Page 72 of Z For Butterfly Man
The sincerity in his eyes cracks something inside me. I look away quickly, blinking back the burning sensation behind my eyelids. I know I won’t cry, though. I don’t think I can even if I want to. I cried all my tears last year.
“I ain’t using you to get back in that club, Reagan. I don’t even want back in. Not anymore. You don’t know the shit Shane got the MC into. It’s a shithole I don’t want anything to do with.”
“Okay,” I whisper.
“Okay.”
We practice in silence for a while, the scratch of pencils on paper the only sound. He asks me to check his work, and he’s getting much better at factoring polynomials; he may actually pass this year.
Declan arrives with beers and snacks. That’s my cue to leave.
Mason walks me out and begs me to practice some more at my place. He takes this more seriously than I thought. It seems he really wants to graduate. Maybe he even wants to get out of this town as much as I do.
“Please, Reagan. She’s probably too drunk by now. We’ll be very quiet. She won’t know we’re there.”
“And if she does?”
“She won’t, not when I’m around. She doesn’t want witnesses, right? But if she does, I’ll stop her. I will protect you. I promise.”
I want to believe him. I want to believe that having someone else in the house will be enough to keep her hands off me. I want to believe that promises mean something. But experience has taught me better.
Against my better judgment, I nod.
The house is quiet when we arrive. Too quiet. Mother’s car is in the driveway; she’s home. Probably upstairs, working on her second bottle of the day.
“See?” Mason whispers as we slip inside. “Coast is clear.”
Heart in my ass, I set up in the dining room—I won’t let him in my bedroom, not even for studying. The dining room is the safest bet. It’s far enough from the stairs and close enough to the door that we can leave fast if we need to.
For thirty minutes, it’s fine. Mason struggles through quadratic equations while I guide him. After solving seven more problems, I can see the moment it clicks in his eyes. He finally starts to get it.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps on the stairs. Heavy, uneven. The shuffle of a miserable hag who has had too much to drink.
Bile rises to my throat. I shove my books into my backpack as quickly as I can. “Mason, we need to get out of—”
Mother stands there before I get to finish, swaying, a bottle dangling from her fingers. Her bloodshot eyes glare at me. Her mouth twists into something ugly.
“Well, well, well.” Her words slur together. “Look who the whore brought into my house, her fucking pimp.”
“No need for ugly words.” Mason stands. “We’re just studying, Mrs.—”
“Shut your mouth, you piece of shit.” She points the bottle at him. “I know what you did to my daughter. Whole town knows. You think you can just waltz in here like nothing happened?”
“He didn’t do anything. It’s Shane, and you know it. You covered for him and let Mason take the blame.” I snap out of the blue. I shouldn’t have talked back. I know better.
“Reagan, it’s okay.” Mason looks at my mother. “We were doing homework. That’s all. We’ll leave now.”
“Homework.” She laughs cruelly. “That what they’re calling it now?”
She moves faster than I expect, lurching across the room. Her hand tangles in my hair, yanking me away from the table. Mason flies to stop her, but it’s too late. I’m on the floor, but she doesn’t stop. Pain explodes across my scalp and my back as she drags me like roadkill across the stairs.
I don’t scream for help or beg her to stop. I just stare at Mason in silence.
“You bring that filth into my house?” She’s screaming now, spit flying from her mouth. “Today of all days? The day you ruined my life?”
Mason grabs her arm, prying her hand out of my hair. “Let her go!”
