Butterflies in May Read online

  The cheerleaders swarmed him immediately. Sarah Vogel (head cheerleader, queen bee) followed him around like a puppy for weeks, introducing him to all the cheerleaders and the rest of her entourage. The jocks liked him because he was a natural athlete, but he was no threat to them because he wasn’t interested in joining a team. But it didn’t look like he fit it in with that crowd of cheerleaders and jocks, and he was just as likely to eat with the science geeks or the math nerds or even someone like me, which is how I met him.

  He and Monica had been in the same P.E. class. One day at lunch, he set his tray on our table and asked Monica if he could join us. He was wearing a black t-shirt—it had a peace sign on the front—and a baseball cap, which he wore backwards. He had straight dark hair and deep blue eyes that reminded me of the ocean after a storm. At first, I thought he was interested in Monica, because most guys usually are, but he kept watching me all through lunch and asking me questions—even Monica noticed. A week later, he gave me a ride home from school and asked if he could sketch me for his advanced art class. They were doing portraits, and he said I had an interesting face. I didn’t know if that was good or bad, but I liked the way I felt whenever he looked at me.

  He sketched me the next day after school, and then he started looking for me every day at lunch. My life began to revolve around lunch period. I noticed, for instance, that he never drank pop (“toxic,” he said), and he favored t-shirts that bore some message like “Save the Rainforests,” “Recycle,” or “Think Peace.” Suddenly, the world seemed brighter, and I knew I was starting to fall for him. I loved how I felt when I was with him. I had never felt this way before. Then, one day between classes, he was waiting for me by my locker.

  “You like me,” he said.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Because of this.” And just as the warning bell rang, he leaned in and kissed me, fast, before I could react.

  A week later, we were driving around in his car, talking and laughing and listening to the radio under a bright blue sky. I showed him the way to Willow Lake. We took off our shoes and walked along the water’s edge, just playing around, when he put his arms around me and pulled me close. He kissed me and smoothed my hair. I closed my eyes and felt it for the first time—that rush you feel when you’re with someone you really care about. I kissed him back, and I felt different somehow, as if I’d crossed some threshold, as if he was about to lead me somewhere new.

  Before, with other guys, I was always happy with kissing and holding hands, but for the first time ever, I found myself wanting more. The thing is, I never had a definite timeline. I wanted to take my time, not have it happen in some mad rush or in the backseat of a car with some random guy. The other reason I waited was because, frankly, there was no one I even wanted to go there with. When I lost my virginity, I wanted it to be meaningful. I’ve heard how some of the guys talk about the girls they’ve been with, rating each of them on a scale of one to ten. Then they laugh among themselves about some of the girls. I don’t even want to imagine what the guys say about those girls.

  I knew Matt had experience, and he knew I was a virgin because he had asked. We took it slowly because I wasn’t ready. The truth is, I was scared. Then, on June twenty-first, the first day of summer, we went to Willow Lake with Monica and Niles. We played volleyball for a while, and Monica took some pictures. After lunch, Monica and Niles took off, leaving me and Matt alone— swimming and laughing. The sky was wide and blue, and the sun was shining. We were in the center of the lake’s shallow end, splashing and playing around, when he got serious.

  “There’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you,” he said.

  I thought he was goofing around, so I splashed him. “What?” I asked.

  He took my hand and pulled me close. “I’m being serious here.” He smelled like suntan lotion and lake water.

  “Okay,” I said. “Me, too.”

  “I love you,” he said—just like that. And the way he looked at me, I knew he wasn’t kidding around.

  I didn’t say it back right away, even though I wanted to, even though I’d been thinking the same thing for weeks. My throat closed and I got tears in my eyes, and I hoped he knew I felt the same way. Later, when the sky was turning orange and red, he said he wanted to be alone with me, and I knew why. We went for a walk, bringing a blanket with us. We found a place by a tree, far away from the rest of the world. We were lying there on the ground, fooling around like we had been lately, but this time I didn’t want him to stop. We kept going, and it felt so good. I couldn’t get close enough to him. I couldn’t say why exactly.

  Maybe it was the color of the sky or the way he asked if I was really sure. But I was seventeen years old, I loved him, and I knew I was ready. We had known each other exactly three months and 21 days.

  Afterwards, I said, “I love you, too.”

  “I know,” he said and pulled me close.

  I can’t imagine doing something that intimate with someone I didn’t love. I’m glad I waited, and I’m glad it was with Matt. But I know some girls will casually hook up with any guy, and I hope Monica doesn’t become one of them just to get the experience.

  I look at Monica, who’s still sprawled on my bed. “Do you have a timeline now?” I ask. “Don’t be in such a hurry,” I add, thinking about the pregnancy kit in my backpack. “Mon. . .” I almost tell her I’m late. After all, she’s my best friend. “What?”

  I shake my head. “Nothing.”

  Monica glances at the alarm clock on my nightstand. “I gotta go. I promised my mom I’d be home half an hour ago. Did you remember to bring home your notes?”

  “Yeah. They’re in my backpack.” The phone on my desk rings, so I pick it up. Last year, I begged my parents for my own private line. They vetoed the idea, but at least they ran an extension into my room. “Hello?”

  Monica mumbles something to me, but the connection is so bad I turn my back to her and use a finger to plug my other ear. “Hello?” I say again. Whoever it is must be calling from a cell phone. Through all the static, all I can make out is that it’s the plumber. He promises to call right back. I hang up and am about to get my notes on Macbeth, but Monica is already rummaging through my backpack.

  “Monica. . . wait,” I say, trying to sound more casual than I feel. But it’s too late. Monica is holding the pregnancy kit.

  “Oh, my God. . . Ali? Are you. . .?”

  Chapter 2

  “Don’t say it. Don’t even think it. Besides, I’m not. In fact, I’m sure I’m not.” The phone rings again, but I ignore it. It’s probably the plumber calling back.

  “Then what’s this for?” Monica asks, waving the box at me.

  “It’s nothing, okay? I’m a little late. . . I just want to be sure.”

  I grab the box from her and slip it in a drawer under a sweater.

  “How late are you?”

  “Ten days.”

  “Ten days?!”

  “Look, I’ve never been regular—you know that.” I can hear my mom downstairs talking to the plumber on the phone.

  “Still, ten days is. . . substantial.” Monica sits on my bed, crossing her legs under her. Obviously, she’s no longer in a hurry to get home. “OhmyGod, Ali. . . I thought you guys were careful.”

  “We are careful,” I say, which is true. But there had been one time. . . I try not to think of it. “Well, most of the time.”

  “OhmyGod,” she says again, her voice a whisper, as if it’s happening to her.

  I go over and sit beside her on the bed, trying to look like this is really no big deal. We’ve spent a lifetime within these lavender walls, on the floral bedspread my mom picked out for me when I was still in elementary school. Monica and I have talked about everything in this room, but never anything like this. I lean against the headboard, pulling my legs against my chest. The doorbell rings, and I hear my mother open the front door to let the plumber in.

  Monica glances over at me. “Does Matt know?” />
  “No, it just occurred to me this morning. Besides, I’ve been late before, so there’s nothing to tell. I got the test just to be sure. If the result is, you know, then. . .” I can’t even finish the thought. It’s not that I’m superstitious, but now I feel as if saying the word “positive” would jinx everything. Can you cause something to happen just by thinking it? Sometimes I think so.

  When she recovers from the shock, Monica immediately takes charge. “Do you want me to stay while you take the test?” she asks, reaching out to touch my arm.

  “No. It’s okay.”

  Monica and I have been best friends forever. This is the girl who suffered through years of summer camp with me, who taught me how to use a tampon and apply eye shadow, who understands about Matt, and who believes I’ve got real talent as a writer. We’ve been through everything together, but I want to be alone when I take the test. Besides, I’m not entirely ready to deal with it just yet. “I don’t have time now anyway. I’ll take it later.”

  “Are you going to be okay? I hate leaving you like this, but Mom will come unglued if I don’t get home soon.”

  “I’m fine—really.”

  Not until after she pulls out of the driveway do I realize she’d forgotten to take my Macbeth notes.

  I’m using a fork to push the cake around on my plate. It’s my favorite—chocolate cake with raspberry filling and butter cream frosting—but tonight it doesn’t taste good to me. The possibility of being pregnant—no matter how slim—is making me sick. I feel like I’m moving through water, drowning in murky green waves right in front of my family, but no one notices.

  My mother is talking about some art exhibit, but I hardly hear her. All I can think about is whether or not I’m pregnant. I don’t feel any different. My breasts are slightly bigger, and my stomach feels a little bloated, but that always happens right before I get my period.

  “Ali?”

  I blink as my mother leans forward in her chair. “Did you hear me? I was asking if you want to come with us to the art exhibit this weekend. It’s in the city. Aunt Laura’s going to meet us there.”

  “I have to work and I have a paper to write,” I say, which is my standard line whenever my mother wants me to do something I don’t want to do. My dad kicks me under the table. If he’s going, I’m going. “Well. . . maybe,” I say, shooting him a look.

  “Are you feeling okay?” Dad asks, peering over his bifocals. “You usually devour two pieces of this stuff at one sitting.”

  “Just because I’m not eating like a truck driver doesn’t mean I’m sick.” We all laugh, and already I feel a little better. It’s so like my dad to notice. He’s the nicest man I know. Yesterday, I saw him talking to our neighbor’s golden retriever on the back porch, and I swear that dog listened.

  “I remember my appetite dropping off when I was Ali’s age,” Aunt Laura chimes in. “It’s a good thing, too, or I’d look like a beach ball.”

  That’s hard to imagine. Aunt Laura is petite—she can’t weigh more than a hundred pounds. But she’s much tougher than she looks. According to Mom, Aunt Laura is the rising star at the ad agency because she’s tough as nails.

  “So, how’s senior year going?” Aunt Laura asks.

  “Great,” I say, trying not to think about the pregnancy kit upstairs.

  “It’s such an exciting time in your life—winding up that last year in high school, applying to schools, visiting college campuses,” she says, running a hand through her auburn hair, which hangs to her shoulders.

  She has a faraway look in her eyes. “My senior year, I was in love with Tommy Brown, but he didn’t know I existed.”

  “Really?” It’s hard to imagine. Aunt Laura has no problem finding men to date.

  “Yes, I was painfully shy and a late bloomer. He was out of my league. . . I wonder what ever happened to him?” She shakes her head as if to bring herself back to the present, and looks closely at me. “But look at you. You’re positively glowing. You must still be seeing Matt.”

  “Where is Matt tonight?” Dad asks. “I thought he was stopping by.”

  “He’s working, but he may stop by later.”

  “He’s a great kid,” Dad says.

  “And cute,” Aunt Laura says, winking at me.

  Mom stands up, her nose slightly wrinkled. She begins to clear the plates. “Laura, did Ali tell you she’s editor of the school paper this year?” Mom smiles—a fake smile. Typical. She always manages to change the subject whenever Matt’s name comes up.

  “Yes, she did,” Aunt Laura says.

  “Where’s Matt applying to college?” Dad asks, completely oblivious to my mother.

  I watch as she leaves the room. “Pratt Institute, The School of the Art Institute of Chicago, and the University of Illinois.”

  “All fine schools,” Dad says.

  Dad and I start clearing the table. He’s in pharmaceutical sales and travels a lot on business, but when he’s home for dinner, we always clear the table together.

  Aunt Laura glances at her watch. “I need to cut out early,” she says. “I have an early meeting tomorrow.” Aunt Laura lives in a high-rise apartment in Chicago, along Lake Shore Drive. Depending on traffic, it’s about an hour’s drive from Lakeview. “Thanks for the great party, guys.” She hugs me, then Mom.

  “So how old are you, Aunt Laura?” I ask, right before she leaves.

  “Thirty-eight. It probably sounds like a hundred to you, kid-do, but trust me, those years creep up fast.” She sighs. “And, you know, my biological clock is ticking louder and louder. In fact, it’s keeping me up at night.”

  “You still have plenty of time to find someone special and start a family,” Mom says.

  Aunt Laura sighs. “I hope you’re right.”

  My aunt gives me a squeeze before I head upstairs. All I can think about is the pregnancy kit in my room.

  Take any time. Results in three minutes. 99% accurate.

  It looked like the easiest test in the pharmacy, which was why I bought it. I open the box and read the sheet of instructions. According to the directions, it’s practically idiot proof. I can take the test right now and find out one way or another in just three minutes. Once I know for certain, I can stop obsessing about being late.

  The phone rings while I’m looking for somewhere to hide the kit, just in case I run into Mom or Dad on the way to the bathroom. I check the clock on my nightstand. It’s 10:30, which means the call’s probably for me—no one calls my parents this late.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi.” It’s Matt. “Hey, I’m sorry I didn’t stop by, but. . .”

  “It’s okay.” I find a bath towel crumpled up on the floor, fold it into a neat square, and hide the pregnancy kit between the folds. My parents respect my privacy, but sometimes they tap once on the door and walk in. The last thing I want is for them to catch me off-guard with this.

  “I wanted to talk to you about something,” Matt says.

  “What?” Something in his voice stops me. He sounds so serious. A million thoughts come to mind—he wants to see other people, he wants to break up. Things are so perfect between us that sometimes I think it can’t possibly last.

  “I don’t know. . .”

  “Whatever it is, Matt, just say it.”

  “Well, you were so quiet in the car today, and I’ve been thinking about it all night. I don’t want to sound, you know, egocentric, but I know I’ve been talking non-stop about going to Pratt next year—assuming I get in—and I know your mom’s not happy about you applying to Columbia and NYU, but I was thinking. . .”

  I smile. “It’s not that.”

  “Then what?”

  I’d promised myself I wouldn’t say anything to Matt until I knew for sure, but I can’t keep it from him. “I haven’t gotten my period yet. I’m a little worried about it.”

  He doesn’t say anything. “Look, it’s probably nothing,” I say, as if I know what I’m talking about—as if I’m not worried about it at
all.

  “You think?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I’m always late.” I shrug it off. “I’m sure I’ll get it in a few days.” Why did I have to tell him over the phone?

  “Good.” He sounds relieved, as if it’s already a done deal. “Hey, Ali?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” I hang up and look at the towel in my lap. I think about taking the pregnancy test, but decide not to. There’s no way I’m pregnant—that’s something that happens to other girls. I’m probably late only because I’m worrying about it so much. I read something about that in a magazine once. I decide to stop obsessing—as if it’s that simple.

  I bury the kit in the bottom of my dresser drawer and try to forget all about it. I go to classes as usual, take a test in government on Thursday, edit the school paper, which is due out on Friday, and laugh at Matt’s inane jokes during lunch period, which we nearly always spend together. I’ve practically forgotten all about it, except when Monica asks me twice whether I’ve taken the test. Twice I tell her “no.” I decide that Monica is a real nag. I’m sure my period will start any day now. It has to.

  Then, one morning between classes, I’m using the restroom, and I notice a few drops of blood on my underwear. I’m so relieved. I tell Monica first because she’s waiting for me outside the restroom. Monica shrieks and gives me an extra hard hug. When I tell Matt in study hall, he says “cool” and gives me a high five, then laughs when I tell him he’s never coming near me again without a condom. That’s when I decide to make an appointment at Planned Parenthood and get on the Pill. I don’t ever want to go through this again! Later, I worry a little because my period was so light, but I did get my period. And by the end of the week, I’ve already forgotten about this whole business of being late.

  Chapter 3

  About 800 students go to Lakeview High. We fall into three basic categories. A) Those who are here to get an education and a high school degree, B) Those who are here to prepare for college, and C) Those who are just marking time. From there, we fall into subcultures. There are the Jocks, the Cheerleaders, the Stoners, the Brains, the Partyers, the Thespians, the Goths, and the Geeks. Some people don’t fit into any of these subcultures— people like Monica and me.