Butterfly Kisses | ✓

06 | clover

C L O V E R

[trifolium hybridum] ➳ think.  

"HE WAS HIT by a car," Isaac told me on the bus, his backpack tulip-less and tucked between his legs. "His name was Oberon."

I sat facing him, my elbow between us on the back of my seat. "I'm sorry," I said, meaning it. I brushed my hair, my hand sticky and the bus's interior hot and humid. "What was he like?"

He watched as black curls tumbled onto my face, and I struggled to tuck them behind my ear. "He was a Collie. Really old and slow. But cool as hell."

"It's hard not to be when your name is Oberon," I pointed out. Isaac grinned, toying with the strap of his bag. I rearranged my backpack and skateboard on my lap and rolled the wheels back and forth, liking the friction on my fingertips and the just-audible whir.

"My grandma found him," he said. He rubbed the notch between his brows, not realizing I was playing connect-the-dots with the blemishes on his cheeks. "After my grandpa died."

My gaze darted to the elderly woman at the front of the bus before settling on him again.

"Do you leave flowers for your grandpa too?" I felt myself redden, but Isaac shook his head.

"They don't have his body." He shrugged, fingers dancing over his backpack. "He only went missing two years ago, so they don't officially think he's dead yet. But he wasn't healthy, and Grandma swears she saw his ghost."

I swallowed the lump in my throat. "I'm sorry," I echoed. But while half of me was overjoyed for more information, the other half wondered why he was telling me at all.

"It's okay," he said, smiling tensely. It was the same smile he'd worn on our previous bus ride, but this time, I thought I saw a bit of relief in it. I spun the wheel on my skateboard again as silence wormed its way between us.

I wanted to ask him about Oberon and his grandpa, how they were both gone but still living somehow. And I didn't mind animals, but I didn't think anyone would go through the effort of digging their dog an illegal grave and visiting it every other day.

The grave, the graveyard and the flowers sent questions buzzing through my brain. I swatted the air, trying to rid myself of curiosity like it was an insect in front of my face. Isaac watched with crooked lips, then reached over me to open the window. I sat impossibly still, afraid that if I rolled the wheel again our elbows would touch.

Because he had a scab on his. It was bright red and clumsily bandaged, like it had still been bleeding when he patched it up. I tilted my head to get a better look at it, pretending the wind was mussing up my hair and preventing me from looking anywhere else.

Eventually, I grossed myself out enough to tear my eyes away. Isaac stood up; the bus was three blocks from my house. "You know your way back?" he asked.

"Yeah." It was a walk, but I didn't mind. "It's kind of creepy that you know where I live."

"I'll try to forget."

"While you're at it, try not to burglarize my garden either."

Isaac grinned as I vacated my seat. "Think I'll just try harder not to get caught," he said, and it was practically a dare. "Bye, Ren."

Unspoken, the challenge hung between us as I made my way home, my thoughts still tethered to the boy on the bus. I couldn't help staring at the clouds, feeling like my head was lost in them just because their colour reminded me of the tulips he'd stolen from me earlier that day.

My mother noticed something was up.

After dinner, she sat at the head of the table, engrossed in her phone. Since our move, she texted my aunt hourly — their relationship was the only thing about our lives that had improved since January. She dug a hand into her hair and I mirrored her without even thinking.

"Renata, it's broken."

At first, I thought she meant her phone. But then she motioned to the dishwasher I was about to place my cup in.

I closed the door and inspected the panel of buttons, realizing that nothing happened when I pushed the button labelled Start. "Since when, Mãe?"

"This morning." She looked apologetic, which was usually when dark lines appeared beneath her eyes. But supposedly, they were just by-products of her late-night shifts at the hospital. "The Merritts came to look at it, but it might just be too old."

She studied my face and I looked away, blowing out a steady stream of frustrated air. The Merritts were our closest friends in Newberry, mostly because they were friends with everybody — which was mostly because their faces were on every real estate advertisement in town.

They were genuine enough, often showing up at our house around midday to check on my parents. Doug Merritt was particularly sympathetic about what had happened to our old home, and made every effort to cater to our needs.

But that was part of the problem — we were the neediest people around. "Do you ever think," I started carefully, well-aware this argument was old and worn, "that maybe Doug and his wife just pity us?"

I moved my cup to the counter, rinsing it under the faucet. My mother sighed and rubbed her temples. "Of course they pity us. But I thought maybe they'd know how to fix the dishwasher."

She set down her phone, though not without checking it for another message. Clearly wanting to change the subject, she added, "You've been smiling all night."

"No, I haven't." I turned my cup upside-down onto the rack, then backtracked. "I just had a really easy math quiz today."

"Hm," was her skeptical reply. I grimaced, stealing a glance at the door to the yard before making my way upstairs.

That night, I lay awake long after Dad nudged past my door and muttered, "Boa noite, princess," and Mom left for work at midnight. I rolled onto my side, pulling my comforter in close and wondering about Isaac and ways to catch him in the act again.

But by the time I fell asleep, I had come to the conclusion that that there was no way he would want to see me now. Part of me still wanted to get him in trouble of invading my backyard, after all. But he would probably smarten up and acquire his flowers some other way.

I thought about his grandfather in limbo and his dog six feet under but covered with condolences. I thought maybe we had more in common than we thought, if our misplaced grievances were any indication. Except Isaac didn't know any of that, and I had no intention of telling anyone that story ever.

But when I was awoken by a collision at my bedroom window, I knew it was him.