Butterflies Don't Lie

Chapter Three

I slammed the microwave door shut and ripped open the popcorn bag. “Ouch!” The bag dropped, spilling popcorn on the kitchen counter. Geez, those little suckers really do heat up.

“Kelsey,” Mom said my name with a long exaggerated sigh. “Please eat something real.” She hovered over a baking dish, turning chicken breasts meticulously with a fork, making sure the marinade soaked up evenly.

I rolled my eyes at her back, then began shoving the popcorn in my mouth. “This is real,” I insisted, through a mouthful of chemically prepared kernels—make that deliciously prepared kernels. I hadn't eaten since breakfast and the salty, fake buttery goodness was making my mouth water.

After another handful, I grabbed my Kipling shoulder bag which was hanging off the kitchen chair. I'm not exactly a trend setter in the style department, but my Aunt Bea lives in New York, and she sends me the coolest stuff. It was bright yellow and had a little fuzzy gorilla dangling from the key chain. I loved that little guy. When I feel crappy, I stick the plastic thumb in its little 'O' shaped mouth. Call me coo-coo, but it I find it soothing. It was like the little guy was sharing some of my grief.

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

That was a total joke. Supper was probably at least another three hours. My parents were adamant about eating late in the evening. I knew it had to do with the fact that it took those two academics so long to make a decision the menu could never be figured out quickly. My mom was an overachieving English professor who marked tests from kids all over the world and my dad taught history at Dalhousie; the closest University to Mariner's Cove with a forty-five minute commute.

Francine and I called them 'acadamian nuts.' If they had been on the Titanic, they would've been drawing a seating plan for the lifeboat 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, ie: 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 the kid 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 asked me. He was wearing the BBQ 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 to their evening of discussing how to spend their summer vacation. Ah, the life of a teacher.

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 was better than hearing your favorite song when you need it the most. It's 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.