Any Red-Blooded Girl (13 page)

He shifted the topic. “What about Michoacán?”
he asked. “You’d love it. I promise. It’s surreal: the landscape,
the mountains, the people, the culture, the butterflies. It’s the
best place I’ve ever been, and I’ve been lots of places,” he
declared. “Don’t you trust me?”

Trusting him wasn’t the problem. The problem
was that as cooperative as my parents were acting at the moment,
they would never in a million years let me run off to a foreign
country with a bunch of gypsies. I mean, I’d literally have to
escape in the night, disappear off the face of the earth. And if I
ever wanted to go home again, I’d be in for a backlash so severe it
would make a tsunami look appealing.

“Of course, I trust you. And I want to go. I
really do,” I said. “Maybe…”

Desperately, I wanted to agree to his insane
request, to take all the pain out of his face and off my heart, to
make everything better. But every option I played out in my muddled
brain ended in the same disappointing conclusion: We were destined
for our own separate paths; Mick Donovan and Flora Fontain were
never meant to be.

“At least say you’ll think about it until
tomorrow,” he pleaded. “If we had Michoacán to look forward
to…well, it would make things easier.”

I wasn’t so sure that dreaming about an
impossible future would really blunt the pain of our separation. I
mean, maybe the self-deception would eventually backfire, and when
Michoacán never happened, I’d kill myself out of disillusionment.
But I couldn’t turn him down.

“Sure. Michoacán sounds perfect,” I said.
“And I don’t have to think about it. I’d love to go. Nothing would
make me happier.”

What the hell. If I was going to agree to
think about it, I might as well just agree to the trip. I’d break
the bad news to him later, when we were back in our own separate
universes.

Mick cradled me to his chest, and finally the
devastated, heartbroken look faded from his eyes. “Thank you so
much,” he whispered. “We’ll have a wonderful time. You’ll see. The
best time ever.”

I was still having trouble believing that our
little window of happiness was coming to a premature close. “So
this is it for now? Our last night together?”

“Temporarily, yes. But we’ll be together
again soon,” Mick promised, kissing me gently on the forehead.
“Right now, though, we have one more thing to do. So close your
eyes, birthday girl.”

“Do I have to?” I whined. I mean, knowing
that the love of my life was deserting me in just a few short hours
had put me in a pretty
un
festive mood.

“Absolutely. I promised you one last birthday
surprise, and I plan to deliver on that promise. But I can’t begin
until I’m sure you’re not peeking.”

He pushed himself up off the sand and stared
down at me disapprovingly.

“Okay, okay, okay,” I caved. “You win.” I
leaned back, tucked my hands behind my head, and shut my eyes.

In his talking-to-a-little-kid voice, he
said, “Very good. Now stay right there. I’ll be right back.”

I must admit, I was a little annoyed that my
strapping boyfriend had left me alone in the dark on a secluded
beach. After all, what if there were psychos skulking around ready
to pounce on me at the drop of a hat?

“This’ll just take a minute,” Mick promised
from somewhere behind me. Whatever he was doing was creating a
cascade of crinkly, crackly sounds. How mysterious. “Almost done.
Just a bit longer,” he strung me along.

Even though my eyes were closed, I was still
getting some pretty big clues about what was happening. Case in
point: I could smell something burning, and there was a distinct
hissing sound that was getting louder by the second. Plus, somehow
I could tell it was brighter outside, like when you close your eyes
but you can still sort of see the sun.

“Okay, open up!” Mick yelled excitedly.
“Happy birthday!”

The only word to describe the scene was
magical.
My sweet, sweet boyfriend had planted a bunch of
Morning Glories—the big sparklers with the hot pink sticks and
rainbow wrappers—in the sand and lit them up. The beach was alive
with erratic, sputtering bursts of color.

Mick jogged the few steps that separated us,
swallowed me in a big bear hug, and peppered my face and neck with
ticklish kisses. Meanwhile, I stared agape at the glittering
display.

“You like your birthday candles, I see,” he
said, beaming like a first-grader with a report card full of
straight A’s.

“Candles?” It took a second for the idea to
penetrate my brain. “Are there sixteen?” I asked, finally grasping
the fact that he’d arranged the beach like a giant birthday
cake.

“Uh-huh,” he said with a satisfied grin. “But
go ahead and count ’em if you like.”

A couple of the sparklers had already burnt
out, and most of the rest weren’t far behind. “Yup. Four rows of
four,” I verified. “That’s sixteen, all right.” I eagerly kissed
him soft and full on the lips. “Thanks for being so sweet,” I said.
“You’re the best boyfriend ever.”

As the last Morning Glory fizzled, he
released me from his love-grip and headed toward the water. But
when I tried to follow, he cautioned, “Stay there. I don’t want you
getting too close to this.”

Too close to what?
I wondered. But in
a matter of seconds, I understood exactly why Mick had ordered me
to keep away. He was lighting more fireworks. Not just sparklers
this time, but shooting, aerial ones.

As soon as he’d lit the fuses, he rushed back
to my side, where we held hands and gawked wide-eyed at the
whooshing streams of light as they shot over the water, burst in a
shower of flames, and fluttered away.

“You know what those are, don’t you?” he
whispered.

“They’re beautiful.”

He laughed softly. “Yes, they’re beautiful,”
he agreed. “Beautiful
butterflies
. See?”

Okay…I wasn’t aware this was a test. Hoping
desperately that a clear outline of a butterfly would miraculously
present itself, I squinted into the distance. “No, sorry. I don’t
think I see it,” I was forced to admit, defeated.

“Just
un
focus,” Mick suggested.
“You’re trying too hard.” He stepped behind me and slung his arm
over my shoulder. “See, there are three lines: There. There. And
there.” He traced the red streaks into the sky with a
grease-stained finger until they exploded. “Wing. Body. Wing,” he
said. “Do you see it?”

“Maybe.” I mean, I could sort of see what he
was getting at, but it was still very abstract.

“On the next one,
pretend
you see it,”
he instructed. “
Expect
a butterfly. But keep an open mind.
It’s a bit like looking at an impressionistic painting. You have to
use your imagination.”

Great. Dead French guys again. Just my
luck.

“Ready?” he asked expectantly. “Think
butterfly.”

I heard the pop, and then there it was: Wing.
Body. Wing. A butterfly explosion.

“Oh my God!” I shrieked. “I see it!”

Mick squeezed me tight around the waist from
behind. “I love you, Flora,” he breathed. “Happy birthday, sweet
sixteen.”

To say letting go of Mick that night was
excruciating would be the understatement of the century. Because
even though he said he’d see me in the morning, I had an unshakable
feeling that the last time I’d ever lay eyes on him was just before
midnight on my sweet sixteen. I guess that’s why I openly wept like
a deranged two-year-old the whole way back to camp.

But by the time we arrived at Tupelo-9, I was
just about cried out. And the shoulder of Mick’s nice dress shirt
was soaked in snot and tears. Of course, when I tried to apologize
for the mess, he wouldn’t let me. And then we hugged. If you’ve
never had one of these kinds of hugs, count yourself lucky. It was
the kind of hug you give someone when you know what’s about to
happen, but you just don’t want to accept it: a long, quiet,
desperate embrace, where you latch on so tight you try to disappear
into the other person’s soul. I swear, the sadness of it was so
heavy and deep that I seriously thought dying might be easier than
recovering from the searing pain that had just cracked my chest
wide open.

After what seemed like both an eternity and a
nanosecond, we slowly began untangling our bodies until we’d
separated everything but two fingers, as if we were in an
unspoken—yet meaningful—pinkie-swear. Honestly, I’ve never dreaded
anything like I dreaded that last little tug that would break us
apart forever. And I couldn’t bring myself to do it. In a way, I
hoped Mick wouldn’t be able to do it either, since somehow to my
mixed-up brain, that would prove we were equally in love and
equally in pain.

But then he let me go. It was over. For a few
steps, he walked kind of sideways and kept his eyes on me, while I
tried to burn an everlasting picture of him in my mind.

Fifteen

AS I stumbled into our campsite
brokenhearted, my parents bombarded me with a firestorm of
questions: How was the dance? Did I see Will? Was I hungry? Blah.
Blah. Blah. I couldn’t really tell you how I responded to these
assaults, however, because I felt like I was trapped in a blurry
nightmare, where someone else’s voice was coming out of my mouth. I
guess whatever this alien-me said to my parents was normal enough,
though, because without a fight, they let me flee to my sleep pod
and collapse in a heap of doom.

And I could tell right away it was going to
be a long night. Because for what seemed like hours, I tossed and
turned—and turned and tossed—to no avail. Was this some cruel joke?
I mean, first the love of my life was snatched away from me, and
now I couldn’t even fall asleep to escape the sad truth of my new
reality?

Life sucks and then you die. That about
summed it up, I figured. Maybe if I just screamed at the top of my
lungs, I could get all the crazy, stopped-up emotional junk out of
my brain, and then I could catch some shuteye. Or they’d take me
away in a straitjacket. Either way, I’d be guaranteed some
rest.

At about two o’clock in the morning, I
finally gave up on trying to force myself to sleep. After all,
blocking out the whole Mick situation wasn’t working anyway. It was
time for a new plan. And as painful as this might sound, I decided
to pretend Mick was in the pod with me, cuddled up in the sleeping
bag, exhaling an intoxicating fog of hot, sweet breath for me to
inhale.

Now I’ve never really lost anyone close to
me, but I imagine what I was doing—pretending someone I loved was
with me when they weren’t—was some kind of coping strategy (credit
Dr. Phil with my descent into psychobabble, please). Whatever you
wanted to call it, my make-believe Mick was warm and tender and
soothing. And he was there loving me with all his heart, as I
slipped over the edge of consciousness toward some much needed
slumber.

I’m not sure how long I was out exactly, but
it must have been just long enough to get into that deep, relaxed
kind of sleep that feels like a coma, which is called Delta Sleep,
by the way, not REM. Trust me, two super-geeks had a spastic
argument on this topic in Freshman Bio. that ended in tears.
Anyway, I only say I was in Delta Sleep because when I eventually
realized someone was touching me, I was so confused and disoriented
I didn’t know
where
I was—let alone
who
I was—for
thirty seconds at least.

“Eh, Flora.” I heard the words, but they
didn’t quite register. “Eh, c’mon. Get up.”

I tried to push myself awake, but whatever
was happening seemed a million miles away, at the end of a
stretched-out, warped tunnel.

“This ain’t gonna work,” a second whispery
voice said.

“Just be quiet and help me. Get her
legs.”

“She’s too heavy,” the whispery voice
complained.

Who was touching me? And why? I blinked a
couple of crusty-eyed, gooey blinks, but nothing came into focus.
Then, with the ferocity of a gerbil, something nibbled at my
feet—which was more annoying than threatening, but was freakish
enough to jolt me awake.

“Hey! Hey! Hey!” I protested. “Stop it.
What’re you doing?”

“Mick’s gone,” one of the voices said. “He
took off. You have to help us find him.”

“Huh?” I said, staring hard at the guy in the
dark. Even though I couldn’t quite make out his features, something
about his squirrelly profile gave him away. It was Mick’s cousin,
Cal the Creeper. And unless I was mistaken, he’d brought along
Forrest “Donny” Gump for the ride.

“What do you mean Mick took off?” I asked.
Nothing was making sense.

“Because you guys broke up. He was upset,”
Cal said.

“We did
not
break up,” I objected.

“Well, he’s gone. And it’s your fault,” Cal
repeated.

“Stop saying that. I didn’t do anything. And
we’re not broken up.”

Donny finally worked up the nerve to speak.
“Just help us,” he pleaded. “He won’t listen to us. We need
you.”

“But…I don’t get it? Where did he go?” If
Mick was actually missing, I was very concerned. But such a rash
move just didn’t seem like his style.

Cal sighed impatiently. “Are you gonna help
us, or not? We don’t have all night to talk this to death. Either
you want to find Mick, or you don’t.”

I was stuck for a response. “Umm…”

“Forget it. Let’s get outta here, Donny,” Cal
muttered. “This is a waste of time. She doesn’t even care.”

That was it. How dare he say I didn’t care
about Mick? I cared about Mick more than anyone else on earth, I
was sure. “Wait! I’m coming!” I called, spastically grabbing for my
Converse as the Goofball Goons shuffled off. “Hold on!”

Dumb and Dumber just kept walking. Either
they were deaf, or they were ignoring me. I tried again, “Hey, wait
up!” I could hardly believe I was doing it, but I jogged past the
campsite next door to catch up to them. “Thanks a lot for waiting,”
I said, as I joined their little search party. “Now tell me what
happened. Where’s Mick?”