Any Red-Blooded Girl (18 page)

I broke the ice with a change of subject.
“Five more weeks ’til school,” I said. “What’s the plan for the
rest of the summer?”

With a grin, Jessie said, “Chillaxing, of
course. And vegetating. Or maybe vegetating and chillaxing,” she
mused. “I haven’t decided.”

There it was, the reason Jessie Haskell was
my best friend on earth: Even at the worst of times, she could pick
me up just by being herself.

“Sounds perfect,” I agreed, feeling the
tiniest shred of true excitement. “Count me in.”

After all, the only thing that could’ve
trumped chillaxing and vegetating with Jessie was breathing the air
my sweet, gentle Mick had just exhaled. But as much as it killed me
to admit it, the possibility of that happening ever again was near
zero.
Near
zero, but not
absolute
zero. A trivial
difference, I know, but one that gave me a reason to go on. A
convoluted reason, maybe, but a reason just the same.

Twenty

THE next two weeks dissolved in a fog of
loneliness, despair, and Twinkies. I guess I’d developed a taste
for them during my misadventures with Donny and Cal that never
quite went away. And since they were about the only thing I could
stomach nowadays, my mother indulged me. Apparently she figured a
Twinkie habit was par for the course when you had a mental case for
a daughter.

So even though I’d promised Jessie weeks of
chillaxing and vegetating, I’d dodged all of her calls and visits
with one lame excuse after another. Because despite the fact that I
would eventually have to crack and rejoin the outside world, for
just a while longer I needed to mourn the loss of Mick. I wasn’t
ready to let him go.

In the meantime, though, when I wasn’t
sleeping, or crying, or choking down Twinkies, I was glued to the
internet, Googleing such vague topics as
first love, broken
heart,
and
loneliness
—which, I must say, yielded some
interesting results, but unfortunately nothing that could actually
help me regain my sanity.

I had just finished a rather fruitless search
on the consequences of Twinkie overdose, when a brilliant idea hit
me (thank you, God): I could learn about the Monarchs; I could trek
down to Mexico; I could be with Mick again—assuming he made the
trip too, and we were both there at the same time, and…

A rush of pure joy washed all the details and
complications from my mind. Because all I wanted was another
chance. Some more time. A proper goodbye. Mick deserved that much,
and so did I.

With renewed hope, I banged out the closest
spelling of my destination I could manage: MEE-CHO-AH-KAHN. And all
I can say is, God bless Google and my sweet, sweet Mick’s perfect
pronunciation. Because immediately, I found the correct spelling of
Michoacán and a plethora of websites on Monarch butterflies.
Bingo.

Now I fully admit, I am not the science-y,
nature-y type. But I found this NOVA page about Monarchs and, well,
I was hooked—and not just because Mick likes them either. What
sucked me in was how these fragile little creatures go to such
extraordinary lengths for the chance to mate. Each year, the newly
transformed butterflies migrate about two thousand miles from
Canada and the United States to the mountains of Mexico, where they
spend the winter before they fly back to Texas and reproduce in the
spring. And the crazy thing is, nobody really knows how they make
the journey. Some scientists say they use the sun, or the
mountains, or the earth’s magnetic field, or even their own
internal clocks to guide them. Of course, the brainiacs are free to
debate the
how
of the Monarch migration all they want, but
what
I
was interested in was the
why
. If you asked
me, the obvious answer was love. Maybe the Monarchs were driven to
create something beautiful together—like another generation of
butterflies—before their fleeting lives were stomped out by Mother
Nature. And in that creation was love. There had to be.

So by now any rational person would probably
agree with my mother that I’d lost my mind. I mean, what sane human
being would propose the idea that butterflies endure a perilous,
epic journey for love? It’s ludicrous. And maybe it was just the
Twinkies talking, but I believed my own nutball theory. I really
did. After all,
I
was considering making an epic journey of
my own, so I could relate. And in my case, there wasn’t even a
frantic need to reproduce. I could only imagine how desperate I
would have been for Mick if my last chance to make a beautiful mark
on the world was swiftly slipping away.

It’s kind of weird, really, but thinking
about those crazy butterflies put me in a dramatic mood. Suddenly
the idea of doing something over the top romantic—of making a grand
gesture—exhilarated me. I decided to go for it. I’d meet Mick in
Mexico. I’d surprise him. And if I actually made it there on my
own, I’d surprise myself too.

Before I lost my nerve, I ditched the NOVA
site and pulled up the Greyhound bus schedule. Because if I was
going to run away with Mick, I had to start nailing down some
details. With a hint of apprehension, I punched Punxsutawney, PA
into the
departure
field and Michoacán, MX into the
arrival
field and crossed my fingers.

But of course my effort was a spectacular
failure. So for a few dimwit moments, I stared at the computer
screen like the
arrival
field might just magically fill
itself
in with the right information to get me where I
wanted to go. When nothing miraculous happened, though, I finally
decided to try the only other location in Mexico that was popping
into my head: Mexico City. Hey, at least it actually had the word
city
in its name, which would probably make Greyhound’s
website very happy.

Anyway, after another breathless moment, I
got my first glimpse of what I’d be in for if I followed through
with my quest: two and a half days (give or take) and about
twenty-five
hundred
miles on a total of six busses. And that
was just to get to Mexico City. I still had no idea how I’d get
from there to Michoacán—and then to Mick.

To say the details were intimidating would be
putting it mildly. I mean, I was mortally terrified at even the
thought of such a challenging solo journey. But I loved Mick, and
I’d do things for him I’d absolutely never do under normal
circumstances.

Plowing full speed ahead, I pulled up a map
of Mexico on the computer. But just then a loud rap on the front
door interrupted me. Shit. I was the only one home, since my
parents had finally dared to go back to work and leave me alone.
Maybe if I didn’t answer, whoever was outside would just go away
and let me continue disintegrating in peace.

Or not.

When the door banged again, I pulled my
curtains back, hoping to see a band of religious freaks I could
legitly ignore. Instead, though, I caught the profile of the buff
FedEx chick as she catapulted back into her truck.

Huh? That was weird. The Mental Hygienist
usually only ordered stuff off the internet at Christmastime. And
even for her, it was a little early for that.

A mysterious package? Hmm. I threw my rumpled
bathrobe over the disheveled mess of an outfit I was wearing and
shuffled down the stairs. And I was about five feet from the door
when a sick feeling hit me out of nowhere. It was that stupid
fortune from the rest area. The damn thing had said something about
an unexpected package and bad luck infesting my pathetic soul.
Shit. Was there a bomb in there waiting to kill me? Maybe Cal or
Donny—or one of their slimy vermin friends—wanted to rub me out, so
I couldn’t testify in court.

I opened the door a few inches and peered
outside. And sure enough, right on the doorstep was a plain
box—hand-addressed to me—with no return address. Great. Now what
should I do? Call the bomb squad?

I stuck just my arm outside and snatched the
thing one-handed. So far, so good. No kaboom. Then, handling the
box like it was a priceless heirloom, I carefully tiptoed to the
dining room and sat down at the table.

It was just me and the box, and the box was
winning. But as I stared the thing down in search of clues, one
small detail stood out: a postmark from Portland, Oregon dated
August thirteenth. The problem was, I couldn’t think of anyone from
Oregon who would’ve sent me anything, so I was pretty much back to
square one.

Unless…

My heart started thumping like crazy. Mick.
It
had
to be Mick. He’d sent me something. A present. As I
tugged the tape from the bottom of the box, my irrational bomb
fears transformed into an odd mix of dread and excitement.

And all I can say is, it was beautiful.
Stunningly beautiful. Mick had given me a treasure box with a
gorgeous floral pattern on the lid. I took a deep breath and
flipped it open, utterly unprepared for what lay inside.

On a fluffy bed of milkweed sat an exquisite
pendant on a delicate silver chain. The jewel was deep orange,
patterned with thick black lines that reminded me of Honeycomb
cereal, framed by a white polka-dotted border.

I swear, I didn’t mean to, but I let a couple
of stray tears escape my eyes at the sight of it. After all, it
looked more like a piece of fine art than jewelry for my plain, old
ordinary neck.

With my jagged thumbnail, I pulled the clasp
back and hooked the ends of the chain together at my collarbone.
And I’m pretty sure it was just my imagination running wild, but
when I pressed the jewel to my chest, it felt like it was radiating
warmth, like Mick’s love was flowing through
it
to
me.
So for maybe a whole minute, I sat there alone in the
quiet dining room with my hands clasped over my chest, my eyes
closed, and a whisper of a contented smile on my lips, until…

I heard a car in the driveway. And since I
couldn’t have my parents—or even Will—finding out Mick had
contacted me, I hurriedly grabbed all traces of his gift and fled
to my bedroom.

And once my door was safely locked, I plunked
down on the floor and spread my treasures out before me. That’s
when I noticed something that took my breath away. From under the
milkweed, the ragged edge of a piece of notebook paper peeked out.
Mick had written me a letter.

Of course, my heart went back to thumping like
I’d just run the hundred-yard dash. I wanted nothing more than for
that letter to explain how Mick and I were going to be together
forever. But I was terrified it was a goodbye. A permanent one. I
swear to God, I almost threw the thing in the trash without even
reading it to spare myself the pain of Mick letting go of me in his
own handwriting, in his own words. But I had to know. I had to know
exactly how he felt about me. And I had to hear it from him.

Dear Flora,

I’m so sorry. Please forgive me. I feel
terrible about everything that happened with Donny and Cal, and I
can’t help thinking you must blame me for getting you mixed up with
them in the first place. I hate them for what they did to you. I
mean it. Please believe I never would have introduced you to them
if I had any idea what they were capable of. You’re too important
to me.

With everything that’s happened, I hope
you’re doing okay. And I hope your parents don’t hate me too much.
Please explain to them that you are the most precious thing in the
world to me, and I never would have knowingly put you in harm’s
way. I hope they can understand how much I love you.

Do you like the jewelry box? I made it for
you as a reminder of the wonderful times we spent together at camp.
Did you know there’s a Roman goddess called Flora? I painted the
top of the box to match a Botticelli painting of her, but I’m not
sure it came out exactly right. I hope you like it anyway.

The butterfly necklace was Penny’s idea,
because she felt bad about what Donny did and also because she
knows how much I like Monarchs. We collect the wings when they die,
and the girls turn them into jewelry. Please think of me when you
wear it, and think about Michoacan and our future.

For the next few months, my family is going
to stay put in Oregon on my mother’s cousin’s farm, and I’m going
to try to get my license. I want so desperately to see you again.
As soon as I get my license, I can get a job out here and save up
for a car. Then I’ll be able to see you whenever I want. I can’t
wait.

Until we can be together, please remember
all the good times we had in just those few short days. And imagine
how happy we would be if we could have that every day. That’s what
I want, Flora. I want us to be together. Just you and me. Forever.
You asked me once if I believed in fate, and I don’t think I did
before I met you. But now I do. I know we were meant for each
other. Please take care of yourself until I can hold you in my arms
again. I love you more than words.

Mick

If you’ve never been totally happy and
totally sad at the same time, I recommend that you try it. It’s a
life-changing experience. That’s how I felt when I read Mick’s
letter: bittersweet. Because part of me believed his
happily-ever-after version things, while another part of me saw
heartbreak and tragedy written on the wall.

I must admit, there’s one big difference
between Mick and me: He’s an eternal optimist, while I’m a
natural-born buzz-kill. I swear, I could even find something wrong
with world peace. I’m
that
bad. But maybe Mick could change
me. Maybe he could teach me how to see things differently. Maybe
he
was
that
good.

I closed the jewelry box, rewrapped it, and
tucked it under my bed. What had Mick said on my birthday, when I
couldn’t see the butterflies? I shut my eyes and tried to recall
him leaning over my shoulder, breathing on my neck, whispering in
my ear.
Pretend you see it,
I heard him say.
Expect a
butterfly.
And that was exactly what I intended to do.