Butterflies in May Read online

  I stare out the window. It’s starting to rain. “Yeah,” I say, but he acts as if giving up our baby is the easiest thing. I hate that.

  “Ali?” He reaches for my hand, but I pull it away. “What’s wrong?” he asks. “Don’t tell me you don’t like them.”

  “I like them. . . I’m just not sure.”

  We drive the rest of the way home in silence.

  Chapter 12

  When I was in second or third grade, I used to play this game in the car. We’d be driving down the highway, and I thought I could make everything stand still by willing it. Mom, Dad, and I were in the car, frozen in time, while the road and the scenery did all the moving. I didn’t realize then that I was reversing my point of view. That’s how I feel lately—as if everything’s moving and changing so fast. But I’m just standing still.

  When I get home from meeting the Gardners, my mother’s in the kitchen, waiting at the table with a mug of tea and flipping through a magazine, ready to pump me for information.

  “What did you think?”

  “What were they like?”

  “Isn’t this the perfect solution?”

  I want to tell her they were horrible freaks and to forget about it, but I can’t. I think of Ellen with her blue eyes and Tom with his smile, and I tell her, “They were really great. But I’m still not sure.” Then she asks how Matt felt. “He likes them,” I say. She gets this smile on her face, and I know she figures the adoption is a done deal.

  After dinner, Mom goes into her studio to paint African baskets—her new thing. Dad goes into the den to do paperwork. I try watching TV. Click. Click. Click. There’s nothing on. I lose myself on-line for a while and then go to bed.

  Dad comes into my room and sits on the edge of my bed like he used to do when I was little. He didn’t say much about the Gardners tonight at dinner, except that they sounded like good people.

  “How’s it going?” he asks.

  “Not so great,” I say. The room is dark, but the moon is full tonight, and it casts a silvery glow on everything. We’re both quiet for a long time, and then I say, “I just don’t know if giving up my baby is the right choice.” He gives me a hug, but doesn’t say anything.

  “What would you do if you were me? I mean, it’s obvious what Mom wants me to do.”

  “I wish I could tell you what to do, but it’s not that simple,” he says. “You have to consider each of your options and the pros and cons. I, or your mother, may not weigh all the factors you would. And you’re the one who ultimately has to live with the decision.”

  “But Mom wants me to give the baby up.” The tears start coming, so I wipe them away with the corner of a bed sheet.

  Dad sighs. “She wants you to continue your education. We both want that, Ali, and I think you want that, too. Right?”

  I nod.

  “I’m not going to lie to you. Going to college is going to be very tough with a baby. You would be giving up so much—going to school full time, living on a college campus, meeting new people, dating. . . being spontaneous, carefree, and young. Babies require constant care—baths, bottles every few hours or so, diaper changes, not to mention a lot of tender loving care. . . The thing is, I can’t tell you what to do. You have to figure it out for yourself, honey.” He rubs his eyes and smiles tiredly. “But you don’t have to figure it all out tonight. You’ve had a long day. Get some sleep.” Then he kisses the top of my head and says, “You may only be seventeen, Ali, but you’re intelligent, and you have a lot of common sense.”

  Knowing he believes in me should make me feel better, but it doesn’t. Not really. I feel like my world is crashing.

  On the Monday before Thanksgiving weekend, I stay late to work on my column for the December issue of The Voice. It’s 4:00, and the school sounds deserted except for the occasional clink of a locker slamming shut. The Voice office is a small, narrow glass-enclosed room just off Room 119, where Mrs. Danker teaches journalism. Mrs. Danker is still at her desk grading papers.

  For this next issue, everyone turned in their articles early so they wouldn’t have to work on them over the long weekend—everyone except for Andy, that is. He’s here, writing a recap of the football season. One thing for sure, the story will probably be short. The Warriors won only two games out of eight this year. They ended up at the bottom of the conference standings.

  Andy prints out his article and hands it to me. “Here. If you edit it now, I’ll make the changes before I leave,” he says.

  “Wow. I’m impressed. Our deadline’s not even until tomorrow morning.”

  “Don’t get used to it, Parker.”

  “I can hardly wait to read your lead,” I say, picking up a blue marker.

  Mrs. Danker always lectures us about being objective journalists, but the school board has a problem with any article that doesn’t show school spirit.

  “Don’t worry,” he says. “I nailed it.”

  WARRIORS END DISAPPOINTING SEASON

  The varsity football squad had its problems this season. They lost six games, though several were close or last-minute losses. . .

  “This is good.” I keep reading, circle a few typos, and suggest he change a couple of sentences near the end of his article. Andy makes the changes and gives me a half wave before leaving. Natalie Halstead is waiting for him in the hall. I’ve been seeing them together a lot. I never pictured them as a couple, but she’s perfect for him: class valedictorian, headed to Dartmouth—she’s sure to get in. There was a brief time last year, right before I met Matt, when I was sure Andy was interested in being more than just friends with me. But he never did ask me out, and I’m glad. He’s like a brother. If he’d asked me out, it would have ruined everything.

  I try to refocus on my work so I can leave, too. The cursor on the computer screen pulses impatiently. It’s a real effort to get back into the column I’d been working on about the pop machines in school. The school board wants to remove them from campus, but someone started a petition in opposition, and everyone’s signing it. Usually, I like writing about controversial topics like this, but tonight I can barely string two sentences together. I think I have writer’s block. I think I should reconsider a career in journalism. Mrs. Danker comes in and saves me before I completely self-destruct.

  “Oh, Allison, you’re still here,” she says. Mrs. Danker is a heavy-set woman with dark brown hair threaded with gray.

  “Hi,” I say, glancing at the clock on the wall. “Actually, I’m just finishing up. I have most of the copy for you.” I hand her a stack. “I’ll get the rest to you tomorrow before class.”

  “Looks like you’ve been busy,” she says, sitting down in the chair next to me. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  “Sure.” Sometimes Mrs. Danker wants to discuss future issues of The Voice or an idea for an article. So I don’t think anything of it, but then she hesitates, and all of a sudden, I know this isn’t an impromptu planning session.

  “I was wondering if everything is okay. You’re maintaining an A in my class, but you’ve been tardy a few times, and you seem to have lost a little of your enthusiasm as editor.”

  I have a half smile on my face, wishing I could just disappear. I don’t want to talk with her about it. “I, uh. . . well, I’ve been having some personal problems.” I look at her briefly and then start fiddling with a paper clip.

  “Is there anything I can do to help?” Mrs. Danker asks.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Ali, we have a special counselor who comes here three times a week to help students sort out personal problems. Her name is Audrey Connor. She’s great,” she says, “and anything you tell her is completely confidential.” Before leaving, she writes Ms. Connor’s name and phone number on a slip of paper.

  “Thanks.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  The day before Thanksgiving, my mother is having a minor breakdown over a ten-pound turkey. She’s forty-seven years old, and she’s never actually cooked a whole
turkey before. That’s because our Thanksgivings are usually spent in Indiana. Grandma Jeanne makes the turkey, and the aunts and uncles bring everything else. My mother suggests we stay home this year because of my, ahem, “situation,” which is fine by me. We haven’t told anyone on Dad’s side of the family, and I’m not up for all the questions. It’s not that we’re planning to keep it a secret, but I know everyone will be asking me about next year and which colleges I’ve applied to. Three months ago, I knew what I wanted, but now, I’m not sure what’s going to happen.

  My mother’s on the phone with the turkey hotline people, whom she called 15 minutes ago, and she’s still taking notes. My father stands in the kitchen looking helpless, hands jammed in his pockets. “There will only be the four of us,” he says. “Why don’t we make reservations somewhere?”

  My mother glares at him, covers the phone, and hisses, “We are not eating restaurant turkey!”

  Aunt Laura comes by Thanksgiving morning, bringing a storebought pumpkin pie and big purple chrysanthemums. Mom’s turkey comes out of the oven dry, but that’s easy to fix. We drench it with the gravy my dad found in a jar at Vincent’s Market, after my mother burned the gravy she was trying to make from scratch. After eating, I place a hand on my stomach. In the past couple weeks, I’ve developed a bulge. It’s small and firm, but it’s still not that obvious, especially when I wear loose sweaters and shirts.

  Later, we go for a walk at a park near our house, and when we get back, the phone is ringing. It’s Matt, so I head upstairs. I’ve been wanting to talk with him all day, but things between us have changed. On the phone, we don’t talk and joke around the way we used to. Everything is centered on the future. . . the baby, college, what we’re going to do. It seems like we’re always arguing. Lately, it’s just like dealing with my mother.

  When we hang up, I go downstairs. My aunt is getting ready to leave, and my mom and dad are standing in the entryway. My purple overnight bag is next to the front door.

  “What’s up?” I ask.

  “I’m kidnapping you,” says my aunt.

  “Your father and I think it would be good for you to get away for a couple of days,” says Mom. “We think you need time to just. . .”

  “Okay,” I say, which surprises everyone, including myself. Nine months ago, when Matt and I first started dating, I wouldn’t have considered spending an entire weekend without him. But there’s so much tension lately. It’ll be a relief to get away.

  “I was hoping you’d want to,” Aunt Laura says, smiling. “I thought maybe we’d go shopping for maternity clothes.”

  On Friday, Aunt Laura takes me to this great maternity store on Oak Street that her pregnant friend told her about. When I see the prices, I think we should go someplace else, but Aunt Laura tells me it’s her treat, and helps me pick out a pair of maternity jeans, a sweater, a denim mini skirt, a pair of black pants, and a couple of tops to go with them.

  When we get back to her apartment, she makes hot chocolate from scratch, the one thing she’s really good at. My aunt’s apartment is amazing. Her furniture is all cream leather, faux fur rugs, and glass tabletops. Everything is neutral except the bright oversized prints on the walls. I’m sitting on the sofa in her living room, checking out the view of Lake Michigan, thinking this is exactly the sort of place where I’d like to live someday, when she hands me a mug.

  “Thanks, again, for everything. I love the jeans.” I haven’t been this excited about a pair of jeans since I was thirteen. I put them on almost as soon as we walked in the door. The front panel is expandable and much more comfortable than my regular jeans. I figure that if I wear them with oversized sweaters, no one will even guess I’m pregnant.

  “What’s it like?” she asks, sitting down next to me.

  “Strange. It’s like having an alien inhabit your body. I’m tired all the time, and I still feel sick sometimes, but I’ve gained fifteen pounds anyway. And I’m starting to show.” I pull my sweater up just far enough to bare my stomach. It’s nice having someone ask about me. Most everybody just talks about the future.

  Aunt Laura takes a sip of her hot chocolate and looks out the window. “I wish this were happening to me and not you,” she says.

  “Me, too,” I say, and we both laugh. Sometimes, life seems unfair. Take the Gardners, for instance. Ellen told me they tried having a baby for years. Years! The first time Matt and I do it without a condom, I get pregnant.

  As if reading my mind, Aunt Laura says, “Kate told me about the Gardners.”

  “They’re really nice. When I met them, it was like we’d always known each other.”

  “It sounds like you’re seriously considering adoption. Have you considered anyone other than the Gardners?”

  “No,” I say, but then it occurs to me that Aunt Laura might want to adopt my baby. No, that’d be too weird. But I wonder if this is what this weekend is really all about. “I don’t know what to do,” I say. “I don’t even want to think about it. Mostly, I just think about this baby and whether it’ll be a boy or a girl, what it’ll look like, what it’ll be like. And I try to imagine how I’ll feel knowing a part of me is out there, away from me.”

  “One thing’s for sure,” says Aunt Laura. “Your baby will be beautiful. You were the most beautiful baby I’d ever seen. You had this gorgeous red-gold hair.”

  There are only a few pictures of me from when I was first born, and in all of them, I’m wearing a pink cap or my hair looks really dark. I remember the locket I found in my mother’s jewelry box.

  “I think my hair was black at first,” I say. “In fact, I know it was. I found a locket the other day in Mom’s jewelry box. Inside, there’s a baby picture of me and a lock of black hair.”

  Aunt Laura is quiet. She sets her mug on the coffee table and curls her legs under her on the cream leather sofa. “No, Allison, I remember quite clearly because I was there the day you were born. Your hair was reddish-gold.”

  The next afternoon, Mom picks me up at the train station in Lakeview.

  “How was your weekend?”

  “Great.”

  “Looks like you did some shopping,” she says, eyeing the packages in the backseat.

  “Aunt Laura took me to this great maternity shop on Oak Street.”

  I’m quiet for a while, and then I ask the one question that’s been on my mind all weekend. “Mom, what about Aunt Laura? Do you think she wants to adopt my baby?” In some ways, it could be ideal, but I’m not sure how I feel about it.

  “I admit, it did cross my mind. . . Laura’s too. . . but we agreed it wouldn’t be right. It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to the baby. And we both agreed it would make it harder for you to move on with your life.”

  I feel relieved. I don’t think I’d like it either. We’re almost home when I remember the conversation I had with Aunt Laura yesterday afternoon.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aunt Laura and I were talking about babies this weekend and what mine would look like. . . I was wondering what color my hair was when I was born.”

  “It was reddish-gold,” she says, turning to me. She smiles. “Everyone commented on what an unusual shade it was.”

  “Oh,” I say, immediately wondering who the baby in the locket was.

  One thing for sure, it wasn’t me. I glance at my mom to ask her about it, but she’s looking for a list she misplaced in her purse and almost runs a stop light. I point out that if I almost ran a stop light, I’d be hearing about it for days.

  Then we get into an argument, I forget all about the locket, and by the time we get home, we’re not speaking again.

  Chapter 13

  In English class, we start Hamlet, Carrot Top’s personal favorite. Lucky for us, she found the original uncut version, which is something like four thousand lines. “After Jesus,” she says, “Hamlet is the most quoted figure in Western culture.” She pauses for a moment to let this sink in, as if we care. Then she gets teary and dabs a
t her eyes with a tissue.

  Monica slips me a note: “I HATE THIS SHAKESPEARE CRAP.” While I’m reading it, Carrot Top marches towards me and confiscates it, which gets Monica one-on-one time with Carrot Top after class. So after class, instead of leaving with Monica, I walk out with Niles, who shows me his latest tattoo. Next to the star on his left wrist is one word: Tory.

  In second period study hall, Matt’s in a good mood, so we’re talking and joking around before class the way we used to. I ask him if he’s seen Niles’ new tattoo. “Yeah,” he says. “He’s really into Tory. They’re intense.” Neither of us brings up the baby or the Gardners. When the bell rings, he slips me a Jolly Rancher— watermelon (my favorite). After class, he asks if I want to skip the cafeteria today to get a taco for lunch, but I can’t. I’d set up a meeting with Ms. Connor.

  “Do you want to come with me?” I ask him.

  He shrugs. “Maybe next time.”

  In business class, Mr. Fitz lectures about inventory control. He drones on about FIFO and LIFO. . . First In First Out. . . Last In First Out. My brain shifts into autopilot. I open my notebook and start doodling hearts. The guy next to me puts his head on his book and falls asleep in two seconds. At first, I don’t think he’s really sleeping, but his mouth is open, and he’s starting to drool.

  After business class, I grab a veggie sandwich in the cafeteria and eat it on my way to Ms. Connor’s office. This is my second appointment with her. I met with her the first time earlier this week. Ms. Connor has long dark hair and looks younger than most of the teachers at Lakeview. She wears long print skirts, boots, and a lot of ethnic jewelry. She keeps a jar of lemon drops on her desk. At the first appointment, I ate five lemon drops, one after another. I wasn’t even sure I’d tell her I was pregnant. But, then we started talking, and somewhere along the way, it just came out.