“Wow,” he says.
“We spent ages making it,” Blister says, and I think of the furry animal I laid in the hole, all those months ago.
“Thanks,” Tom says. “I love it. Thanks, June.” His big smile has his top two teeth missing.
“You’re welcome,” I say, hugging him.
And I wish we could all stay in here forever.
•••
I’ve never sat with Blister’s whole family at the table before. Blister says it doesn’t happen often, because no one is ever completely sure where everyone else is.
We somehow fit. Eddie sits on an old oil drum, Chubbers is in the high chair and the rest of us have managed to find a chair from those scattered around the house.
Tom has a paper crown pushed tight upon his head and Maggie sits grumpy at the edge of the table.
She never says much to me, but I wish she was my sister. She’d do my hair and teach me about make-up. Even though my skin is a different color than hers, she’d experiment with what looked best and find colors that suited me. She’d tell me I look pretty and that she’s proud I’m her sister.
Eddie is yelling and Mr. Wick is bellowing at him to be quiet. Chubbers throws his food on the floor and Mil is crying because of something Eddie said, but Tom sits happily, sucking his drink loudly through a straw.
I look at Mrs. Wick and for the first time I see how tired she is.
“How are your parents?” she asks me when she sees me watching her.
“My dad’s fine,” I say. “He’s very busy.” Too busy to notice. Too busy to save me.
“And Megan must be nine, or ten now?”
“She’s just eleven,” I say.
She raises her eyebrows. “Where does the time go?”
“No, Chubs!” Maggie shouts at the baby. He looks at her in surprise and I watch as his face screws up slowly, turning from white to red. He can yell like no one else.
Si screams and covers his ears.
“Enough,” Mrs. Wick says. Her dress looks heavy as she gets up, weighing down her shoulders. She takes the shrieking Chubbers out of his high chair and he jerks his legs straight as she cuddles him into her neck.
Blister looks at Tom, who’s still sitting beaming in his crooked paper hat.
“Happy birthday,” he laughs.
Maggie gets up and marches out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
•••
I have to leave Tom’s birthday early to get home in time for supper. My dad insists that Saturday evening is the one meal every week we all eat together.
“A bit less for June,” I hear him say quietly to Kathleen as she piles up my plate.
“She likes it like this, Bradley,” she replies in an over-emphasized whisper.
Liar, I want to say to her.
“She needs to cut back a bit,” my dad says, as though I can’t hear. As though I’m not in the room.
“OK.” Kathleen takes a spoonful of mashed potatoes away. She puts the plate in front of me on the table and in full view of my dad she cuts some butter and drops it on the top, where it instantly starts to melt. She looks at me with a smile that says to Dad that she’s on my side. That she did it because she loves me.
I want to take the boiling potatoes and throw them at her.
“You OK, honey?” She reaches over and pats my hand.
“Yes,” I say, and pick up my fork and begin to eat.
“How was Jennifer today, June?” my dad asks.
“She’s good,” I lie.
“You should invite her over here again one day. You don’t always have to go there.”
“She’s teaching me violin,” I lie again. “It’s not so easy for her to bring it here.”
“We’ll have to come over one day and hear a recital,” Kathleen says.
“I bet you’re really good.” Megan smiles at me.
Can’t you see? I want to scream at my dad. How can you not see that they hate me?
I eat my food slowly.
“Dad’s teaching me how to make shelves,” Megan says. I hate it when she calls him Dad. I stare hard at her and she knows what I’m thinking. He’s my dad, not yours. He’ll never be yours. Her smile doesn’t waver. “We cut the wood to size today and started to plane it.”
“You’re a great little apprentice,” my dad says. And he nods his head, as he eats another mouthful. “You should join us one day, June.”
“Maybe,” I say. I look away from him and put my fork into the mound of food on my plate.
•••
There’s a knock on my bedroom door. My dad peers his head around.
“Can I come in?”
I put my book down and move over on my bed to make space. He closes the door behind him.
“What are you reading?” he asks. The mattress squeaks under the weight of him.
“It’s a Judy Blume.” I put it face down so he can’t read the cover.
“Pumpkin,” he says heavily, “you’ve got to make a bit more of an effort with Megan.”
His feet are squarely on the floor and he has to twist slightly to look at me. “All she wants is a sister. Can’t you see how desperate she is for the two of you to get along?”
“No,” I say. Suddenly it feels like there’s not enough air in the room. I want to get up and open the window, but I’m scared I’ll crack apart piece by piece if I even move.
“We’re so lucky to have them, June. You might not feel it now, but when you’re older I promise you’ll realize it.”
“What was wrong with it being just you and me?” I ask. My head is bent so far forward that there’s no chance of him looking into my eyes. I don’t want him to see how close I am to crying.
“I was lonely, June. Weren’t you?”
“No. I had you.”
“I fell in love with Kath. And it’s like she saved me. She gave me a reason to smile again.”
Wasn’t I a good enough reason?
I push my fingers hard into my palms.
“Sometimes, she’s not very nice to me,” I blurt out. My heart is hammering so hard that it hurts my skin.
“Oh, Pumpkin. She can’t be nice all the time.”
“She’s never nice.” I’m trying so hard not to cry. I need to keep my voice clear, so that he can understand.
“You know that’s not true.” I can tell he’s losing patience with me. “You’ve just got to start being fairer to her. I know she’s not your mom and I know that must really hurt, but if you want to love Kath, your mom would understand. She’d be so happy that you’ve got another mom who loves you.”
He won’t hear me and my tears tip out. I pull my knees up tight to my face to make myself into a ball small enough to disappear.
“Honey,” my dad says. And he puts his arms around me and rocks me as though I’m a child again. I imagine my mom here, hugging me too. The sharp smell of coffee. The warm feel of her skin. And her soft voice singing to me and telling me I’m her beautiful little girl.
My tears soak my knees. And they don’t make me feel any better.
After
“My dad just wouldn’t see,” I tell Reverend Shaw. Today, I feel angry and I hope he can unwind the thread of red that’s twisting inside me. “Or maybe he just didn’t want to.”
“Sometimes, people are blind to what’s right in front of them,” he says calmly.
“He cared more for Kathleen than me. That’s why he didn’t want to open his eyes.”
“I could probably swear on this Bible that’s not true,” Reverend Shaw says. “You can love someone deeply, but somehow not always do the right thing by them. People have flaws. We get so much wrong. Maybe if you try to understand him as a human being with faults, then you can move forward.”
“But he could have stopped it.”
“He couldn’t stop something that he didn’t know existed.”
“You sound like you’re excusing him,” I say.
“I’m not. I’m just suggesting that you forgive
him.”
“It’s not that simple,” I tell him.
“Isn’t it?” the reverend asks. “If I gave you the choice of two paths, which would you take—the one filled with brambles and fog, or the clear one?”
“You know which one,” I say.
“It’s your choice, June. It’s your life and you get to choose your path. Carry your past down the difficult route, or take your past from your shoulders, leave it here and walk down the other road.”
“You make it seem easy,” I tell him.
“Perhaps it is,” he replies.
Before
thirteen years old
Jennifer stretches her legs out in front of her, two white sticks, side by side. She points her toes hard at the end. I have to shuffle down the wall slightly as she raises her arms in a circle around her head, her fingers barely touching at the top.
“Mom says that if I don’t practice more I’ll have to give up lessons,” she says.
“You’ve asked for pointe shoes for your birthday, though.”
“I know. That’s why I’ve got to keep practicing,” she says.
“Wouldn’t it be easier to be standing up?” I suggest.
“Maybe.” She slides her foot up her leg.
“You’ve made a triangle,” I say.
“It’s called a passé,” she says, although I can tell that she’s finding it difficult to get it right, sitting like this.
There’s laughter close by in the playground. I look up to see a knot of girls over by the wire fence, with Megan in the middle of them. She’s got that smile that isn’t a real one. The one she wears to school ever since Anne said they weren’t friends anymore.
She doesn’t see me watching. Anne grabs Megan’s bag, opens it and starts throwing things on the floor.
“Is that your Megan?” Jennifer asks, lowering her hands onto the brick wall. She’s not my Megan.
“Yes.” There’s fear in Megan’s eyes and it sits strangely in my stomach. Anne is looking for something, but I don’t think she finds it. Instead, she throws Megan’s bag high into the air for another girl to catch.
“Should you help her?” Jennifer asks.
No.
I get up. I don’t want to, but I’m walking toward them. Megan sees me. There are so many jumbled words and complicated thoughts between her eyes and mine.
Anne throws the bag high and I’m almost there, but the bell clangs and the girls quickly scatter.
Megan is left on her own, picking up her things from the scuffed ground. She doesn’t look at me again. But I can tell that underneath her red cheeks she’s clamping her teeth tight to stop the tears from squeezing through.
“We should help her,” Jennifer whispers from next to me.
“We’ll be late for class,” I say. And I turn, with my head held high, and walk steadily back across the emptying playground, toward the heavy school door.
•••
“How was school?” Kathleen asks. I know the question isn’t for me, so I won’t bother trying to reply. One day, I might. One day, I’ll answer and watch the confusion on Kathleen’s face, as she has to realize I’m really here.
“Fine,” Megan says. She’s lying, so she keeps her eyes from looking at mine.
“I thought we’d go shopping on Saturday, to choose Anne’s present,” Kathleen says. Panic flares in Megan’s eyes. She’s not invited anymore, I want to say.
“OK,” Megan says, her voice sounding tiny.
“We could get you a nice new pair of jeans, too, while we’re there.”
I poke my fork into the peas on my plate. Four fit on one tine, but the fifth is too difficult and it gets squashed. I pull them off with my teeth, so that they drop one at a time onto my tongue.
“Bigger mouthfuls, June,” Kathleen says.
I pierce the fork into the sausage and I stare at her as I force the whole thing into my mouth. She’s not looking at me, but she knows.
She takes her napkin from her lap and dabs it at the corner of her mouth. A little bit of pink lipstick smudges onto the material before she folds it into a square and puts it on the table.
I’m trying to chew as her chair scrapes backwards. Megan is looking down. I’m glad that neither of them can see my heart. It’s beating so quickly that it’d give my fear away.
Kathleen grabs my plate. She yanks my arm and pulls me under the table. I watch as she tips my food onto the floor.
“Dogs eat down there,” she says.
She takes my empty plate and cutlery and sits back at the table.
From here, I can see Megan’s legs, crossed at the ankles. In front of me, my gravy sits like a puddle. Peas, sausages and potatoes sink into the floor.
I know I have no choice. I bend my head and start to eat.
•••
Megan is sitting alone on the front lawn as I go to get my bike. She doesn’t look up at me. She’s making holes in blades of grass and threading other ones through. There’s a long line of green, stretched across her skinny knees. I want to scrunch it up and send it, shredded, into the sky.
My dad’s old bike sits against the wall. It’s mine now, since I grew out of my pink one. I wheel it out toward the path, feeling it cold and steady under my fingers.
“You’re going out again?” Megan says. I don’t mean to look at her, but I do. She’s stopped threading grass and her hands are resting beside her. “Are you going to Jennifer’s?” I wheel my bike past her and answer her with the silence of my back. “Can’t you stay and hang out here?”
“It’s not my fault you haven’t got any friends,” I say over my shoulder.
The gate clicks open under the thumb of my free hand. I let it swing closed behind me.
“June?” I hear Megan say, but I won’t turn around. I’ll let her watch as I ride off, my pedals getting faster in the wind.
At Blister’s house, I quietly push open the door to Tom’s room.
Blister looks up as soon as I walk in.
“Hey,” he says.
“June!” Tom’s face lights up. He’s lying on his back on the bed and I go over and stroke his hair.
“How are you doing, Tomski?”
“I’m OK,” he says.
Blister’s cupped hand beats firmly on Tom’s chest, over and over. Tom lies patiently, staring at the paper shapes dipping down from his ceiling. They turn slightly in the warm air that drifts in through the window.
Blister doesn’t need to ask me to help Tom sit up. Together, we move his little brother until his back is against the wall. He feels so fragile. I’m always surprised that his bones don’t snap under the pressure.
“OK. Copy my breathing,” Blister says. They breathe slowly and hold the air in. I can hear the crackles in Tom’s chest, and when he coughs his whole body shakes. The mucus rattles as his lungs try to get it free.
It never gets easier seeing him like this. I want to scoop him up and run with him to a place where he’ll never hurt again.
“OK?” Blister asks as Tom coughs sticky mucus into the bowl I hold. Tom nods and finally flops onto his side. I put the bowl on the floor and sit down next to him on the bed, so I can hold him.
“Your skin’s beautiful, June,” Tom says as he strokes my arm. His words stop me.
“Do you really think?” I ask.
“I really think,” Tom says. And I want to hug him so much that his loveliness soaks into me and never disappears.
“Do you think Mom and Dad will let me get a pig?” Tom asks.
“A pig?”
“I could look after it,” Tom says. “And it’s not like a dog—it wouldn’t need to be taken for long walks.”
“I’ve never heard of a pig as a pet,” I say.
“It wouldn’t kill birds like a cat does.”
“You could always ask them,” Blister smiles, paddling his hands gently in the center of Tom’s back.
“Can pigs climb stairs?” Tom asks seriously.
“I have no idea,” Blister laughs.
“I bet they can,” I say.
“It’d sort of run and wobble up,” Tom says. “It could sleep in my room.”
“It’d stink,” Blister says.
“I wouldn’t mind. I’ll keep my window open.”
“In winter?”
“He’d keep me warm.”
“A big hot-water bottle.”
“A smelly one.” And Tom giggles his fragile laugh that always makes me happy and sad at the same time.
“How about a salamander?” Blister asks.
“A lizard?” I ask, screwing up my nose.
“At least they’re not smelly,” Blister says.
“And I bet they can climb stairs,” Tom adds.
“June and I could get you one. It can’t be hard.” Blister puts a pillow behind Tom’s back. “We could bring it back in my bag.”
“Could you?” Tom’s eyes are wide.
And I know we will. Blister and I will find Tom his salamander. We’ll bring it into his bedroom and we’ll watch his face shine as it jumps onto his bed and scuttles away across the floor.
•••
“I think I want to be a doctor,” Blister says to me as we pedal away from his house.
“I’d like to be one, too,” I say, thinking of Tom, sleeping in his bed when we left.
“I thought you wanted to be a vet.” The wind catches Blister’s words and brings them to me.
“I’m not sure anymore.”
“Imagine, we could be doctors together.”
“We could find a cure for Tom’s cystic fibrosis,” I say as I speed past him and race him to our trailers.
Around the back of our art room, the wall is creeping green where the sun never touches it. It feels scaly under my fingers.
“We should wash it,” I say idly, but Blister is already climbing over the fence and jumping down the other side.
We walk along the edges of the trees. They are completely still, stretching their arms wide. There’s something about being in this part of the forest that makes me scared, but it’s our only way to the stream.
Among the trees it’s darker, but the trapped air is warm. The smell of bark sits on me. When I breathe, it moves inside.
“Do you really think we’ll find a salamander?” I ask. My voice is quieter than our feet as they crack through the forest floor.
Paper Butterflies Page 6
