Chasing Butterflies (5 page)

I close my journal.

Shut my eyes.

Take a deep breath.

Exhale.

Inhale.

Then slowly open my eyes.

Don’t ask me why I wrote that.

It’s not like I’m in love, or have a boyfriend.

Nor am I looking for one.

Not now, anyway.

Boys are distractions.

They require time and patience I don’t have.

I shake my head, a smile slowly spreading across my lips.

Okay, okay...

If I’m really, really honest with myself I sometimes fantasize about having the kind of love that Daddy had with my mom before she passed away.

They always looked so happy.

You saw his love for her.

You felt it.

It was in the way he looked at her.

In the way he spoke to her.

In the way he held her hand.

There was never any question what was in his heart for her. Real love.

Unadulterated.

Unwavering.

He always made her feel special.

And appreciated.

I can remember my mom’s eyes lighting up every time Daddy stepped into the room. He’d lean in and kiss her on the lips. And she’d smile. And then he’d scoop me up in his arms and smother me with kisses. And tell me how much he loved me.

Mommy would watch him with me, her smile widening. Then she’d wait until Daddy left the room and say, “I love the hell out of that man.”

“Oooh, Mommy,” I’d squeal, “you said a bad word. Don’t say that.”

She’d pull me into her arms, then she’d sweetly say, “I’m sorry, sweetheart. But my heart dances and skips a beat every time I see your father. When you’re old enough, hopefully, you’ll be blessed to have a man whom you love as much as I love your father. And, if you’re fortunate enough, he’ll love you back. And make you feel like you are the most important woman in the world to him.”

And I’d say, “When I grow up, I’m going to marry Daddy.”

She’d laugh. Tell me I couldn’t marry him, because he was hers.

And I’d say, “It’s okay. I can share him.”

She’d burst into laughter every time. Tell me I’d have to find my own knight in shining armor.

So, let’s try this again.

Why did I write that?

I wrote it because I hope to one day have a husband like Daddy—a man who is full of love for me, who makes my heart dance and skip beats the way Mommy’s once did.

Mommy’s face, her smile, her wide bright eyes, flash in my head, and I find myself becoming nostalgic.

Not a day goes by that I do not think of her.

That I am not wishing she were still alive.

Emotions welling up inside of me, I fight back tears.

It’s been ten years, six days, and almost nine hours since her passing. And, for me, it still feels like yesterday.

They say time heals, but I am still waiting.

The pain is not as intense as it once was.

Maybe because I was too young to really understand the impact of her death.

Still, it left a hole in my heart.

But I had Daddy and my nana to fill it with their love.

And eventually the hole closed.

The pain of being motherless subsided.

And I learned to move on.

Still . . .

She’s always in my heart.

Forever.

Infinitely.

When Mommy first died, I cried every day, and I’d ask my nana why she had to die, why that man in the truck had to hit her car?

And Nana would say, “Because Heaven couldn’t wait for her, baby. God called your momma home to be with His angels.”

Nana’s voice floats through the room.
“When God looks to place flowers in His garden, my sweet baby, He always picks the prettiest ones . . . your beautiful momma is amongst some of the most beautiful flowers in His garden. So breathe in your momma’s sweet scent, knowing she will always be in bloom. . .”

I inhale deeply.

Breathe in my mother’s presence.

Then glance up at the sixteen-by-twenty-inch portrait of her hanging on the wall.

Needing to feel close to her, I place my journal down on the sofa, then climb the basement stairs to the main level of the house.

I walk into our formal living room, with its white Persian rug and crisp white walls. There’s only one piece of furniture in here, positioned in the center of the room.

A Steinway.

My mother’s prized possession.

And gift from Daddy.

I saunter over to the baby grand piano.

Pull out the bench.

Slide onto it.

Then lift the fallboard.

My fingertips graze the piano keys, and I close my eyes.

Breathe in.

Conjure up the sweetest memories of my mother.

And then I am transported back in time.

I am five again.

Mommy is sitting beside me, close, so very close.

Her leg brushes mine as she gently rests her hand over my right hand.

I’m shaking my head.
“My favorite
Little Mermaid
song.”

She is smiling at me.
“Okay. Just this once.”

I giggle, knowing she doesn’t mean it. She always says that.

I go into character.

I am Ariel.

The Mermaid.

Then her hands swoop down on the piano keys, her slender fingers, flying over the keys, graceful and almost balletic as she belts out “Part of Your World.”

I can hear every word.

Feel every note.

The song ends, and I open my eyes.

Exhale.

Then allow my fingers to settle on the keys, my feet on the pedals as I play one of my mother’s favorite tunes.

A song that speaks to the heart. And to the love she and Daddy shared. “The First Time I Ever Saw Your Face” by Roberta Flack.

The music comes alive.

The melody takes over.

And I get lost.

Lost in my mother’s love.

Lost in her love for Daddy.

Lost in his love for her.

Lost in her memory.

So wrapped up in the music, I am oblivious to the fact that I am not alone.

It is not until I reach the end of the song that I realize Daddy has slid onto the bench beside me.

And I am crying.

T
wo days later, Daddy and I are sitting at the breakfast bar. He’s sipping a cup of his favorite vanilla bean coffee, and reading the
Los Angeles Times
, which he has delivered every morning. I’m eating a bowl of vanilla Greek yogurt and sliced strawberries. I never like eating anything too heavy in the morning; well, not on school days, that is.

I’m on my phone, scrolling through my Facebook newsfeed and accepting new friend requests, when Daddy looks up from his paper, and—right out the blue—asks me who the first African-American poet is, as if this is some difficult trivia question.

He
knows
I know.

I smile.

Set my phone down on the table.

And indulge him anyway.

He grins. “Now before you answer, Butterfly, I want you to think about it carefully. There’s a fifty dollar bill riding on this.”

Ooh, yeah. I clap my hands. “Ooh, easy money, Daddy. You might as well just hand it over to me now.” I laugh. “Please and thank you.”

He chuckles, his brown eyes lighting up. “You sure?”

I raise a brow.

Am I sure?

Of course I am.

Everyone
knows
anything about African-American history knows Phillis Wheatley
is
the first African-American poet.

I tell him so.

Then extend my hand out. “Pay up, Daddy.”

“Ahh, not so fast, young lady.” A smile eases over his lips, as if he knows something I don’t. “Are you one hundred percent certain?”

“Yes, Daddy. I’m sure. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“So Phillis Wheatley is your final answer? Is that what you’re telling me?”

Um. It’s the only answer. Isn’t it? “Yes. Final answer. There is no other answer.”

I hold my hand out and wiggle my fingers. “Money, please.” “And if you’re wrong?”

“Daddy, stop playing,” I say, laughing. He’s so silly. “You know I’m not wrong.”

He grins. “But if you are?”

I furrow my brows. “Okay, hypothetically speaking, if I
were
wrong—which I’m
not
, by the way—then I’d make you breakfast in bed for the next two weekends.”

Now he lets out a hearty laugh. “What, a bowl of cereal and two slices of toast?”

I keep from laughing myself. I can’t cook. Can barely boil water.

Daddy knows this.

But I’m okay with telling him I’ll fix him breakfast, knowing I won’t have to because I’ve given him the correct answer.

“Nope. Pancakes, eggs, and bacon, and grits.”

He smiles wide. “Oh, I’d like to see this. And I get to take pictures and post them up on Facebook, right?”

“Daddy!” I squeal. “No one really posts pictures up on Facebook anymore. That’s
so
last year.”

“Oh, is that so? Well, then, how about I post them up on Facebook
and
Instagram? Or is that still
so
last year?” he teases.

I giggle. “I’m not telling.”

He shakes his head and takes a sip of his coffee. Then he sets his cup down, before saying, “I want you to look up Jupiter Hammon.”

“
Jupiter
what?”

“Not what.
Who
.”

“Okay. Who?”

“Jupiter H-a-m-m-o-n. Hammon.”

He pushes back from the table and stands.

I give him a perplexed look. “Now?”

“By all means.” He starts whistling toward the sink with his breakfast dishes, rinsing them in the sink.

I reach for my cell. Type in my password, then click onto the Internet and Google this Jupiter Hammon person.

I click the link for Wikipedia.

I blink.

Crinkle my forehead.

It says he’s a black poet who, in 1761, became the first African-American writer to be published in the United States.

“See anything interesting?” Daddy says.

I look up from my phone to catch him smiling.

Sigh.

“This is so not right. Everybody knows Wikipedia can be manipulated by anyone. Half of the stuff on there probably isn’t even true.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “Okay, if you say so. Keep browsing the search engine, then.”

I do just that as Daddy stacks the dishwasher.

I find something else on him that calls him the “Father of African-American poetry.” That says he was born in 1753,
before
Phillis Wheatley. That he is believed to be the
first
published male African-American poet and essayist.

Wow.

“So who was the
first
African-American poet?” Daddy probes, grinning.

I playfully roll my eyes at him. “I
still
think it was Phillis Wheatley,” I say as I keep reading. “But, for argument’s sake, I’ll go with this for now. But the verdict is still out.”

He laughs. “Whatever you say, Butterfly.” Daddy walks back over to the table holding something rolled up in his hand, a shirt or something. “Here.” He hands me what’s in his hand. “You’ll need this.”

“What is it?” I take it from him.

Daddy chuckles. “Your apron.”

My jaw drops.
“Apron?”

“Yes. You’ll need it for Saturday.” He leans over and kisses me on the forehead. “And I like my eggs scrambled hard. But you already know that.”

Oh joy. “Hey, how about I take you out instead?” I say as he heads out the kitchen.

“Fat chance,” he says over his shoulder. “I want blueberry pancakes, too.”

I suck my teeth and turn my attention back to my phone. “Love you, too, Daddy.”

“I know you do. Don’t be late for school.”

“I won’t,” I say, opening another link about the life of Jupiter Hammon.

“See you tonight, Butterfly.”

“Bye,” I say absentmindedly, reading more about this eighteenth-century poet.

The security alarm chirps.

Daddy has opened the door.

It chirps again.

He’s gone.

I know without looking at the clock on my phone what time it is: 6:30 a.m.

And time for me to get ready for school.

“S
oooo, are we hanging out after school?” Crystal wants to know as we climb the stairs toward our lockers on the second floor.

I shoulder my backpack, shrugging. “I don’t know. I guess.”

Crystal stops walking and places a hand up on her narrow hip. She’s wearing her WTH face. “Umm, you
guess
? That is sooo not the answer I was looking for, Nia. You do not get to ditch me today, girlfriend. I need a friend.”

I shake my head, smiling. “Sounds like you need a hug more.”

“Well, I’ll take that, too.” She spreads open her arms and gestures with both hands for me to come to her. “Bring it in, Nia-pooh. Give me hugs.”

I laugh. “You’re so silly, girl.” I give her a hug, then grab her right arm and pull her along. “C’mon, before we’re late.”

She groans. “I have calculus first period. You know my brain doesn’t fully awaken until after twelve. I should have never chosen that class so early in the morning. It’s slowly killing my brain cells.”

“Oh, well,” I say, still dragging her down the hall. We’re almost at our lockers when we run into Cameron and two of his basketball friends, Nate and Cole.

Oh, did I mention that Cameron is a starter on the team?

Well, he is.

Crystal grunts. “Oh, God. Not him. It’s too early in the morning for his foolery.”

“Oh, Crystal stop,” I say out of the side of my mouth.
You know you like that boy
. I keep that to myself, as usual. Daddy always says playing matchmaker is a bad thing between two friends you really like. Then if they break up, they’ll both be trying to pull you into their drama. So, because I value Daddy’s opinion, I’m keeping my Cupid’s arrow tucked away in my locker—for now.

Cameron and Nate are laughing and chest bumping each other, then quickly stop goofing off the minute they see an underclassman in a short skirt walk by. They start grinning at her and licking their lips.

“Just look at ’em,” Crystal snorts. “A bunch of horny toads. All testosterone-charged.”

I pretend not to hear her.

Cameron gives his teammates fists pumps, then heads are way when he spots us. He speaks first the minute he approaches us. “Hey.”

“Hey,” I say back.

“Hey,” Crystal mutters, hardly moving her lips, as he sidles up beside us.

“Oh, you can’t speak, peanut head?” Cameron says, stopping. “Please don’t tell me today’s the day that you think you’re too
cute
to speak.”

She rolls her eyes. “Nia, please tell that freakazoid that I said I
am
cute.”

Cameron grabs her in a headlock and playfully rubs his knuckles over her scalp vigorously. Crystal pretends to be pissed, fakes protest, but I see something else in her face.

She likes it.

When Cameron finally releases her, her hair is now all over her head. She hits him. “Boy, you’ve messed up my hair. I can’t stand you.” She runs her hand through her hair trying to smooth it down.

Cameron laughs. “You look better with it tousled. Now you sort of look like a chinchilla instead of a mangy mutt. You can thank me later.”

She flicks him a dismissive hand. “Whatever, dumbass. I’m so done with you.” She stops at her locker, and I wait with her while she opens her locker and pulls out her calculus book. She slams it shut. “Ohmygod! Why is he
still
standing here?”

“By the way, Nia,” Cameron says, “you’re looking real pretty today.” Then he smiles. Flirtatious as usual, because that’s what he is.

A big flirt.

“So where are we hanging after school?” he wants to know when we get to my locker.

“I—”

“
We’ll
be hanging out without
you
,” Crystal cuts in. “You’re officially on a lifetime ban. We need a permanent break from you, boy.”

He laughs. “Nah,
we
need a break from your breath.”

Crystal sucks her teeth. “What a lame.”

“And you’re the fricking best,” Cameron answers back, turning his head to smirk at me and roll his eyes subtly in Crystal’s direction.

That’s when the bell rings. Dang!

“I have to go,” I say abruptly. “See you both fourth period.”

“Nooooo,” Cameron cries. “Don’t leave me with this man-eater. If I end up missing, check her stomach.”

Crystal plucks him. “Oh, shut up, boy. You’re the last thing I’d ever eat.”

Ugh.

I wish they’d just kiss and get it over with already.

* * *

When the last period bell finally rings, everyone gathers their things and quickly spills out into the hallways. As usual, I’m the last to leave Mr. Ling’s physics class. Most kids find Mr. Ling’s honors class to be extremely hard. I see it as a challenge. It pushes me to be more perceptive. It’s a whole-brain subject that really requires you to use both right and left-brain regions. Most people don’t know that. It really hones your thinking skills.

So I enjoy it.

I step out into the hallway and run smack into Cameron. “Oh, hey,” I say, surprised.

“Hey,” he greets me, walking alongside me. “I was waiting for you.”

“You were?
Why
?” I give him a curious look. Or maybe it’s a confused one. It’s hard to tell since I’m not exactly looking at myself in a mirror.

“I wanted to see if . . .” he begins. Then pauses, glancing around at students hurrying past in all directions.

“You wanted to see what?” I ask as we maneuver through the crowded hallway.

Cameron stops walking. He digs into the outside pocket of his book bag and pulls out a small tin of Altoids mints.

“Want one?” he asks, holding the tin out to me.

I hold a hand over my mouth and blow out a breath. “Wait. Does my breath smell?”

“Nah. Your breath always smells sweet,” he says.

For some reason, I feel my cheeks heat, and I blush. “Boy, stop.”

“Nah. I’m serious. Smelling your breath makes butterflies flutter in my stomach. Your breath makes my knees go weak, Nia.”

He says this with a straight face. But I can’t help but burst into laughter. “Ohmygod!” I cry, clutching my chest as if I’m on the verge of cardiac arrest from laughing so hard. “You are sooo dang silly, Cam!”

“Yeah. I’m silly for you, boo.” He waggles his eyebrows. Then smiles.

He plays too much.

For a split second we’re both just smiling at each other.

Awk. Ward.

I tuck hair behind my ear. And then Cameron frees us from this uncomfortably weird moment that passes between us and says, “So you want a mint or not?” He shakes the tin in my face.

“You just said my breath smelled sweet.”

“Yeah. It does. But it’ll smell sweeter with a mint.”

“Ohmygod! You’re so full of BS.” I take a mint. “Thanks.”

“Anytime.” I eye him as he pops a mint into his mouth, then tosses the tin back in his bag. “Where’s Cruella, walking her Dalmatians?”

“Boy, leave Crystal alone,” I say, punching him lightly on the arm as we leisurely stroll the hallway. I wipe a tear from the corner of my eye from laughing so hard. “Why are you always picking on her?”

“On who? Crystal?”

I suck my teeth. “Yes, silly. Who else?”

“Oh.”

I sigh. “Well?”

He shrugs, shoving his hands into his front pockets. “She’s easy prey.” Hmm. Why can’t boys just be honest?

He likes her.

We walk in silence for a moment as he walks me to my locker. I suck on my mint, allowing the sharp peppermint to melt over my tongue as an idea of a poem slowly takes root. A boy having a crush on a girl, but doesn’t tell her until it’s too late. When she’s finally stopped holding her breath and moved on because she never got the memo.

Maybe I’ll call it “Secret Crush,” or something like that.

“So where is she?”

“Huh?” I say, confused, turning to look at him.

“Crystal?”

Oh. I smirk. “Why, you miss her?” I open my locker, tossing my physics book back inside my locker.

“Nope,” he says, leaning up against the bank of lockers. “I’m actually glad she’s not around. She’s annoying.”

I give him a look. “That’s the same thing she says about you.”

He grins. “It’s the one thing we have in common. Besides you.”

I playfully roll my eyes up in my head, shutting my locker. “Oh, lordy. Denial, I see.”

He gives me a puzzled look.

I tilt my head, shouldering my book bag, while giving him a critical once-over. “Cam, admit it. It’s okay.”

He frowns. “Admit
what
?”

Ohmygod!

So he wants to play stupid.

Boys
.

I sigh. “Admit that you like her.”

He rapidly blinks his eyes, then pops them open wide. “That I
like
who?
You
?”

“I said
her
. Not
me
, silly. Crystal.”

“Crystal?”
He bursts out laughing, clutching his stomach. “Hahahahahahaha. You’re joking, right?”

I frown, not seeing the humor in any of this. “No. I’m serious,” I say, arching my brows. “You can tell me. I promise. I won’t tell her.”

He gives me a serious look. One he rarely gives. “Nia. I hate to disappoint you. But I don’t like Crystal. Not like
that
.”

Now I’m confused.

“Are you sure you don’t like her”—I gesture with my forefinger and thumb—“just a teensy bit?”

“Not even.” His eyes never leave mine when he says this.

Still, I’m not fully convinced.

“But you’re always picking with her, like you do.”

He shakes his head. “I tease her because I
like
ruffling her feathers. Not because I
like
her, like her. She’s my
amiga
.”

“I’m your friend, too, but you don’t tease
me
.”

He shifts his stare from mine. “You’re different, Nia.”

How?

He quickly looks away, then glances down at his watch. “Hey, I gotta run. I have study group in the library. Big chemistry test tomorrow.”

“Oh, okay.”

He hoists his backpack onto one shoulder, then turns and scurries away without a backward glance.

Hmm.

What’s up with that?

Then it dawns on me.

He never told me what he wanted to see.