance said.
“Yes,” she said quietly back to him.
“Can Ken help?” he asked.
“Of course,” Ms. Samson said.
While she got the cup ready, Chance and Ken watched Matilda. She perched on a branch, perfectly still, but Chance knew she longed to fly. And not just to another branch, but far away. He stood and watched her and waited for Ms. Samson.
Just as she had done earlier in the day with the other butterflies, Ms. Samson reached under the netting and gently put the cup over Matilda. Then she slid her hand over the top of the cup,
holding the insect safe inside. When she had the cup outside the netting, Chance held out his hands. She let him take the cup and slide his palm over the top in place of hers.
He turned to Ken and held out the cup, but Ken shook his head.
“It is your turn,” he said.
Together they slipped out of the classroom, leaving behind the happy chaos of children drawing and writing and talking. The hallway was peaceful. Immediately to the right was the outside door. Ms. Samson pushed it open and let the two boys pass.
“I’ll wait for you here,” she said. “Stay in sight.”
Chance moved away from the shade of the school into the brilliant sunlight. He turned and looked at Ken, who gestured upward.
After that, Chance did not hesitate. He took his hand from the top of the cup and looked inside at his butterfly. Then he grasped the cup with both hands and thrust it up into the air.
“Be free, butterfly,” he said.
And all the sadness and loneliness of the morning washed away as he watched her, not his butterfly anymore, take to the sky. For a rare moment he stood absolutely still as Matilda fluttered far above him against the blue. Then she vanished behind the school.
“She’s free now,” he said to Ken and Ms. Samson as they reentered the school.
“Yes,” they replied together.
Back at his desk, Chance sifted through his pencil crayons. To do Matilda justice, he was going to need the bluest blue and the brightest orange.
Mark was a few minutes late picking Chance up that afternoon. When he arrived, the classroom was deserted except for Chance and Ms. Samson, packing away the butterfly bush. Mark stepped into the room.
“What happened?” he asked.
Chance stopped stuffing the netting into a bag and looked up, his face radiant.
“She’s free, Mark,” he said. “Matilda’s a butterfly now. She’s free.”
Mark’s whole body relaxed. He grinned.
Chance and the Butterfly Page 7
