Becoming A Butterfly (The Butterfly Chronicles) (2 page)

So over time, either Henry forgot I existed, or he just pretended that that I didn’t. Neither scenario was appealing. There were, of course, those rare moments when our eyes met, and a look of recognition flashed across his face, but usually it was replaced with laughing eyes or worse, embarrassment for me. Even though I wished they were moments of stolen romantic glances, instead I had just made a fool of myself. Oh yeah, did I mention, I’m super clumsy. Before spring break, we shared the same routine most mornings. There was a honk from a Honda Civic next door. I always tried to beat that honk, but if I wasn’t already out the door, I waited until the car pulled out of the drive. Then I would exit, usually stub my toe on my mom’s lawn gnome that was always positioned right by the front steps no matter how many times I moved it. Inevitably I would hear, “LACEY-BRACEY-FOUR-EYED-FACEY,” in a high pierced sing-song voice. Sitting there at my curb was the Civic. Byron, Henry’s best friend in the driver’s seat, Henry shotgun, and Byron’s sister Bea with her window rolled down singing to me at the top of her lungs. I should have been waiting for it, but each morning it was a smack in the face—the kind of smack that made my lips bleed from hitting my braces, and my glasses crack so they needed a strip of tape over the bridge of my nose. That’s how it made me feel anyway. Henry never met my gaze, and Byron and his twin Beatrice would cackle as they ripped away from the curb. I never understood why someone so amazing hung out with two of the vilest people. But he did. Henry was in my free period, English, and history class. I tried to pretend he wasn’t. He made me nervous, and when I was nervous, I spit when I talked or shuffled my feet and stumbled. Nerves = clumsy²—it was not cute. This was my life, my fate, my destiny… OK, so I’m dramatic; I am a teenager after all.

But I didn’t have much hope that things would change. I watched Henry as he skated a few strides and jumped with his board, flipping it beneath his feet. He landed perfectly and then rolled back to his friends to do it again. I stared, amazed that he could make himself and the board move that way. As he rolled back to his friends, Byron tapped his chest and pointed to me.
I guess I wasn’t as discreet as I thought.
He said something, but I was too far away to hear. Henry looked up at me, but as soon as our eyes met, he looked away. He shook his head and said something back. He motioned for his other friend to go, sat down on a sidewalk curb, and turned his head the other direction. That was my cue to move along.

I continued on and came to Watkin’s Chevrolet. It was Tasha’s dad’s dealership. There on a ramp in the corner of the lot facing the street, was a beautiful red 1968 Chevelle. I stood and admired that car. It had been restored and was Kelly blue-booked at eight thousand. Mr. Watkins had agreed to sell it to me for six thousand, but until then, he had it sticker priced at ten thousand. I had done my research on it, too. I’d already been saving for a car when it showed up on display with a heavenly chorus singing behind it. I continued to save for the past six months and was almost there. I checked on it about once a week.

“
It’s still here Lacey.” I heard a voice behind me as I circled it.

“
Just making sure.” I smiled at Bill, one of the salesmen, and a good friend of my parents.

“
When are you going to take it off our hands?” he asked as he leaned on a car beside us.

“
Soon, I promise, very soon.”

Chapter 2

When I got home,
my nana’s van was in the driveway. I went in through the back door and found she was doing dishes. I put my bags on the counter and smiled my greeting.

“
Hi-ya, Nana.”

“
Oh, honey, look at your beautiful smile!” Nana always said the right thing. She had a short, teased hair style. She wore jeans and a button-up shirt with Keds. She wiped her hands on the dish towel, came to where I stood at the counter, and cupped my face, appraising it.

“
What are you doing here?” I hugged her.

“
I cleaned out my attic and brought some of your mother’s things over from when she was your age.” She nodded to the two stacks of boxes in the dining room.

“
You’ve been threatening to do that for ages. What made you commit?” I laughed.

“
It was time. I’m not getting any younger.” Nana always said things like that, I guess it’s something you say when you get old.

“
Where’s Lana?” I asked, as I picked up an apple from the fruit bowl and cleaned it on my shirt. My sister was an image of my mother when she was her age. She had a sparkling personality, and most of the time I fell into the background when she was near. Her hair was that perfect blond color that everyone aspires to achieve from a bottle. She had the body of a dancer, long and elegant from years of gymnastics and dance classes. For obvious reasons I had bailed on those long ago. Her grey eyes always drew you in. She wasn’t an angel, though when it counted, we got along, but mostly she picked fights and annoyed me. I always had to tell her to leave me and my stuff alone.

“
She’s in her room, said something about
That 70’s show,
but I don’t see what’s so great about the seventies. I lived there; it was a disaster.”

“
And you’re doing the dishes because?” I asked before I bit into the apple.

“
They needed to be done. Don’t tell your mom I did them though; she already thinks I control her too much.” We giggled. My mom always tried to prove her independence from Nana even though she was in her late-thirties and owned and operated a prestigious, well-respected salon and spa in our small town of Brownsburg, Indiana. I’ve never stood out, like in a good way, like my mother. My hair has always been stick straight and refuses to hold waves, curls, braids, or even ponytails. This was the disgrace of my mother and my sister. It wasn’t for lack of trying on my mom’s part; she layered, thinned, shined, permed, relaxed, and did possibly everything she could to make my hair beautiful. In the end, the blond of it played dirty and liked being parted on the side in an angle, not quite straight no matter how hard I tried. The few times I’d had bangs, they decided to part down the middle purely to annoy me. Glasses? Why yes, I did wear glasses. Of course, they had to have plastic frames because my lenses were so thick. No, I couldn’t wear the trendy square or designer brands. Dr. Monroe felt I needed the black, round-rimmed glasses. “They are more practical,” he told my mother, as she nodded politely. When we left, she’d cursed herself for not having a backbone to stand up to him, but she didn’t go back to exchange them either. She surprised me a few weeks later with new contacts, but I was never brave enough to try them, so they sat in my cabinet in my bathroom. She tried to dress me fashionably. I had everything in my closet that I needed to look trendy or even find my own style, but unfortunately I hadn’t accomplished that yet. I had all the tools; they just didn’t seem to have me. I’d wear a white top with a grey corduroy skirt and brown boots and think I looked fine. But once I was in the light of day, I’d realize maybe I should have worn the black boots instead, or maybe ballet slippers because it was a mild day. It was just enough of an afterthought
that I always looked a little misplaced. I was determined to figure it out in those moments of awkwardness, but at the crucial times I always tended not to care as much as I should. Despite my fashion faux pas, my mother still tried. My bathroom vanity was lined with the highest quality products, and my closet was filled. When Nana finished the dishes, she sat down with me and started a mini-marathon of
Hoarders
I had saved on our DVR. Finally, after announcing three times that she was leaving, she went home.

It wasn’t too long before my dad walked through the door. He always came home first. Mom usually worked into the evening. He went straight to the kitchen to decide what we were eating for dinner. My dad had short, light brown hair. He always wore a polo shirt and khakis. He owned his own insurance company on Main Street across from my mom’s salon. Everyone liked my dad. He always said the right thing, whether it was a joke or an encouraging pep talk. I was glad he was my dad too. He finished the
Hoarders
marathon with me just as Mom arrived. She ranted about her last two appointments cancelling. We grilled out and ate on the patio. In the summer time the patio is my parent’s favorite room. They sip their coffee from lounge chairs in the morning, read the paper or novels, or just sit out there and talk. They entertain company out there, and I think they would sleep out there if we’d let them. As Lana and I did the dishes, my friends arrived. Our house wasn’t fancy; it was an older house that my parents had rehabbed. They had improved on the updates too, like the gourmet kitchen, and giving me a connected bathroom. A lot of the homes in our neighborhood were rehabbed historic homes. My parents had also put a pool in the backyard like many of our neighbors. We had a large front porch with a swing and tall windows that were gorgeous in the winter time when they showcased our large Christmas tree. They both grew up in our town and knew everyone just as their parents had, and as I imagined I would.

As my friends piled their bags in the entry way, their attention was drawn to the boxes sitting there.

“
What are these?” Tasha asked.

“
Mom, Nana brought your stuff from the attic.” I remembered that I’d forgotten to tell her or my dad. Mom appeared in the doorway, eyebrows furrowed.

“
Why?” She approached the boxes and opened the top one.

“
She cleaned out her attic.” I shrugged. She began lifting out dusty, stale clothes.

“
OH. MY. Gawd!” Tasha exclaimed, and then quickly covered her mouth. My mom rolled her eyes and lifted out a studded, stonewashed denim jacket. Lana appeared in the doorway and squeezed her way between us to peer into the box. She elbowed me out of the way, and I returned the favor.

“
These were tough!” Mom defended. She lifted leg warmers, pleated jeans with narrow ankles, layered skirts, lacy gloves, and tons of scarfs and bandanas. Then she pulled out fists full of beads of all sizes in florescent colors, turquoise, hot pink, lime green, and neon blue. She plopped everything on the dining room table.

“
Mom, those should be against the law!” I said between gasps.

“
Vintage, this is all making a comeback. You watch, in a few years you’ll be begging me to borrow these.”

“
If I do, you have permission to lock me up in the attic with your boxes,” I teased. She rolled her eyes and opened another box. It was full of notes on hot pink paper, old textbooks, and notebooks.

“
My
Trapper Keeper
!” she squealed and pulled out a green binder with a flap on it. There were puppy dogs on the cover and in the corner were the words
Trapper Keeper.

“
Calm down; it’s just a binder,” I said.

“
JUST. A. BINDER? I think not. This kept everything together and in its place.” I had seriously offended her. She squealed again and grabbed a picture.

“
Eric, look at this!” She waved a picture as if he could see her from the great room.

“
What is it?” Tasha asked.

“
Eric, Megan, Melissa, Billy, and me.” My mom and dad were friends growing up. They didn’t start dating until after he was a junior in college. She used to do his hair. Then she pulled out a poster of a woman in an orange swimsuit.

“
Who is that?” Jade asked. Mom held the poster to her heart as if it were an old dear friend.

“
Farrah Fawcett. She was my idol growing up, one of
Charlie’s Angels.
” She looked dreamily at the poster again and continued, “Every guy wanted to date her, and every girl wanted to be her.”

“
Amber, can we use some of these outfits?” Jade asked, fingering the beads on the table. Tasha and I both raised an eyebrow at her.

“
Why?” Mom asked cautiously.

“
I want to take some pictures tonight.” She shrugged.

“
We’re in for it,” Tasha whispered to me under her breath.

Chapter 3

When I smiled at myself
in the mirror, I looked like a completely different person. Tasha had curled my hair, (though I knew it would fall soon) and I put on some dramatic makeup. I watched intensely as Jade put blue, green, and yellow on her eyes with thick angled black eyeliner lines. I couldn’t understand how she did it.

“
I make a thin line first,” she said, as she started in the corner of her left eye and drew a line to the outer corner.

“
Then I make a thicker line halfway to the outer corner and finally blend it to the inner corner.” I was amazed.

“
Here, you try it.”

“
I have; you know I can’t do it!” I exclaimed, refusing to take the liquid liner brush she held out to me.