Butterflies Don't Lie Read online

  Mom glanced over her shoulder and said, “You’re going to ruin your supper.”

  That was a total joke. Supper probably wasn’t for at least another three hours. My parents were adamant about eating late in the evening. I knew it had to do with how long it took those two academics to make a decision. They could never figure out a menu quickly. My mom is an overachieving English professor who marks tests from kids all over the world, and my dad has a job teaching history at Dalhousie, the closest university to Mariner’s Cove, with a forty-five-minute commute.

  Francine and I called them “Academia Nuts.” If they had been on the Titanic, they would’ve been drawing a seating plan for the lifeboats while the water rose up their legs. They’re all talk and little action. Hence, I’m their gofer for all things that need action. Like Chet.

  Chet came into the kitchen rubbing his tummy. “Hey, Chetter-cheese.” I held up my half-eaten bag of popcorn as an offering. “I’m outta here. Finish this, okay?”

  He took my snack and grinned wide enough to make his eyes disappear. It must be nice to be so happy that your smile takes over your face. We both ignored Mom’s disapproving glare.

  She tapped the fork on the edge of the glass dish and slid the marinating chicken into the fridge. “When will you be home?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrugged. Mom’s car keys poked out of my capris. She’d strongly suggested I not show up at the Queen’s Galley in my jean cut-offs.

  The patio door slid open and Dad walked in.

  Hello, Mr. Socks ’n Sandals.

  He noticed Mom’s car keys. “I didn’t think you started until tomorrow,” he said to me. He was wearing the barbecue apron his undergrads gave him last year, the tacky one with the slogan, Old Teachers Never Die, They Just Lose Their Class.

  “It’s just to pick up my uniform,” I sighed.

  God, get me out of here.

  They both gave me a nod, as if taking the car to do something for myself was a heavy burden on their evening of discussing how to spend their summer vacation. Ah, the lives of teachers.

  I couldn’t get out of the driveway fast enough. I rolled down the window and turned up the radio, letting Taylor Swift’s voice wash over me. Nothing is better than hearing your favourite song when you need it the most. It was like the spiritual world heard my request or something. I shook off my funk and started to concentrate on Operation Tongue. I smiled as visions of Blaine’s shoulders filled my head.

  Francine had made sure to give me easy goals so I could check off something on her spreadsheet every few days. She told me this was positive reinforcement, which would be good for my confidence.

  She was right. Even though all I had to do was pick up my uniform, I was looking forward to checking off the “Pick up uniform” box. Each completed task would bring me one step closer to Blaine…and to the very last box: “Have a simply amazing, neurotransmitter-firing, stomach-full-of-butterflies kiss.”

  Here’s the thing: Francine is kind of geeky, but she’s also super smart and she managed to snag one of the school’s hottest guys. Tanner had been in danger of being kicked off the basketball team if he didn’t pass physics. His coach teamed him up with Francine for tutoring.

  Imagine a six-foot-three jock taking orders from a curly haired redhead who barely tips the scales at one hundred pounds. I guess all those times hunched over a textbook rubbing shoulders, mixed in with some dirty talk about E=mc2, was all the chemistry it took.

  Pun intended.

  Everyone said their names together super fast, FrancineandTanner, and eventually they became known as Franner, like one entity. But Francine didn’t jump into her superjock’s arms and race toward the rainbow in a dew-soaked field. Not my Fran-man. She tackled her new social calendar with her usual precision: she made a spreadsheet scheduling an equal amount of time spent with Tanner and me. She even had overlapping times so that Tanner and I could be friends too.

  God love that smarty-pants.

  However, for all her preparedness, this time Francine had left one crucial loophole: aquaphobia. Specifically my aquaphobia, or rather, my fear of anyone finding out I have aquaphobia. Tough when you live an arm’s length from the ocean, but I’d managed to adapt and keep it a secret. Even Francine was ignorant to my terror of the wet stuff. She moved here in grade six—two years after “the incident.” I never talked about it with her, and since Francine isn’t much of a swimmer our friendship blossomed on dry land perfectly.

  Mariner’s Cove may be right on the water, but it’s not an island, thank God. Francine had wanted me to teach alongside Blaine at the yacht club, but since boating requires being in the ocean, I had to cough up the idea of the Queen’s Galley. I’m so good at lying about it she hadn’t even blinked. But like I said, I never talked about what happened the summer I was nine, and I was pretty sure everyone else had forgotten too, even Mom.

  The hatchback coasted down the steep, tree-lined road that eventually levelled out in front of the restaurant. It was easy to find a parking spot since the Queen’s Galley wasn’t opening until the next day. I checked my watch and then hopped out of the car. Across the quiet intersection, the roof of the yacht club peeked up from below the road. The rambling white building was built on the slope leading down to the shore, where several wharves stretched out butted with sailboats.

  I squinted, trying to will Blaine’s perfect mop of blonde hair to come up the stairway to the road. A bunch of guys were gathered at the gazebo at the top of the stairs, but there was no one I recognized, only the usual Stunders.

  The Queen’s Galley was built by Captain Bowsky over two hundred years ago. I bet that rich and fancy naval officer never dreamed his home would someday boast “the best fish chowder this side of the coast.”

  Gardeners were putting the finishing touches on the grounds as I walked up the stone path to the red wooden door. Wedding pictures are a common scene here, but today it was just me and my bright yellow Kipling bag.

  The foyer was dominated by a huge vase of fresh flowers. A sweeping staircase led to the second floor. Everything was perfect. Perfectly quiet. “Hello?” I called out.

  I checked my watch again, and then rubbed the fuzzy arm of my yellow gorilla. I poked my head into the dining room, but it was empty too. Above the fireplace, Captain Bowsky’s portrait stared down at me. His eyes did that creepy follow-you-around-the-room thing.

  I walked to the back of the room where the long windows overlooked the harbour. Sailboats drifted along and I imagined Blaine standing behind the wheel, wind rippling his hair, the first five buttons of his shirt undone—or maybe it was completely off. Yeah, completely off.

  CRASH!

  I jumped and turned to the white door on the other side of the room. One panel near the top was replaced with glass. I sneaked up and peeked through the window and into the kitchen.

  A gangly dude in a wrinkled T-shirt was bent over a large sink behind a long counter. His black ball cap was on backwards, hiding most of his neck. Someone’s voice boomed, followed by another crash, making me jump again. But the guy at the sink stayed bent over with both arms submerged up to his elbows.

  “Hey, we don’t open until tomorrow,” someone said from behind. A large woman in a white smock leaned against the doorway, watching me.

  My cheeks grew warm. “I’m just here to pick up my uniform,” I said. She wiped her hands on a cotton hand towel, looking me up and down. “I’m…I’m one of the busgirls,” I stammered.

  “Uh-huh.” She motioned to the kitchen door. “Well, let’s get you introduced, then,” she said. “I’m Loretta.” Her hand engulfed mine and gave it two strong shakes. I mumbled my own name, then wordlessly followed her through the swinging door.

  The booming voice belonged to a man with a moustache that looked like it had been drawn on with a thin marker. He was taking large chunks of ice and dropping them into another sink.
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br />   CRASH!

  “Joe Jeezer!” Loretta said to Mr. Moustache. “What are you doing, Clyde?”

  Clyde ignored us, and began hacking at the mounds of ice with a knife. I flinched with each stab, but T-shirt guy was unshaken, still bent over his own sink, working something with his hands under the running water. His cargo shorts ended just at the knee. My eyes trailed down and saw a long white bandage on his calf.

  A low buzzing started inside my head like a warning signal. Loretta’s voice broke through my building terror. “Clyde, calm down. You’re going to scare away the new staff before we even open.”

  Clyde continued to stab, apparently lost in his world of appetizer apocalypse. T-shirt guy straightened up, and then turned to me. Neon blue hair poked out from under his ball cap.

  How-hole!

  His mouth dropped open, and I’m sure his “Holy shit!” expression was a perfect mirror of my own face.

  Loretta put a heavy hand on my shoulder. “Kelsey, this is Luke,” she said. “He’s going to be working here all summer, just like you.”

  FOUR

  I stood frozen. Loretta’s voice echoed from far away, prompting Clyde to at least look at her.

  Clyde, proud owner of the perfectly straight, thin moustache, pushed down his shoulders and waved a hand at the mess of ice chunks and little blobs of pink. “He wants this shrimp ready for appetizers for his private party tonight!”

  Loretta stared at the sink, then wiped a hand over her red face. “Don’t get your ’stache in a knot,” she told him. “The four of us will have them thawed in no time. Are you steaming or pan-frying?”

  I scanned the room and my heart dropped—even I could do the math. “Um…” I started. “I’m not kitchen staff. I’m a busgirl.” Then I added, to clarify any further confusion, “And I don’t start until tomorrow.” This made sense in my head, but it came out in a shaky voice, like I wasn’t even sure.

  Loretta snorted. I’m certain she could smell my fear. “Listen babycakes, around here everyone is kitchen staff. The new owner is having a cocktail reception in the bar tonight, and if he doesn’t have his shrimp appetizer, the first one to get fired is the uppity new busgirl.”

  Uppity new busgirl?

  How about the ready-to-pee-her-pants-because-she’s-so-angry-and-scared busgirl?

  My Kipling bag still over my shoulder, Loretta pushed me in front of the stainless steel sink. Her big red hands worked the taps, and soon I was elbow deep in ice and beady-eyed shrimp.

  Clyde put a hand on one hip. “Each summer it’s the same thing,” he began. “A new owner waltzes in thinking he knows how to run this place and ignores all my suggestions.” In his other hand, the knife made sweeping motions in the air. “Then by the end of the summer, he realizes how clueless he really is, and sells it.” Clyde paused and looked up at the ceiling. “No one ever listens to the chef.”

  Loretta was nodding thoughtfully through Clyde’s speech. Her fingers worked to separate a shrimp from the bed of ice. She brought it to her face, staring down her nose at its pathetic little face. Then she twisted off its head and threw the body into a huge bowl on the counter.

  Everyone craned their necks and looked at the lonely headless thing at the bottom of the bowl.

  Clyde’s moustache stayed in a hard, straight line. “One,” he counted, in a deadpan voice.

  Loretta flicked the water from her hands, then began bustling around the kitchen, clanking pans on the stove, grabbing a block of butter from the industrial fridge, and asking Clyde about produce deliveries. Soon Clyde was by her side, babbling about sauce and a new recipe he picked up last fall in California.

  I stared down at my sink of lifeless shrimp and began to decapitate those poor little suckers. It took me a whole minute to snap apart the first one. I tossed it into Loretta’s bowl.

  Plop.

  My fingers were already numb. I glanced at my watch. Somewhere in the harbour, Blaine was feeling the warm sun on his face. Did he miss Regan? They’d only dated for a few months, but to ease my conscience I’d checked his Facebook page the night before and been thrilled to see he’d changed his relationship status to “single.”

  Plop. Plop. Plop.

  I glanced at How-hole. He’d already gone through most of his pile of shrimp. Show-off. His chin turned toward me and I snapped my gaze back into my sink. He shuffled closer, the tip of his Converse inching closer to my flip-flop. His laces were undone and tucked inside. I snorted. That was so elementary school.

  “Hey,” he said. I ignored him, instead choosing to take an immense new interest in the fascinating practice of shrimp thawing. I twisted off a head.

  Plop.

  “Okay, Kelsey.” He cleared his throat like my name choked him up or something. “I’m sorry I scared your brother. He’s your brother, right?”

  Twist. Rip. Plop. Repeat.

  I stayed quiet, continuing my assault on the shrimp.

  Twist. Rip. Plop. Repeat.

  Clyde and Loretta’s voices floated over from the stove, totally ignorant of my turmoil across the room.

  “Look,” he tried again. “If we’re going to be working together all summer…” He left the sentence hanging. Then to my horror he reached into my sink and started to work on MY shrimp.

  Who did this How-hole think he was?

  A ball of heat rose up my chest. My fingers came to life.

  TWIST. RIP. PLOP.

  I was in hyper mode now, determined to show him up. Shrimp heads were flying across the sink like I was a Las Vegas blackjack dealer.

  “You can’t ignore me the whole summer.” There was a long pause. “Kelsey?” Then he sighed. I stopped mid-rip. He sounded just like my mom.

  That did it. I turned and gave him my best dagger-eyeball glare. The last time we had a staring contest, he’d been wearing sunglasses and all I could see was my reflection. But this time, a pair of blue eyes blinked back at me. Piercing blue eyes. Just like a tropical ocean. Ocean. Water.

  Gulp.

  A cold flush ran down my spine.

  He leaned back a bit, and his blue eyes grew even wider.

  “Looks like Luke’s got the hang of it.” Loretta’s head suddenly poked between us. She noticed his empty sink.

  I waved toward my bowl, fishing for a compliment.

  Loretta’s face fell. She tilted up the bowl and showed me a glossy pile of shrimp heads. My insides crumpled a bit.

  “We’re not serving the heads,” she said. Then she slid a tall white bucket across the floor with her foot. “Put all those heads in here,” she ordered. “Then finish your sink.”

  She looked at Luke and motioned to a workstation in the corner. “You come with me. You’ll be expected to help with salads and desserts.” He tried to catch my eye, but I refused to give him the satisfaction. I had a plan: play it cool, then attack him when there were no witnesses.

  Still, this was hardly the beginning I had been envisioning for Operation Tongue. Francine had none of this on her spreadsheet. I couldn’t exactly check off “Decapitate shrimp” when I got home. My hand went to the Kipling bag, searching for my fuzzy yellow gorilla. I went to put the little plastic thumb in his mouth, then stopped—my gorilla was covered in shrimp slime.

  FIVE

  As I dug through the shrimp heads, a memory surfaced: In grade two, Trent Fraser had thrown up in the afternoon, right before creative writing. I’ll spare you the gross details, but let’s just say he had hotdogs for lunch that day, a lot of hotdogs…and grape juice, apparently.

  Nothing causes a stampede of screaming kids like someone barfing. Ms. Ritter almost lost her cameo brooch, she ran so fast to get the janitor. While all the kids stood clear with our backs up against the wall, Blaine stayed with Trent, patting his back.

  Even as a little kid, Blaine had the makings of a nice guy. I looked into my bucket of shrim
p heads wishing he were here now, certain that he would be comforting me.

  The back door to the kitchen slammed open. “I’m back,” a voice sang out. I recognized the most popular girl from high school at once. Chloe Rhodes glided into the kitchen looking windswept and smelling of fresh flowers and sunshine.

  I’m not sure how someone can smell like sunshine, but she did. Her long, black hair was in a slick ponytail. She always wore something gold, and she was always smiling—seriously, a toothpaste commercial could break out at any moment. She was a real-life version of Princess Jasmine from Aladdin.

  She was fashionable, chatty, and rumoured to have several college guys vying for her heart. In short, the exact opposite of me. She was also a grade above, which, according to the high school social rule book, meant I knew everything about her and she didn’t even know my name.

  Clyde’s face broke into a smile, transforming him into a friendly, approachable, almost completely sane guy. “Chloe!” With his hands full of utensils, he gave her a one-armed hug. My mouth dropped open at the transformation. Loretta even grinned. Then she said, “Our favourite busgirl returns.”

  Chloe laughed and tossed her sleek ponytail over her shoulder. Her gold hoop earrings dangled. She smiled at How-hole, then reached up and playfully flicked a piece of blue hair poking out from under his cap. “Wow!” Her eyes sparkled. “Your eyes are so blue they’re almost the same colour as your hair!”

  Loretta and Clyde nodded with amused expressions, as if this struck them as charming news. How-hole actually blushed. Chloe giggled, and then she turned, finally noticing me.

  “This is Kelsey,” Loretta started. “She’s one of the new staff this year.”

  “Busgirl,” I blurted out. “I’m supposed to be one of the busgirls.”

  It was quiet for a few dreadful seconds. Chloe simply lifted a shoulder, but there was a hint of a smile. I stuck out my hand, hoping she couldn’t tell it was shaking. Her eyes trailed down and her expression froze. A shrimp head was stuck on my pinkie.