Butterflies in May Page 9

  “You know what I noticed today?” Monica says, looking up for a minute.

  “What?”

  “Every single cheerleader at our school has blonde hair. I mean it. Every single one. What’s up with that?”

  I pop another cheese puff into my mouth and shrug. Monica gets this way once in a while. She tried out for the squad freshman year and missed the final cut by one spot. Three years later, she’s still not over it.

  “Isn’t that discrimination? Isn’t there some law against it? What’s wrong with us brown-haired girls?”

  I let her rant a while. I couldn’t care less. I’m more concerned about my pants, most of which are starting to feel tight.

  “Do you think I look fat?” I ask, unzipping my jeans. I abandon the cheese puffs and check the damage in the full-length mirror on the back of my bedroom door.

  “No,” says Monica, not even bothering to look up.

  “I’ve already gained ten pounds!”

  “So what. . . You’re so skinny, no one can tell. Besides, it’s all going to your chest anyway.”

  This, of course, is true, and it’s the one thing I really don’t mind.

  I’ve always been somewhat flat-chested, but suddenly my breasts have taken on a life all their own. They’ve nearly doubled in size, and I have cleavage for the first time in my life, which Matt noticed right away. When we’re alone, he spends more time talking to my chest than to my face.

  “But the doctor says most people only gain three or four pounds the first trimester,” I say.

  “You’re probably filling up on too many empty calories,” she says, grabbing the prenatal care book off my desk and thumbing through it. It’s become as sacred as the book Carrot Top quotes from and waves in class. I highlight certain passages, and sometimes Monica writes notes in the margins like Wow—No wonder you’re so crabby! or Are you getting enough calcium? “Here it is on page 187,” she says. “Make every calorie count. Instead of chips, for example, try a healthier snack such as trail mix or an orange. If that doesn’t work, try sublimation. For example, go for a brisk walk or visit an on-line pregnancy chat room. . .”

  “Shut up,” I say, grabbing the book out of her hands. “I need help finding something to wear tonight. All my pants are too tight.”

  Matt isn’t working tonight, so we’re going to the football game at school—partly because there’s nothing else to do, and partly because I could really go for one of the hot dogs they sell at the concession stand. I’ve been thinking about hot dogs all day.

  “Let’s see what you have,” Monica says. She starts rummaging through my closet. In less than a minute, she emerges with a black wool skirt with an elastic waist that I haven’t worn since freshman year.

  “Does this still fit?”

  “Probably.”

  “Great. Let’s find something to go with it.”

  In no time at all, Monica pulls out a fuchsia tank top and a hooded black sweater that zips up the front. They’re three pieces that I’ve had forever, but never thought to wear together.

  “Try these,” she says.

  I look at them uncertainly, but try them on anyway.

  “You look fabulous,” Monica says.

  “You think so?” I have to learn how to take a compliment.

  Monica frowns. “It still needs something. You need some cool earrings, something old looking. . .” She looks at her watch. “I need to go. We’re doing a family gig again.” She rolls her eyes.

  “What kind of family gig?” Since everything has happened, it seems as if we talk mostly about me and my life. Monica is my best friend, and I don’t even know what’s going on with her these days.

  Monica smiles gamely and arches her brows. “It’s my stepgrandmother’s birthday, so we’re having a party for her. I’m required to stick around until after cake and ice cream. Can you believe it? I don’t even know this woman.” She groans.

  “It doesn’t sound that bad.”

  “Oh yeah? It will be bad because Kyle’s coming home for the weekend.”

  “Why don’t you meet us at the game afterward?”

  “I’ll try. If I leave too early, though, my mom will implode.”

  “So bring Kyle. That way, maybe you can skip out early.” I’m half joking, but actually it isn’t a bad idea.

  Monica looks at me in disgust before leaving. “I think your hormone levels are affecting your brain.”

  I’m sitting on the floor in my parents’ room, sifting through my mother’s jewelry box. I borrow jewelry from her all the time, so I know she won’t mind.

  She still has every piece of jewelry she’s ever owned. Some of it’s real, but most of it’s costume jewelry. She has a lot of vintage hippie gear like beads and chokers and big hoop earrings, plus some of my grandmother’s jewelry. I find a pair of dangly gold earrings with an intricate, lacy pattern and pink and purple stones. They look ancient. I study them for a moment and decide they’re perfect for tonight’s outfit.

  I start to put all the jewelry back when I notice a small white envelope at the bottom of the box. It looks old and has yellowed around the edges. I don’t remember ever seeing it before. I open the envelope and turn it upside down. A shiny gold locket slips into my palm. This is the first time I’ve seen this piece of jewelry. The locket snaps open easily, and inside is a picture of a baby and a lock of black hair. I never knew Mom kept my baby picture in a locket. I snap the locket shut and notice the inscription on the back—Forever. It must have been from Dad. I place it back in the box, along with all the other jewelry I had rummaged through, and close the lid.

  Monica shows up during the game’s fourth quarter. Matt spots her from the bleachers. “Who’s that with her?” Matt asks, waving to get her attention. At first, I think it’s some new guy because Monica is the kind of person who actually could meet someone four hours after I last saw her. But as they make their way up the bleachers, I realize it’s her stepbrother, Kyle.

  A group of girls is sitting on the bleachers across from us. They stare at Monica as she makes her way towards us, then clump together and start whispering. This is the standard reaction most girls have to Monica, but it doesn’t faze her any more.

  Monica and Kyle sit on the bleachers in front of us. There are plenty of seats left now. The visiting team is leading 42 to 20. The bleachers were packed at the start of the game, but most of the crowd left during half time. “Looks like the game’s been over for a while,” says Kyle, looking at the scoreboard.

  “It was over before it started,” Matt says, and then smiles for the first time that night.

  Monica starts the introductions, but Kyle cuts her off. “I’m Kyle Marsac,” he says, cocking his head toward Monica. “The goofball’s stepbrother.”

  Matt laughs. “Matt Ryan.”

  Matt likes Monica almost as much as I do, but even he thinks her outfits are a little far out at times, and tonight Monica has outdone herself. She’s wearing a mini skirt, combat boots, and an authentic army surplus jacket from a thrift store, which I’m pretty sure is all for Kyle’s benefit.

  Kyle and Matt are in a deep discussion about football when I turn to Monica. “How was the birthday party?”

  “Okay. His grandmother is 92 and very hip, but after a while, I was ready to get out of the house.”

  “Does Kyle know about me?”

  “No. I didn’t think you were announcing this to the world yet.”

  “I’m not, but it’s okay if you tell him.”

  She shrugs. “Maybe I will, if I ever talk to him for more than two minutes.”

  Kyle then looks at me, as if seeing me for the first time that night.

  “I like your outfit,” he says. “Hey, Monica, you ought to get some fashion advice from your friend here.”

  I shoot Monica a look. If he only knew. . .

  After the game, the four of us stop at Betty’s for pizza. Kyle tells us stories about all the campus parties and dorm life at Northwestern. Matt keeps looking at me and s
queezing my hand, the way he did when we first met. We can’t wait to be alone. But Kyle is really funny, and Matt seems to like him. Even Monica is laughing.

  “It’s great,” Kyle says. “A lot different from high school.” He looks at me. “So when are you coming to Northwestern for that tour?”

  “I don’t know.” The truth is I haven’t given much thought to college lately. It seems too far away. “Maybe after the first of the year.”

  The waitress brings a large veggie pizza with a stack of plates. “So, if college is so great, why do you come home every weekend?” Monica asks, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

  “It’s hardly every weekend.”

  Monica shrugs. “Sure seems like it.”

  Afterward, Matt and I drive to our usual place to talk. We haven’t been back since the day I told him I was pregnant. Tonight, there’s a full moon, and the sky is black and starless. Matt parks the car and locks the doors before turning off the engine. We’ve both had lectures about all the crazy people in the world.

  He gives me a slow smile and says, “Alone at last,” which is his usual line, but it works. He takes my hand and turns it over, kissing the center of my palm. Then, he kisses me fully on the lips—soft, warm kisses that make my heart pound and my knees go weak. One thing leads to another, and before I know it, we’re in the backseat with half of our clothes on the floor of the car. It’s the first time we’ve been together since finding out I was pregnant. He holds me close and whispers, “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “Always?” he asks.

  “Always.”

  And, after that, all I can think is that nothing else matters— not the baby, not school, nothing. Together, we’ll work it all out. Everything will be okay. It really will be okay. . . because we love each other.

  The next day, Monica and I are both working the afternoon shift at Java House. For the first two hours, a steady stream of people keeps us so busy there’s hardly any time to talk. At one point, the smell of the beans makes me so sick I have to run to the bathroom and puke. The new shift supervisor, who’s only 21 and spends the afternoon ogling Monica from the table where he’s working, gives me a look when I suddenly leave for the bathroom. A throng of customers is frantic for caffeine, but Monica covers for me. I’ve gotten it down to the point where I can puke, recover, and get back to the counter in five minutes flat.

  In the late afternoon, there’s finally a lull. It’s unseasonably warm today, so Monica props open the front door so we can feel the breeze. We’re standing at the counter, looking out the front window, wishing we could be out there. The shift supervisor goes on break, so Monica and I can finally talk.

  “Did you and Kyle make it home okay without killing each other?”

  “Barely.”

  “He doesn’t seem so bad.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s okay.”

  “Does that mean you guys have called a truce?”

  “Kind of. When we got home, everyone was asleep, so we took two beers and sat on the back porch, drinking and really talking for once. I told him about you. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “I said you could.”

  “He said that he thought it was really—”

  Just then, Niles Sherman walks in with Eyeliner Girl, so I never get to hear what she was about to say. Niles orders a double espresso again, but this time Eyeliner Girl orders an iced vanilla latté. He tells us about a party tonight, but I’m not really up for it, and Monica already has plans with College Boy, whom she’s still seeing because she’s got nothing better to do. I met him a couple of times. He’s really sweet, and he’s good to Monica. He calls when he says he will, and he gave her a silver necklace with a heart, which she never wears.

  Before they leave, we find out that Eyeliner Girl has a name. “Oh. . . by the way. . . this is Tory,” Niles says. She looks up and smiles. “Hi,” she says. Her voice is soft. I try to picture her without all that eyeliner.

  “You know,” Monica says when they leave, “I think Niles is really into her.” We stand there watching them while they’re still in the parking lot.

  Niles and Tory are leaning against the hood of his car, drinking their coffee in the sun. Niles says something to Tory that makes her throw back her head and laugh. Then he leans into her and kisses her forehead.

  “I mean, look at them. He was never like that with me.”

  Just before they head out of the lot, Tory hops off the hood of Nile’s car, tosses her cup in the trash three feet away, then starts singing, and does this little dance. With the sun in her hair, she happens to glance my way and wave. And I find myself wishing I could be her. Dancing and singing—with nothing to worry about—the way it used to be.

  When I get home, I take a shower and wash my hair twice, trying to get rid of the coffee stench. I smell like one big espresso bean. Later, when I’m in the bathroom drying my hair, Mom comes in. She’s wearing a red sweater and jeans. Her hair, as usual, is perfectly coiffed, and she’s wearing the diamond studs my father surprised her with for her birthday last year. She leans against the doorjamb and smiles, trying to be casual, but I know something is definitely up.

  “I called that couple last night, Ellen and Tom Gardner, the ones who want to adopt a baby,” Mom says, crossing her arms in front of her, prepared to do battle.

  I don’t say anything.

  “I know you and Matt haven’t made a decision yet, but I thought that if you met them, it might make your decision easier.” She smiles.

  I say the safe thing. “Sure.”

  “Your dad feels you alone need to make the decision, but I believe this is the best way,” she says, putting her hand on her hip, ready to lay down the law. “You made a mistake, but there’s no reason it has to ruin your entire life. You are only seventeen. . . you’re still a child yourself. . .”

  “Okay.” I don’t need another mini lecture. We’ve been through all this before.

  “Anyway, they sound like a very nice couple on the phone, Ali.”

  “So when do we meet them?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “If I give the baby up for adoption, Matt will want to meet them, too,” I say. The truth is, we haven’t even talked about it, but I’m sure he’d want to.

  “Of course,” Mom says. “Dad and I would like to meet them eventually, but if you and Matt want to meet them first, that’s fine.”

  Later, when I tell Matt about the Gardners, he’s all for it. We drive to a diner in Joliet, just off the interstate, to meet them the next day. All the way there, I tell Matt I’m open to putting the baby up for adoption, but only if we find the right couple. Matt agrees totally.

  When we walk into the diner, the Gardners are already waiting for us in a back booth where it’s more private. They’re both tall and slim.

  Ellen Gardner has short, sandy blonde hair, freckles, and blue eyes that crinkle in the corners when she smiles. Tom has brown hair that’s starting to recede—and a nice smile.

  Tom stands up right away when he sees us. “Hi, you must be Allison and Matt,” he says, extending his hand first to me and then to Matt.

  “I’m Tom, and this is my wife, Ellen.”

  “Hi,” says Ellen with a big smile. She has really pretty teeth.

  Ellen asks us about school and how long Matt and I have known each other. Then there’s an awkward silence until a waitress comes to the table. She refills the Gardners’ coffee cups and leaves menus.

  I don’t know what to say, but then Ellen says, “Why don’t we tell you both a little about us?”

  I didn’t want to like them, but after two hours at the diner, I have to admit they’re really nice. Tom is a business professor at Illinois State University, and Ellen works part-time at a library. They’ve been married six years and can’t have children. They show us pictures of their home, a white two-story house surrounded with flowers, and a picture of their golden retriever named Buddy. They are the perfect couple, with a pretty house and a model dog.
All they need is a baby.

  We order sandwiches, and Ellen and Tom have a few questions of their own. What subjects do we like at school? Are we willing to disclose our medical histories? How certain are we that we want to give the baby up for adoption? How do our parents feel about it? Some of the questions are easy to answer, some a little harder.

  Later, when the waitress clears away our dishes, Ellen leans forward. “We know this is a difficult decision for you to make,” she says, “and we understand you need time. But Tom and I want you to know that we’re willing to make this an open adoption. If you want to go that route, we’ll have our lawyer include that in our legal agreement. After the adoption, we could keep in touch with you, send pictures of the baby. We’ll always be honest with our adoptive child. We feel it’s important for the baby to know its biological identity.”

  I get tears in my eyes, and my throat closes. Then Matt says, “Thanks. We’ll keep that in mind.”

  Before leaving the diner, Ellen writes her name and home phone number on the back of Tom’s business card.

  “Here,” she says, handing it to me. “If you think of something you forgot to ask, feel free to call.”

  “Thanks.” Matt and Tom are already outside. Tom is saying something, Matt is nodding his head and smiling, and then they’re shaking hands.

  Before we leave, Ellen says, “Ali. . . will you call and let us know? Even if you decide to keep the baby?”

  “Sure.” Then Ellen’s eyes start to fill. I want to tell her that the baby is hers, but I can’t.

  “I’m sorry,” Ellen says, wiping her eyes with her fingertips. “I’d probably be a terrible mother anyway.” She laughs. “I never have tissues.”

  “I think you’d be a great mother,” I say. I really mean it.

  As soon as Matt and I are in the car, he turns to me and says, “They’re perfect.”

  “I know.” I look out the car window and watch as the Gardners drive past and wave. I wave back.

  “And the thing about the open adoption. . . I think it’s a great idea. Don’t you?” he asks, pulling onto the interstate. “I mean, this is working out so well.”