Butterflies Don't Lie

Chapter Two

“Toad wanted to leave, but Frog told him to keep trying,” 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, was 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 rumor that the rambling brown house beside the bank used to be owned by a self taught apothecary. Francine told me when the owners renovated they found glass jars of brains.

Gross.

Still, every time I left the library I felt like I was walking out of a gingerbread house. But the charm of century old buildings ended with the aesthetics, you had to get used to sitting in front of a fan in the summer, and wearing extra sweaters in the winter.

The steps were 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 wasn't 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 she'd be off line for the next three weeks, and unable to track my pathetic progress on 'Operation Tongue'.

“Then the kite went high into the sky.” Chet squeezed my hand when I didn't reply. “Frog helped Toad,” he gave me his pudgy smile.

Fwog hepped Owd.

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

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 have to chauffeur Chet to his various appointments. I've already been told that I will be biking back and forth to the Queen's Galley.

Francine didn't even flinch when I told her the latest parental bomb shell from the academics. A wind swept french braid, she 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 Stunder people, arrive in droves and take 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 sucked when the weather got colder and school started, but it was always a relief to get Mariner's Cove back to ourselves.

“Kelsey!” 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 was still spinning. One vicious scrape ran the whole length of his calf, and was already bleeding.

A mop of neon blue hair peeked through the bike helmet. He stood up and winced, but then quickly shifted his weight to the 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 color grew high in his cheeks. “I'm on a bike!” he said with an obvious tone as if I was blind. “I'm watching out for cars, not day dreaming chicks wandering into the streets.”

Stupid Stunder!

I glared back. His face became hard, like he was ready to give me the rebuttal of a lifetime. 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. “You walked him right in front of me.”

I opened my mouth a few times. Shit. 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 the bike, but he didn't say anything else. By this time, I noticed some passers-by had started craning their necks.

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

He apologized to Chet again, but I ignored Mr. Reckless Biker, and pulled Chet to the other side of the car. My hands were shaking so badly, it took a few tries to buckle Chet 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 lived a five minute drive from the library, but it was a twisty path. It's like that old song—'over the hills and through the woods to Grandma's house we go...'. There's an old joke that when they established Mariners' Cove, after the houses and business were built on the waterfront, all the other roads were made by following a cow who wandered around.

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 more calm now that my hands had stopped shaking.

Chet caught my eye in the rear view mirror. His voice dropped to a whisper, “You said asshole. Mom will be mad.”

How-hole

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 other part of that sentence 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 sorry,” 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. “Leave it at that,” he repeated.