The Evolution of a Drowning Butterfly

Chapter Two

My dad floated towards me.

"You need to let the anger go, sweet pea."

I awoke with wet cheeks. I must've cried in my sleep, seeing my dad talk to me. Before I had time to dwell, my alarm reminded me that it was time to begin another day.

I rummaged through my closet and found a cozy sweater. I was swarmed with a memory. It was a sweater my dad had given me for Christmas a few years ago. It was royal blue to match my eyes and extremely soft.

I remember ripping through the snowman packaging, and seeing a bit of royal blue peeking from beneath the paper. He would always gift me something to match my eyes and tell me, "Sweet pea, they say the eyes are the window to the soul, so your soul must be the color of the sea." Then he would crack the goofy smile inducing grin of his.

Last year, he handed me a normal white envelope enclosing a piece of grey paper.

I gave him an astonished look that asked, "Where's the blue?"

He chuckled and told me to look closer, poking the pamphlet with his index finger. I poured over the paper, and realized "where the blue was." He was taking me on a cruise; a cruise I never got to go on because it was supposed to be this winter break. But Dad wasn't here. He was never going to get to take me on a cruise. I was never going to get to see the blue of my eyes stretched across to the edge of the horizon.

Once dressed, I tiptoed across the grey carpet to Jordan and Claire's room. Their door creaked as I peeked inside. They were still tucked in like butterflies in a cocoon.

In an effort to wake them up, I tugged on the blankets wrapped around each of the twins. They both stumbled out of bed as I crept down the hall into the kitchen to make breakfast.

Jordan and Claire staggered in, still rubbing the deep sleep from their eyes.

With a flourish, I set the scrambled eggs and toast in front of them and ran to my bathroom to freshen. I swiftly tucked my bright blonde locks into a high ponytail with a scrunchy and brushed my teeth.

After my mouth was minty and fresh, I put on a the little concealer I had left (I needed to go to the store) and powder, and ran back to the kitchen.

"Look!" the twins bragged, shoving the completely empty dishes in my face.

My dad would've called these "Smily Plates." He would use this tactic to ensure that I ate all of my vegetables. Every time I had a "Smily Plate," I would get one penny. I bet he gave me thousands of pennies. My goal immediately became to get a "Smily Plate" at every meal, but from the moment he died, I barely touched food.

After cleaning up and making lunches, once quick motion, and we were off to the bus stop. Jordan, Claire, and I sat down on the stop's bench and waited for the, as my dad would've call it, "baby crap yellow stink machine" to arrive.

Once the youngsters were safely deposited on the preschool bus, I let my mind wander to the days of my dad walking me to the stop.

I would start out the door, and Dad would run outside yelling for me to put on a jacket. Once he had convinced me that I would be better off with something wrapped around my arms, we journeyed down the cracked sidewalk to the stop.

"Sweet pea, how about you and I play hooky today?" Dad would ask.

And I would respond with, "But playing hooky's bad, Daddy."

He would smile his big, goofy smile, and say, "That's my girl. You keep the separation of right and wrong in that big bright brain of yours." He would then kiss the top of my head.

Then I would hate myself the rest of the day for not accepting my dad's offer.

I later realized that Dad didn't want me to accept his offer, and that I gave the response he was looking for. He just wanted to make sure I was growing up to be a strong, independent woman who wouldn't accept everything offered to me, even if it was easier. He was teaching me to use my head. I missed his crazy teaching methods more than I could say.

My thoughts of right and wrong were interrupted by the school bus opening the doors in a way that said, "Come on." I stared at the windows full of barely familiar faces.

I took my normal seat, put in my earbuds, and let myself drift away into the music, drowning out the world around me.

A quiet buzzing yanked me from my dream-like state. Caller ID said, "Mom."

A decline button later, and I was back to smothering my problems with Bach.

The twenty minute bus ride felt so much shorter. I looked out the emergency exit window and separated the jocks, nerds, preps, and weirdos. Where did I fit in in that? The answer was obvious. I didn't. I didn't fit in anymore. I mean, there wasn't a "Dad Died In Car Accident" club.

At the sound of the bell, I threw my torn backpack over my shoulder, and bounded towards my locker. When I reached the metal contraption, I began to choke on the scent of flowers and evil.

Gabby Devairo.

She was so sweet it was sickening. It was the kind of sweet that made your teeth hurt. Maybe I was jealous of her perfect, happy life, I don't know. But, there was one thing I was sure of, I could not stand her.

I kept my face pointed down, afraid that if I dared to look her direction, it would unleash the kraken of kindness. Luckily, a hummed melody and skip later, she moved past me. I sighed a breath of relief.

"Please get me through this, Dad."