Copyright © 2011 by Mia Castile and Entwined Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
Entwined Publishing P.O.Box 1240 Brownsburg, Indiana 46112,
Visit our website at www.entwinedpublishing.com
First edition: May 2012
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
ISBN-10-0983510873 ISBN-13-9780983510871
Though every book is impossible to write without the support of my family Mano, my children, Sofi and Benji, my sister, Chasadee, and my grandmother; I’d like to thank my mother and father for the happiness that they shared with me throughout my life. Making my family proud is as important sometimes as making myself proud. I don’t know where I grew all of my creativity, but I have to think some of it came from you. To my dearest friends Brooke, Jamie, Dawn, Joyce, Celeste, Carrie, and Heather, some of which are also my betas. Opinions are the hardest to take from friends, so thank you for being honest. All of your support and encouragement helps me strive for more, and to the best of me. Furthermore, my wonderful editor Sue who mends every rule I bend. I’m glad to call you not just a colleague, but also a friend. I’d like to thank Jodie for all the time and effort you’ve devoted to Entwined Publishing. You are a great asset to our company and to me.
Through a year full of ups and downs, Entwined has grown. It wouldn’t be possible without the creative meetings with GK, Scott and Tiffany at Q7 and Associates or the group I met last spring about Adobe. Believe it or not, I find great inspiration whenever I share space with you. Creativity comes in all shapes and sizes, whether its numbers or colors.
I would also like to thank personally the bloggers who have supported me since The Ocean was released April 20, 2011. Namely: Taneesha Friedus, Moujnir Lewis, Alba Solorzano, Heba of Wovenmyst, Amy Del Rosso , Kayleigh Gore, and Emma of Bellabooks. Then there are the ones I’ve met along the way, that I sincerely treasure. Mandy of ireadindie, Jen of Alluring reads, Laura of Burgandy Ice, and Maryanne of Chapter by Chapter. I really could go on and on, and if I failed to mention someone, it was not intentional. Every connection I’ve made has been treasured.
Finally, to the readers who inspire me to continue on this journey. Thank you for taking the time to read my words. Inspiration comes from the smallest comments to the deepest conversations.
All my love,
Mia
Lana
I’m riding shotgun in my sister’s car. It’s the first day of my freshman year, and I’m nervous to say the least. She looks cool, calm, and collected, but I know inside she’s nervous, too. Her two best friends sit in the back seat. Jade is texting her boyfriend of two months, Evan. He’s in a band called Cate’s Ashes with my sister’s other friend Chase. Tasha is already sharing the gossip she’s heard from over the summer. My sister and I dread the first day of school for different reasons. She tricked everyone into believing she was a made-up person at the end of last year and was put on blast at a year-end party, causing her to lose the relationship she’d started with Henry, our next door neighbor, and any credibility she’d had. I had tried to take my own life. My summer vacation was spent in a stress center, or, known by most people as rehab. I guess they wanted to cure me of my addiction to my death. Today I’m wearing my arm warmers, a vintage AC-DC T-shirt, grey hoodie, and jeans. In an act of solidarity, the others are wearing the arm warmers I made them during my activities time over the summer. I now have madd knitting skills, and I appreciate their effort of support.
I colored my naturally platinum blond hair black in the stress center, but when I came home last week, my mom dragged me to her salon and had the over-the-counter color stripped out and replaced with a chocolate brown. I looked so different with dark hair against my pale skin and light grey eyes.
“You are still going to be on the squad, right, Lana?” Tasha asks me leaning forward. Lacey, my sister, watches me out of the corner of her eye. “I mean you’re a freshman who made varsity. That never happens, so you can’t pass that up.”
“I think if she doesn’t want to, she shouldn’t have to,” Jade smiles, patting me on my shoulder.
“Tasha, I don’t think cheerleading is a healthy activity for me right now,” I say, thinking about how everyone would freak if I ran out on the field in a little uniform, make a V with my arms, and show the still-red scars that go halfway up my forearms. “Or anyone else.” I hug myself tightly. Tasha just stares at me in disbelief. She’s not shallow. She doesn’t think the world revolves around jocks and parties, but she has been cheering since elementary school and is passionate about it. I can’t blame her; I used to be, too. We arrive and Lacey parks. The other girls get out of the back seat, but she sits there a minute with her keys in hand and looks at me. My sister doesn’t realize how pretty she is. Her dark blond hair is so straight it looks like she flat irons it every day, but it’s natural. When I look into her eyes, they mirror the shape and the color of my eyes. She used to wear glasses and looked brainy, but now she wears contacts. Her teeth are perfect after years of braces, and when she smiles, she lights up the room. She’s thin with long legs and she likes to wear skirts, short sun dresses, and dress shorts a lot. She has a style all her own and is just as special and unique.
“Are you ready?” she asks in a motherly tone. I love her; she has been my rock through my cutting last spring, through my suicide attempt, and through my rehab. I think that secretly she blames herself, but it’s not her fault. It’s mine, and I’ve taken ownership of it, but still she worries. I nod, and she squeezes my hand. We get out of the car and meet the girls in front of it. She takes my hand, and we walk in together. This school is huge, but I’ve been here plenty of times, and for student orientation last week. Chase finds us instantly. I think he has a low jack on my sister. He smiles warmly at me and wraps me in a hug. I hug him back. He’s so into Lacey it’s ridiculous. I used to have a crush on him, but now he’s like a big brother. He’s definitely cute though, if I were still into looks and romance. He leans back and surveys my outfit.
“Nice shirt. Are you ready, short stuff?” That’s his nickname for me.
“As ready as I’ll ever be.” I nod. Jade and Tasha wander away, but Chase and Lacey walk me to my locker. The halls are abuzz with gossip and greetings, but the volume lowers as I walk by. I expected this. I haven’t seen anyone from my class since that Monday. We arrive at my locker, and Lacey stands there. Chase takes her hand for encouragement. They do that a lot, hold hands, hug, sit really close, and whisper to each other.
“I’m OK now. You guys should go, or you’ll be late for homeroom.” I shoo them away. They nod, Lacey hugs me one more time, and they turn to leave. I watch them go, feeling eyes on me, but I don’t acknowledge the gawkers. I get my tunnel vision and begin unloading stuff into my locker. I look up in time to see Amanda and Deacon walking down the hall holding hands. Amanda still has her blond hair, but she’s colored the underneath red. Deacon smirks at me, and she glares. Amanda looks really soft. I’ve lost a lot of weight over the summer. Thanks to my scars, I’m anemic and can’t keep weight on myself. I went from being voluptuous to skinny and frail looking. I always have dark circles under
my eyes. I hate it! Amanda reminds me of the confidence and popularity that I used to have, what I used to be, what I’ll never be again. They pass, and I go back to loading my locker. I can feel the uneasiness building in my chest. It’s like I’m swimming, and I can’t get enough air, but I do my breathing techniques and start to feel a bit better.
“If I feel overwhelmed, I will not be afraid or ashamed. I am who I am; no one can change that. I am strong and brave. I am worth my life.” This is the mantra my therapist wants me to tell myself, to remember my value. The hallway has emptied, and I close my locker, afraid that I might be late on my first day.
Slam. I’m suddenly pushed up against my locker, and I drop my books. “Hey, skank,” Deacon whispers in my ear, as he presses all his weight against me.
“Get off of me, you piece of shit!” I grunt, but he kicks his feet between mine and spreads them like a policeman would. He pins my hands behind my back. My face is pressed against the vents in my locker and is starting to hurt.
“We just need to make sure you’ve not brought any drugs or contraband into our school.” Then he wiggles his free hand under my shirt. He touches my stomach and feels me up over my bra. And I feel gross. It’s not like he hasn’t before, but then we were going together, and that was before he spread the rumors about our nonexistent sex life. He gropes my butt and puts his hand at my front pocket. “Anything here that will poke me or slit my wrists?” I can feel tears burning my eyes. I don’t answer him. “No? I guess you’re free to go.” He lets me go, but as I lean away from the locker, he slams me against it once more. “Loser,” he throws in and leaves. I’m shaking, and I could just hold it in, but if I want to be healthy, and if I want to live, which I do, then I have to tell someone what just happened to me. It’s not OK, and he can’t get away with it. I don’t care if it’s going to make my life more miserable because at least I will have a life. And maybe he’ll think first before he messes with me again. So I ignore the final bell and go to the office. The office is crazy busy, so I stand off to the side. Then a secretary notices me.
“Can I help you, dear?” She’s maybe in her forties, definitely too young to use the word “dear.”
“I think I need to speak with my counselor,” I say. She looks at me and her eyes widen a little. I’m still shaking a little and my left cheek burns a bit.
“All right then, what’s your name?” She takes a Post-It and pen, poised to write.
“Lana Baxter.” She doesn’t even write my name down.
“I’ll be right back.” And she disappears through a door. I stand there tapping my short, dark blue fingernails against the counter. Finally, she returns and leads me down a hall to an office. Sitting there is another middle-aged woman. She’s wearing square-rimmed glasses and has a really short haircut, but she has a pleasant, trusting face.
“Lana, please come in. I’m Miss Simpson. Have a seat.” I do. She appraises me, but I’m not sure if she approves of what she sees. She opens my folder, and I see a picture of the old me— blond, flashy, total attitude, even in my school picture. She raises one eyebrow as she reads my file. Then she asks, “What can I help you with?” I lean back and think for a minute. If I do this, then there is no going back. Honestly though, I can’t afford not to. So I tell her—everything. She leans back in her chair and looks at me when I’m finished.
“Is that how you got that mark on your face?” I only nod. “You are aware of what you’re saying?” she asks.
I nod again. “I can’t afford to cover up for someone or endure this type of treatment,” I say, holding her eyes, pleading with mine. She nods now. She takes out a digital camera from a drawer in her desk.
“Do you mind?” she asks looking at my cheek again. I shrug. She stands and adds, “Follow me.” I do. We go to the nurse’s office, which is only down the hall. She tells the nurse my story, and they appraise my cheek again. I wonder how bad it looks. The nurse takes out a ruler and holds it to my cheek as Miss Simpson takes a picture. Then the nurse hands me an ice pack.
“Can I see it?” I ask placing the pack against my hot skin. She leads me to a private bathroom, and then leaves me alone. I turn and look at it. It’s three red lines across my cheekbone and just below it. If I weren’t so delicate now it probably wouldn’t have left a mark. I frown. This is worse than I thought. Miss Simpson appears again with a small compact.
“This might help.” I’m grateful. I pat the powder across my face and it blends easily. It’s not magic, but better. I decide that someone would have to really stare at it to notice it, and I am relieved. “I’d like you to go to class now. I will take care of this and call your parents, too. Don’t worry; we have a no tolerance policy when it comes to bullying. You’ve done the right thing, Lana.” I’m not sure if I feel like it, but I trust her, and besides I have no choice at this point. I leave her office and return to the main office. The secretary begins to write me a late pass.
“Lana, can you do me a favor?” she asks, as she finishes it and hands it to me, like we’re old friends and I owe her a favor and this will make us even.
“OK.”
“Can you walk Thomas Gonzales to room 113? It’s on the way to your class.” She points to a boy sitting in the corner. He has light-brown hair and dark-brown eyes. He’s tan and when he stands, he towers over me. His face isn’t too bad either. He’s wearing khaki cargo shorts and an untucked, plaid button-up shirt. He walks slowly over to me.
“Sure, why not,” I answer. It’s not like I know the lay of the land, and it’s not like I’m the Welcome Wagon, but whatever.
We walk in silence for a little way, and then he says, “Lana is a cool name.” I just look at him.
“Thanks, Thomas.” He grins.
“It’s actually Tomas,” and he pronounces it like toe-maus. “But you can call me whatever. Back home they called me Tommy mostly.” He looks down.
“OK, well, I guess we’re here. Have a good first day.” I put on my best smile, which isn’t saying much since I pretty much feel like mud.
“You too; I’ll see you around.” He puts his hand on the door, and I’m backing away from him now, still giving him a fake smile.
“Sure.” And as I turn, under my breath I say, “Whatever.”
Lacey
I’m anxious about leaving Lana on her own at her locker. It can all become overwhelming. She’s only a freshman after all. As if he’s reading my mind, Chase takes my hand in his calloused one and squeezes it. It’s hard to believe that we’ve only been friends six months. Last spring after I was busted for pretending to a girl from Columbus and having an online relationship with Henry, my crush since kindergarten, I withdrew from everyone. Chase rescued me, or my pool maybe. I’m not sure if he came over every day for me or for my pool, but he definitely pulled me out of my funk. He gave me a week after he dropped the bomb on me that he had feelings for me before he forced me to face the world. Actually, we haven’t talked about that day since it happened. I’m not sure how I feel about him, even still. I mean, he’s cool and definitely good looking with dark wavy hair. He’s taller than me by at least half a foot, and he has his own style. He doesn’t care what anyone thinks of him, and he lives in his faded Levis and plain T-shirts. He used to only wear white T’s, but he added color to his wardrobe over the summer. He even let me pick out some clothes for him on a shopping trip to the outlet mall in Edinburgh before school started. He’s wearing the plaid button-up I picked out, open over a T-shirt today. With brown eyes that can be expressive or blank of emotions, it doesn’t matter what his expression is because his eyes know me. I know him. He’s truly become my best friend. We read each other, and it seems like we can always tell what the other is thinking. Like now, he’s holding my hand as we walk down the hall, and I feel stronger and braver because of it.
Everyone we pass says “Hi” to Chase. The girls smile; some reach out and touch him. His band, Cate’s Ashe
s, is kind of a big deal around here. They launched an LP on iTunes last spring that exploded after a few weeks and is still selling a few hundred copies a month. They play at a dive bar in Crawfordsville that anyone can get in as long as they have an I.D. It doesn’t matter how awful and fake it is; they don’t care. Chase is uncomfortable with his sudden popularity. Guys act like they were always his friend, and girls throw themselves at him. A few people stare at me. I know they remember last year, how I was stupid. If I could go back, I would take it all back, except Chase; in fact, I might have befriended him sooner. We make it to my locker. I’m surprised it’s on the corner of C and K Hall, prime real estate. Chase raises his eyebrow as I begin rolling out the combination. I only have one locker on my left. He leans against the outer edge of my locker and watches me as I unload my things. He wants to ask me something, I can tell.
“Out with it.” I roll my eyes as I stack my notebooks.
“Do you know where my locker is?”
“No, where?”
“J hall and P,” He’s frowning.
“With the freshmen?” I ask as I stand, ready to go to my first class. It’s nowhere near Lana’s locker. Last year we had four classes, lunch, and free period together. I think the school computer program wanted us to become friends whether or not we wanted to. Maybe it knew something we didn’t.
“Yeah, so I was wondering, if maybe I could share your locker. I was even going to ask you before I knew you had such a sweet spot.” I think about it. We only have U.S. history and lunch together. It will be nice to be able to see him between every class. He thinks I’m debating whether or not I’ll agree. “I’ll go get some locker shelves so that we have enough room,” he encourages. So I play up my hesitation to see what else I can get out of him.
“Coffee every morning?”
Mia Castile - [The Butterfly Chronicles 02] Page 1
