Butterfly Suicide Page 2

  Teacher. Has to be. This guy has the vibe about him. Tall. Dressed in black slacks and a casual blue dress shirt. A brown satchel slung across one shoulder. The smidge of gray in his brown hair tells me his going to go for the classic salt and pepper look in his old age. He pushes his tortoise shell glasses up his nose, hiding the slight lines I see there while he studies me with an apologetic smile.

  “I’m Thatcher March,” he says. “New English teacher. I’m taking on the Theatre class, too.”

  To my surprise, he sticks out his free hand.

  Not knowing what else to do, I shake it, noting his hand are academic smooth. No manual labor for this guy. And his coffee…I catch a whiff of it and realize it’s not the cheap kind they sell around here. It smells sweeter, richer somehow. Probably some fancy cappuccino or espresso shit.

  “You have a name?” He seems amused when I don’t immediately respond. “I didn’t quite catch it.”

  “It’s…it’s Stephen Valley.” I wait for the dawning look of comprehension to come to his face. Any second he will realize who I am.

  “Nice to meet you,” he says, not batting an eye. “You a freshman?”

  “Yeah.”

  “First days are always tough. I’ve been teaching for about ten years now, and it doesn’t matter if you are a teacher or a student. Everyone has butterflies the first day.”

  I study him, curious about how old he is. I’m guessing…early thirties. Still youthful, but not trying too hard to hide the fact that time is creeping up on him.

  “See you in class then.” He nods toward the building when I don’t say anything. “Shall we?”

  Aw, hell. I guess there’s no getting out of it now.

  School is in session.

  CHAPTER TWO

  MONICA

  It’s 7:30pm. The evening shadows in the hallway have grown long, and the door to Simone’s room is still locked. I study the large, diamond doorknob wondering why this realization is in anyway a surprise. After all, my sister has been dead for almost three months and the room has been locked up tight, a shrine of what once was.

  My finger traces the fine grain of the oak door while I imagine Simone is off at camp or she’s moved on to college like she was supposed to. I try not to think about her last moments.

  They say she begged Jude, that she even kissed him goodbye.

  It’s tempting to get the thin, silver skeleton key above the doorframe and go in. Simone can’t stop me now. She can’t scream and holler if I want to borrow her clothes.

  “Get out, Monica! You are such a little brat!” she used to say.

  What does Stephen Valley miss about his brother? Anything? What does he think of when he stands outside of Jude’s door?

  Why did his brother kill my sister?

  It’s the big question—the hot topic still discussed around the dinner tables. The easy answer is Jude killed Simone because she broke up with him. He took it bad or something. The other six kids killed were just in the wrong place at the wrong time.

  But that’s not it. I just know it. He didn’t kill Simone because of the breakup.

  I wonder if Stephen knows why. Would he tell me?

  Stephen Valley.

  Talk about bad boy yummy. Super blond hair and bright blue eyes. He always looks a little “far off”, like he’s thinking deep thoughts or something. I think he is a secret reader, but I can’t prove it. I only surmise this because one time a copy of The Giver fell out of his backpack in the hall between classes, and he picked it up really quickly like he was ashamed or something.

  The quiet whispers, which have always surrounded the younger Valley boy, grew louder after what Jude did. Some said Stephen liked to graffiti things in the park like picnic tables or tag the pristine fences the city council paid for with dirty words and phrases. A few kids claimed they saw him once murder a dog in the street using a pocketknife. Apparently, the cops had been called out to his house before due to a shooting (something the news people made a really big deal about), but no one seemed to know what had actually happened, just that Stephen had been fooling around with a loaded gun or something.

  My mother clings to these stories as proof Karen Valley produced nothing but bad seeds. She rants on and on about it when she is drunk, patting her salon chocolate colored hair as she talks, her perfectly made up face twisting into an ugly mask of fury. Even though I nod my head at her tirades about the Valleys, deep down I know Stephen is not some weird, vandalizing pervert.

  I once dissected a frog with him in seventh grade science class. He was funny and let me pop out the frog’s eyes when the teacher said we could. I know it sounds gross and sadistic, but most of the other boys were all about arguing over who got to do it. Stephen asked me if I wanted to do the honors at our table. When I said yes, he chuckled and surrendered the scalpel without a second thought.

  What a gentleman.

  He is kind of skinny. I tend to like boys with a little more meat on them. And his taste in music is terrible. Metal bands? Really? Ugh. But he seems to have a shirt for every loud and angry group out there.

  Yes. I’m attracted to Stephen Valley. The realization makes me shudder and I press my forehead to the door, trying to channel my sister and search for the anger I’m supposed to have towards him.

  I’m attracted to the brother of my sister’s killer.

  My therapist would make lots of little notes about me in her file if she knew. My parents would freak out. My friends would think I’d lost it.

  Maybe I have. But they don’t know I’ve harbored a crush on him for well over a year, long before Jude went nuts in the cafeteria, or that I used to daydream about kissing him, wondering if his lips would feel soft against mine. We bonded over that damn frog, and I’ve never stopped liking him.

  Of course, those feelings are mixed up now. My emotions have mostly been in muffled shock mode and have cocooned me from all my senses. Other people’s compassion has swallowed me whole, and I’ve had no time to think about anything real.

  Until today.

  Today when I saw Stephen for the first time in months, a new emotion entered my stream of consciousness. Empathy. I sensed his pain. The first day of high school, the day where you are supposed to make the transition from preteen to teen, had totally sucked for me—the sympathetic stares from kids I didn’t know, the kind pats on the shoulder from teachers trying to be supportive—it was too much. I’d come home and swallowed a shot of vodka, letting the harsh burn of the alcohol wash down my throat and hoping it would provide the same peace it appears to provide my mom.

  Stephen and I aren’t supposed to have any classes together. The theatre class must have slipped by the counselor though. Something about Stephen when I saw him seated in the back of the auditorium, isolated from the rest of us…the dark circles under his eyes, the way he can’t quite look at anybody…it tugged at my heart in an unexpected way.

  It’s easy to think about the pain my family is going through and feel sympathy for that.

  But what about Stephen?

  He must hurt, too. And he’s just a kid, stuck here, stuck in this little fishbowl we live in with no escape in sight. I know I look to the future and think, four more years of this crap?

  I can’t even imagine what Stephen thinks.

  I wonder if he remembers the frog.

  My relationship savvy sister would know what to do about this. I knock on Simone’s door, knowing she isn’t in there. Simone is dead and buried even if it doesn’t seem real. For a moment, I am positive I will hear her voice though.

  “Simone?” I say softly.

  No answer.

  Depressed, I go to my own room and lock the door behind me.

  ****

  The next day I wake up on edge. Butterflies dance in my stomach and my anxiety skyrockets. This is the way I get before a big test or before I go out on stage. I love performing, but I’m always torn between wanting to get it over with and wanting to put it off.

  But today
all I’m planning is to go to school.

  As I look around my pink bedroom with all its Broadway musical posters on the wall, I realize I’m in my sanctuary. There is no need for this anxiety, for this nervousness—and yet, it has hung around me since May, a weird companion which never lets up no matter what I do. My therapists prescribed me some sort of anti-anxiety medication, but I don’t like to take it because it messes with my sleep.

  I sit up in my bed, pushing away the white, down comforter, and take deep breaths.

  Have breakfast. Get dressed. Remember to smile.

  When I go downstairs, the empty, silver backed chairs surrounding our dark granite kitchen table make me sad. My mom loved remodeling this room a few years ago, turning it into what she called a French country kitchen. The wooden cabinets had ornate carvings and were all painted a stark white with silver knobs, which matched the handles on the drawers. She’d made sure our refrigerator and the fancy oven were stainless steel so they would draw out the “accents” in the room. Momma was so proud of her efforts, and up until May, she greeted me every morning with a smile from her favorite spot at the table.

  Now, she is rarely up before ten.

  I spy the orange juice sitting out on our counter and the vodka bottle, uncapped, next to it—my mother’s signature sleeping tonic. That’s the reason for her late sleeping habits. Sometimes I wish I were brave enough to fill my water bottle with vodka. I imagine myself sipping on it the whole day, oblivious to the world around me, getting a decent night’s sleep.

  But I don’t do it. Instead, I go to the cabinet where we keep the allergy medicine and help myself to a couple of Benadryl. Last year, I overheard two teachers at school talking about how they always take a few before a big meeting with the principal. Apparently, it acts like a sedative if you’re already nervous.

  Can’t hurt to try it.

  I wash them down with the orange juice and then root around in the fridge for something to eat for breakfast. No one has gone shopping in a while and there isn’t much to choose from. My mother’s purse is on the table. I dig through it until I find a couple of dollars.

  Guess I’ll stop at the Coffee Place on the way to school.

  After I get dressed, I hurry back downstairs and survey myself in the front hallway mirror, wincing at how much I look like my dead sister. People used to joke we could have been twins—though our interests were completely different. I’m the sci-fi, theatre geek who can sing the libretto to Hamilton. She was the popular, dance team girl with lots of friends and horrific grades.

  Simone would have loathed my outfit for the first day of high school. It consists of my favorite pair of ripped shorts and a black tank top. After some debate about washing my dark hair and styling it, I opt to pull it up in a ballerina bun. My skin actually looks decent, though there is a telltale red mark on the side of my forehead. Damn. A zit in the making.

  I don’t wear much makeup. Don’t need to. But I am big believer in lipstick. Unless you want to look dead, you should always add color to your lips.

  I slide into a pair of flip-flops and head out the door.

  Our town is too small for a Starbucks or a Dairy Queen. Instead, we have to settle for the Coffee Place. It’s a silver food truck parked near the high school and acts like the Pied Piper of Rockingham, drawing people to it with its sweet aroma. A few plastic patio tables and chairs have been set out in front of the trailer so customers can sit down, but most people just cluster around in groups. As usual, there are lots of other kids in line as I wait to place my order, but even though it’s a small town, there are a few people I don’t know.

  They know me though. Several girls give me sympathetic looks. Poor little Monica Monroe. Forced to live in the shadow of her dead sister.

  I softly hum the opening number to the musical, Hairspray. It’s a habit that comes out when I’m nervous. If I don’t get my coffee soon, I’m likely to start working my way through the whole show.

  “Hey, kid.”

  Derek Andrews is standing with some of his buddies. He strolls over, a smile on his face, charisma and charm exuding from him in a way which always draws people in. Several girls stare openly at his butt as he passes their tables, and while I’m sure he’s aware of their attention, he keeps his eyes on me.

  Derek has never impressed me, never left me tongue-tied. I barely know him even though he has been to my house. My interactions with him were solely based on his brief friendship with Jude who brought him around a few times. On these occasions, Derek used to flirt with Simone, flashing a white-toothed smile and laughing at every twisted thing Jude said. You couldn’t find two more opposite guys. Where Jude was tall with dark hair and a goatee, Derek was clean-shaven and never had a strand of his brown hair out of place——my mother’s dream match for her daughter.

  So why is Derek talking to me? I’ve heard all about his thoughts on what he would have done if he’d been at school that last day, how he would have put a stop to psycho Jude Valley. The day of Simone’s funeral, I overheard him running his mouth outside the church.

  I would have tackled him…

  I would have told that little punk ass coward off…

  I would have beaten the living crap out of him…

  Blah, blah, blah, Derek. I often wonder if Jude would have shot him if he’d been in the lunchroom in May. I suppose it would have depended on which table he was sitting at.

  “Hey kid,” he says again. “How you doing?”

  “Um...I'm okay,” I say. “Thanks for asking.”

  “You coming to the game Friday?”

  “I’m on the dance team. We have to dance during half time.”

  “Great. I’ll look for you.”

  He walks back to his friends, picking up the conversation there as if he’d never spoken with me at all.

  I hate how he called me kid. I mean, c’mon. He is a senior. I’m a freshman. Three years difference does not really make him that much older than me. He can’t possibly have the kind of world experience allowing him to call me a kid.

  Asshole.

  After I get my latte, I follow the heard of students drifting to school, reminding myself to do basic things. Nod. Say “hi.” It costs nothing to be polite. Everyone is so anxious around, but it’s not just me making them nervous.

  It’s school. It’s going back to a place where you should be safe, and yet—well, people died there a few months ago. A two month summer break hasn’t eased us back into the groove of adolescence. What if it happens again? Jude didn’t seem like the type to go around shooting people. That’s what makes this whole thing so scary. The unpredictability of it. What if the loner kid has a gun? What if the athlete everyone admires loses it in math class and pulls a Jude Valley?

  What if? What if? What if?

  The mantra ticked through the air yesterday at school, slinking down the crowded hallways with the nervous tension of an emotional bomb. Every time a locker slammed too hard, people would get this strained look on their face. Will it be the same on Day 2? No one commented on the disappearance of the mascot from our school sign—at least not around me. Is that supposed to make us feel safe? Does not seeing the past make the future better?

  School starts.

  I ignore the sympathetic looks when I walk into my classes. I raise my hand and answer questions. I act like a normal person and try to please those around me by pretending nothing is wrong. Someone drops their books accidentally during English and the sound echoes in the room like a gunshot. Everyone jumps, but no one says anything. A few people glance at me.

  Outside the library, I nod at Ms. Johnson, noting her gray wig is perched on her head like an old, worn hat. She smiles warmly as if we share some bond because of her heroics on the last day of school. She was the final person to see my sister alive and the teacher who stopped Jude’s rampage. I have heard her version of events over and over since the news reporters practically fell in love with the old spinster librarian who could spout all sorts of heartwarming quotes
at the drop of a hat, and had no trouble giving the world her opinion on the terrible youth of today.

  “No one was paying attention to that boy. That’s just bad parenting.”

  Ms. Johnson and my mother should form a club.

  Despite the heat, I eat lunch outside in the courtyard, not daring to take the short walk to the cafeteria. Just the sight of the solid gray doors leading into that place would be enough to make me nauseous. The shade of the weeping willow trees lining the open area in the middle of the school is far more inviting and many of the older kids choose to follow my lead. The few who travel over to the cafeteria, come back looking shell-shocked.

  Maybe it’s just the food.

  At last it’s time for Theatre. Last year in eighth grade, it seemed the highlight of going to high school would be taking a real theater class. I’m still stoked about it, but not as much as I should be. My whole life is about playing a part right now.

  Stephen Valley is sitting in the back row of our small auditorium again, isolated from the rest of us, his blond hair a beacon in the dim house lights. Dirty and scuffed black Doc Martens encasing his large feet are propped on the red cushioned seat in front of him. This little display of careless swagger is an affront to other students who look at him with open hostility and derision.

  “Good.” Caitlin Wessel whispers when she sees who I’m looking at. She pushes back her long, red hair and wrinkles her freckled nose. “That spaz should stay out of sight.”

  I don’t say anything. Sometimes it’s easier just to keep your mouth shut, and it’s hard to argue with Caitlin. Though she is a year older, we’ve hung out off and on since middle school because she lives on my street and her mother is good friends with mine. Catlin has a gift for taking a simple sentence and turning it into the most damning statement. You don’t want her on your bad side.

  The lights on stage brighten as Mr. March walks on and smiles. Soft, girly giggles erupt from the front row. I don’t know if the new teacher realizes it or not, but he’s already considered a major cutie by the freshman girls. Next to me, Caitlin licks her lips like she’s about to eat a juicy steak and I can’t help but roll my eyes.