Becoming A Butterfly (The Butterfly Chronicles) (24 page)
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Authors: Mia Castile
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, 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.
“
Are you ready?” she asks in a motherly tone. I love my sister. She has been my rock through my cutting last spring, through my suicide attempt, and through my rehab. I think 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 my sister 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, and 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 my 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 and what I’ll never be again. They pass, and I go back to unloading into 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 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 walks away. 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 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 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 where 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 Mrs. 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 cheek bone 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. Mrs. Simpson appears again with a small compact.
“
This might help with that.” 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 pants 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.”
Stand up for them, be there for them and don’t abandon them.
Be the Broccoli.
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