Butterflies Don't Lie Read online

  Copyright © 2014, B. R. Myers

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or,

  in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying,

  permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900,

  Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3731 Mackintosh St, Halifax, NS B3K 5A5

  (902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  NB1122

  Design: Sari Naworynski

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Myers, B. R., author

  Butterflies don’t lie / B.R. Myers.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-77108-162-7 (pbk.).—ISBN 978-1-77108-163-4 (html).

  I. Title.

  PS8626.Y358B88 2014 jC813’.6 C2014-903199-8

  C2014-903200-5

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund (CBF) and the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia through Film & Creative Industries Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with Film & Creative Industries Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  For Cynthia, for planting the first seed years ago,

  suggesting I write a book someday.

  And for Ken, for everything else.

  ONE

  I shifted my butt, trying to unglue the backs of my sweaty thighs from the vinyl seat. The cheap chair made a squelching noise. One of the moms sitting across from me looked up from her iPhone.

  “Pardon me,” I said. She smoothed out her flower-print sundress then went back to her texting. Holy geez, I thought, why anyone would want to dress like a tea cozy is beyond me. I bet she was posting all kinds of flowery dresses on Pinterest.

  Pace yourself, busy lady!

  I scooted forward, perching my jean cut-offs on the edge of the chair. It was harder to write sitting this way, but Chet was almost done. The librarian’s voice drifted down the hallway, soft and lilting, as she encouraged the class to sing the goodbye song. Chet’s voice was one of the loudest. I chuckled. That kid cracked me up.

  I turned my attention to the last question of my quiz, “True Love or True Dud?”

  I circled my answer, and with the lightning speed of someone who does a quiz each week, I had my score tallied faster than you could say, “sweaty palms.” It was moot, actually. I was in love with the right guy—he just didn’t know it yet.

  When I daydreamed of Blaine Mulder, the first things I pictured were his perfect shoulders. He’s not so much a muscle-dude like the rest of the jocks he hangs out with, but more like a chiselled model. His T-shirts always fit the same way, with the seams lining up with the tip of his shoulder joint. Blaine is one hot, walking mannequin of perfect proportion.

  And I should know. I’ve spent hours in grade ten math class staring at the back of those magnificent shoulders, hence the C I got on my final exam. I’d nibble the eraser end of my pencil, daring myself to tap his above-mentioned perfect shoulders and whisper, “Hey, what question are we supposed to be on?” Or how about this icebreaker: “Did Mr. Miller say 5.6 or 6.5?”

  Yes, I am lame—even in my fantasies.

  Francine was more upset about my math mark than my academic parents were. My best friend is an organization fiend—she’d made a study timetable up for me and everything.

  But on the day of the exam, Blaine’s girlfriend, the equally beautiful and perfectly proportionate Regan Baxter, broke the news she was moving halfway across the country. Yup, the M-word.

  Don’t get me wrong—seeing Regan in tears wasn’t a wish come true. But the timing of Blaine’s sudden singleness was a sign. How on earth could a girl think of quadratic equations knowing the shoulders in front of her were potentially touchable?

  That night Francine and I lounged in my pale blue bedroom, sitting on my twin beds with the matching Holly Hobbie bedspreads. She blew a red curl off her forehead while I lamented over Blaine with my usual agonized, “It’s never going to happen,” followed by the predictable, “I might as well call up Glen Fairweather.”

  Francine looked up from her laptop and eyed me without sympathy, “Why do you think hooking up with Mr. Gummy Worm is going to help?”

  Glen was the only guy I’d ever kissed in the swapping-mouth-fluids kind of way. If you could call it kissing. His fat lips had moved against mine like a fish dying in the air. And don’t even get me started on the tongue action. I had no experience, but I’m pretty sure no girl ever felt her heart skip a beat in Glen Fairweather’s arms.

  I preferred to imagine kissing Blaine instead of suffering through the disappointing reality of what I actually attracted. I’m terribly average—well, except for the C, which makes me below average I guess. Therefore, I was content to enjoy making up fantasy makeout sessions every math class, sometimes with clothes and others totally in the raw (x=X-rated).

  But that night Francine had heard enough. “Our summer break officially starts next week,” she announced like I was as stupid as my math marks indicated. She turned her laptop toward me and I read the title of her latest spreadsheet.

  “Operation Tongue?” I rolled my eyes. “Fran, you can’t be serious. You’re psycho.”

  My God. There were rows of specific tasks with columns for the check marks. She’d covered everything—from places where I would most likely bump into Blaine, down to which summer job I should apply for.

  She pointed her pencil at the row titled “Employment.” My stomach dropped.

  “What the heck am I qualified to do at the yacht club?” I asked, trying to hide my shaking voice. Before Francine could list off her reasoning, I had a stroke of genius. “What about the Queen’s Galley?” I offered. The seaside restaurant overlooking the harbour also happened to be right beside the above-mentioned yacht club, where Blaine would be teaching sailing lessons all summer long.

  Francine’s lips did that funny puckered thing. She considered my suggestion, then with a few taps on the keyboard, the Employment column now said, “Queen’s Galley.”

  My heart settled back down my throat as she continued showing me the spreadsheet. I hated lying to my best friend, but fear is a strong motivator.

  The kids’ voices echoed down the hallway, growing louder. I rolled the magazine up and craned my neck around the corner. A parade of kids bobbed toward the lobby. Chet was in the back, as usual, holding Ms. Kranston’s hand, also as usual.

  A little girl dressed like a miniature tea cozy ran straight to her matching mother.

  Gag.

  Chet let go of Ms. Kranston and made a beeline for my legs, making me stumble. Chet’s hugs were like the leg-binding curse from Harry Potter, but I loved it. He looked up at me and smiled. His eyes disappeared into thin slits behind his thick glasses.

  “Fwog and Owed,” he told me, showing the book he’d chosen.

  “Frog and who?” I teased.

  “Owed!” he repeated. Listening to him speak was like listening to someone under water. When he was younger we used sign language, but I’ve grown so accustomed to his speech I don’t need it, plus the little stinker is getting smarter everyday.

  Ms. Kranston smiled at us, but not in the demeaning way most people do when they see a kid with Down syndrome, as if his extra chromosome exists purely to make them feel all soft and warm
inside. The truth is that Chet does make everyone feel that way, but that’s because he is pure kindness rolled up in a cute package—not because he has special needs. As his older sister, I tend to be overprotective.

  “So, Kelsey,” Ms. Kranston started, brushing a stray bang off her dewy forehead. “Chet tells me you’ll be working at the Queen’s Galley this summer.”

  “Yup,” I said. “I’ll be in the dining room.”

  She frowned. “Aren’t you too young to be a waitress?”

  “Busgirl,” I shrugged. “But I still get a percentage of the tips.”

  Ms. Kranston glanced up at the ceiling. “Oh, the stories I have from my waitressing days,” she sighed. Then she hit me with a serious look. “Serving the public will be a good prelude to real life.”

  I batted my thigh with the rolled-up magazine. “Yeah, I guess so,” I said, not wanting to mention that she’s still serving the public in the library.

  She smiled. “It sounds like you’ve got your summer all planned out.”

  I pictured Blaine with his back to me, pulling his T-shirt off and exposing those perfect shoulders, a bottle of sunscreen in my hands ready to massage into his glistening bare skin. I wet my lips and smiled. “Oh yeah, Ms. K., I’ve got big plans.”

  TWO

  “Owed wanded to weave, but Fwog makes him keep twying,” Chet said.

  “Uh-huh.” I pulled on Chet’s sweaty hand, leading him down the stone steps. The library, like most of the buildings in Mariner’s Cove, is two hundred years old, giving the town a time-capsule feeling.

  In October, the town does a graveyard walk for weekend tourists. They eat up the pirate stories of bloody dagger fights and long-lost treasure. There’s also a rumour that the rambling brown house beside the bank used to be owned by a self-taught apothecary. Francine told me that when the owners renovated they found glass jars of brains.

  Gross.

  Every time I leave the library I feel like I’m walking out of a gingerbread house. But the charm of centuries-old buildings ends with the aesthetics; you have to get used to sitting in front of a fan in the summer and wearing extra sweaters in the winter.

  The steps are long and shallow, and Chet’s short legs took two extra strides than mine. Walk two steps, leap, and then repeat. I checked my watch.

  I had to be at the Queen’s Galley in an hour. Showing up late for my uniform fitting wouldn’t be the best way to start my summer job. I imagined Francine’s spreadsheet glaring back at me with its one pathetic check mark. I took a little bit of comfort in the fact that she’d be offline for the next three weeks, and unable to track my progress on Operation Tongue.

  “Den da kite wend high in da sky.” Chet squeezed my hand when I didn’t reply. “Fwog hewped Owed.” He gave me his pudgy smile.

  “Chetter-cheese,” I said, picking up the pace. “We’re going to be late.”

  “Kowsey,” he muttered under his breath, unimpressed with my impatience. (When Chet had first started saying my name Dad thought it would be cute to shorten it to “Kows.” Mom and I talked him out of it, thank God.)

  We hopped off the curb. I focused on my mom’s car, parked across the street. Most kids would think it was pretty sweet to get the keys to a brand new car—even if it’s a nerdy hatchback—but I only get to drive when I’m chauffeuring Chet to his various activities. I’d already been told that I would be biking back and forth to the Queen’s Galley.

  Francine hadn’t even flinched when I told her that latest parental bombshell. “A windswept French braid,” she’d simply justified, “will be perfect for chance encounters with Blaine.”

  Sometimes I hate how she never lets me complain. That’s a smarty-pants problem solver for you.

  I clicked the button on the key, unlocking the doors. I was lucky to park so close. Now that the summer was officially here, the summer people, or, as Francine and I call them, the stunned-er people—“Stunders” for short—were arriving in droves and taking over the village.

  We haven’t seen you in ten months, but of course you may move back into your sprawling mansions on the beach and let us serve you. We love how your money keeps the village alive for another year.

  It sucks when the weather gets colder and school starts, but it is always a relief to get Mariner’s Cove back to ourselves.

  “Kowsey!” Chet practically ripped my arm out of my shoulder as he pulled me back. I screamed as a black blur raced into the corner of my vision. I threw my arms around Chet and pushed us both into the side of the car, squeezing my eyes shut.

  Someone swore and there was a loud crunch. Chet started to cry. “Oh my God,” I said, frantically patting him all over. “Are you okay?” my voice cracked.

  Chet nodded and then pointed behind me.

  A guy was on the road, untangling himself from his bike, the rear tire still spinning. A vicious scrape ran the whole length of his calf and was already bleeding.

  A mop of neon blue hair poked through his bike helmet. He stood up and winced, but then quickly shifted his weight to his uncut leg. Then he hit me with a stare. “Are you crazy?”

  Usually I take the less aggressive course of action—you know, like the river? Big stone? No problem, just go around. But seeing my brother almost get hit by this Stunder launched me into Protect Chet mode.

  “Me? You’re the asshole that was racing down the street.” I could see my reflection in his sunglasses. I definitely had my lemon face on.

  The colour grew high in his cheeks. “I’m on a bike!” he said. “I’m watching out for cars, not idiots wandering into the streets.”

  I glared back. His face became hard, like he was ready to push our spitting battle to epic proportions. Then Chet whimpered behind me.

  The guy took in a sharp breath, and his expression suddenly fell. “Oh,” he said. “I’m sorry, little dude. Are you okay?”

  I stood in front of Chet, blocking him from this maniac. “Not as sorry as you’re going to be. My dad is a lawyer, and he’ll sue your ass.” I lie brilliantly when I’m in Protect Chet mode.

  He turned back to me, and his jaw became rigid again. “But you walked him right in front of me.”

  I opened my mouth a few times.

  Bacon turds! He’s right. Stupid Stunder.

  But I wasn’t going to let being wrong get in the way of my argument. “Lucky you’re only on a bike,” I spat out. “If you were driving a car we’d be dead!” And then I added for good measure, “Asshole.”

  The guy gripped the handlebars of his bike, but he didn’t say anything else. By this time, I’d noticed some passers-by had started craning their necks.

  Hey, what do you expect? It’s a village.

  Mr. Reckless Biker apologized to Chet again, but I ignored him and pulled Chet to the other side of the car. My hands were shaking so badly it took a few tries to buckle him into his booster seat.

  I managed to get myself behind the wheel and waited until my heart wasn’t hammering an SOS against my rib cage. When I finally checked the rear-view mirror, the guy had started down the road toward Main Street, limping alongside his bike.

  “Asshole,” I muttered under my breath.

  “How-hole,” Chet copied softly.

  We only live a five-minute drive from the library, but it’s a twisty path. It’s like that old song—“Over the hills and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go…” There’s a joke that when they established Mariner’s Cove, after the houses and business were built on the waterfront, all the other roads were made by following a meandering cow.

  Today, the curves and twists seemed especially foreboding. I was taking the corner before our road when I noticed Chet mop his eyes with his arm. A stone dropped in my stomach. God, I hate guilt.

  “Hey, don’t cry. It’s okay. No one was hurt,” I said, feeling calmer now that my hands had stopped shaking.

&n
bsp; Chet caught my eye in the rear-view. His voice dropped to a whisper. “You said how-hole. Mom will be mad.”

  I rolled my eyes at that one. “I get angry when someone almost hurts you. And Mom has no right to be mad.” I bit my tongue to keep the second part inside my head. Chet doesn’t need to know the real deal between me and my parents. I wiggled uncomfortably. “Besides, that guy was a how-hole.”

  “But he said he was sowwy.” His voice was thick.

  “Sometimes being sorry isn’t enough,” I said, fighting off visions of what could have been. “We don’t have to tell Mom and Dad,” I reinforced. “Like you said, the guy apologized. So we can leave it at that.”

  Chet looked out the window. “Weave it at dat,” he repeated.

  THREE

  I slammed the microwave door shut and ripped open the popcorn bag. “Ouch!” The bag dropped, spilling popcorn on the kitchen counter. Geez, those little suckers really do heat up.

  “Kelsey.” Mom said my name with a long, exaggerated sigh. “Please eat something real.” She hovered over a baking dish, turning chicken breasts meticulously with a fork, making sure the marinade was soaking up evenly. She was wearing her usual skort thingy: half skirt, half walking shorts. Mom was a walking advertisement for Sears—from the seventies.

  I rolled my eyes at her back, then began shoving the popcorn in my mouth. “This is real,” I insisted, through a mouthful of chemically prepared kernels—make that deliciously prepared kernels. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast and the salty, fake buttery goodness was making my mouth water.

  After another handful, I grabbed my Kipling shoulder bag hanging off the kitchen chair. I’m not exactly a trendsetter in the style department, but my Aunt Bea lives in New York, and she sends me the coolest stuff. It’s bright yellow and has a little fuzzy gorilla dangling from the key chain. I love that little guy. When I feel crappy, I stick its plastic thumb in its little O-shaped mouth. Call me cuckoo, but it I find it soothing. Like the little guy is sharing some of my pain.