Page 3 of Z For Butterfly Man
The needle hovers, and I shut my eyes, bracing for pain I can’t stop. My chest tightens, my heart pounding so hard. I want to disappear, to dissolve into the cracks of the floorboards, to escape this body, this house, this world that has betrayed me.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper in despair. I don’t know what else to say.
The roar of a motorcycle cuts through the silence outside and booms in the house. My mother freezes, her head snapping toward the window. For a moment, her grip loosens, and her weight lifts a tiny bit off me.
It’s the only chance I’ll ever get. I twist and wriggle free from under her. Pulling my pants up, I scramble toward the door. My legs are weak, but fear propels me forward.
She’s cussing, running after me. I don’t look back. She won’t catch me; I’m smaller and much faster.
I dash out of the front door. Cool air slaps my swelling cheek. My chest heaves, my tears blur the path ahead as I run barefoot into the yard. I don’t know where I’m going. I only know I’m gone—out of the house, away from her, away from the needle.
The sound of the motorcycle thunders in my ears like salvation. The bike is parked at the edge of our driveway, chrome glinting under the faint streetlights, and I see him.
He sits astride it, helmet dangling from one hand, his leather jacket marking him as untouchable. He’s always been a distant figure, the boy who grew up with me but never looked my way,the one who belonged to a world of freedom and power I’d never have.
Shane.
He looks at me, longer than usual, his face tight with something I’ve never seen before, something I don’t understand. I must look like a mess, but it’s not the first time. Maybe it’s the blood and torn pajamas that make him pause. He doesn’t say anything, though. He’s never said more than a few words to me my whole life. I don’t expect that to change any time now. Still, I’m grateful to him. He saved me without knowing.
I spin away. I need clean pants and underwear and a pad. My mother hasn’t given me one or sat me down for the talk or helped me with the cramps. She rips my clothes and shoves a needle between my legs.
The gravel bites into my feet. My legs barely obey me, but I run anyway, clutching at my torn clothes, the sting of fresh wounds burning against my skin. I don’t care. I’m not going back into that house until the witch falls asleep on her bottle. The school nurse might help with the pads. I don’t have any money to buy some myself, but that will have to wait for tomorrow. It’s almost eleven at night. I’ll have to make do with a rag. I have plenty of those on me. How much does a girl bleed on her first day anyway?
“Hey, Reagan!” Shane shouts after me.
I freeze, breath hitching. Did he saymyname? I don’t know if I should answer, if I can. My throat is raw. My body is shaking from the cold, from the weight of what I’ve just escaped, so I continue down the road.
“Wait!” he yells again.
The motorcycle gives another roar before it cuts me off. Then Shane swings off it. His boots crunch against the dirt as he steps closer. He’s taller than I remember, broader, the kind ofboy who doesn’t care about anything, a king of a world without consequence.
“Hey,” he says, softer this time, crouching to meet my eyes. “Talk to me. What’d she do this time?”
The words lodge in my chest. I want to tell him. I want to pour it all out. The shame, the fear, the years of silence choke me. Not that it will make any difference if I speak. I’ve spoken, screamed, so many times before, and nothing ever changed. All I can do is shake my head, clutching my torn pajamas tighter, as if they could shield me.
Why is he asking? Why now? It’s not like he’s ever cared what happens to me.
He doesn’t press. He just looks at me, really looks at me, like I’m not invisible anymore. Can he see me now?
His gaze drops to my chest, then lower and then back up. A flash of heat runs up my face. I’m not wearing a bra—I don’t own one because my mother never took me bra shopping—and my nipples must be pebbling under my shirt in this cold. Quickly, I fold an arm over my breasts.
“How old ya now, kiddo?” he asks.
Oh my God. I didn’t cover myself fast enough. He’s noticed my developing body, hasn’t he? The last time he saw me, I was as flat as Mr. Shaw’s nose, our gym teacher. Shane must have noticed.
He smiles. “You ain’t no little girl anymore, that’s for sure.”
Has he figured out the bloodstains too? My cheeks burn.
“Hey, I know I should remember on my own, but it’s just been a while. For real, how old are ya?”
“Thirteen…a-and a half,” I whisper. “Y-you?”
“You really don’t know?”
I do. He’s four years and twenty-seven days older than me.
“Seventeen…and a half.” With a chuckle, he takes off his jacket and covers me with it.
