Читать книгу The Black Butterfly - Shirley Reva Vernick - Страница 6

Chapter 1

December 14

Nothing travels faster than the speed of light

with the possible exception of bad news.

—Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

One thing you might as well know about me: I’m a collector. Not tacky salt ’n’ pepper shakers like my mother or lava lamps like my Uncle Cosmo, who’s been stuck in the 1960s for half a century, or smuggled Cuban cigars like my grandfather Quinn. I collect something that’s legal and takes up a lot less space: quotes.

I can’t say why, exactly, except that I like words. You can do things with words—vent, fantasize, escape, create—and you never have to worry about them walking out on you. They’re like having a dog, only without the shedding or the drool. All you have to do is string them together in the right way, and suddenly you’re telling a story or changing somebody’s mind or even making some kind of difference. I think the day I’ll know I’ve made good in the world is the day I hear someone quoting me.

Mostly I collect famous people’s sayings, but I’ll hold onto things ordinary people say if they’re good enough. Like, just yesterday my sociology teacher said, “Having a family is like having a bowling alley installed in your brain.” I don’t know if he made it up or if he got it from someone else, but I liked it so I wrote it on my jeans leg. And who knows? Maybe I’ll say it myself someday when the situation calls for it.

Today the situation called for something my guidance counselor once said: “Life stinks.” All I wanted was to spend Christmas vacation with my own mother in my own house. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently.

It’s like this: Mom is in Idaho, 2,500 miles away from our place in Cambridge, Massachusetts. In case you’re wondering why on earth she’s in the potato state for the holidays, I’ll tell you. She’s chasing ghosts. Yes, you read that right, chasing ghosts. And if you’re thinking how weird is that, well, you don’t know the half of it. My mother not only believes that “paranormal forces” exist, but she thinks she’s going to launch some fabulous new career for herself by catching one on film. All by herself. Like a way, way indie flick. She’s the director, producer, camera operator, publicist and host of her so-called documentaries. Her results? Let’s say they’re less than stellar. In fact, let’s say they’re nonexistent. But mere constant failure never slows her down. No, nothing as trivial as reality is going to stand between her and her dumbass ideas. So last week when she heard about some ghost haunting a backwoods town out in the wild West, off she went. As usual.

And off I went, as usual, to Mom’s best friend Gigi. Gigi has a one-bedroom apartment in Harvard Square over The House of Teriyaki. For the last eight nights, I’ve been sleeping on her lumpy couch with her four cats, the wail of traffic, and the stink of day-old stir-fry grease. But Mom told me not to worry, that she’d finish up in plenty of time for the holidays. Then we’d celebrate her masterpiece, which PBS or Nova would undoubtedly scoop up, and things would start looking up for us.

I was actually in a pretty good mood after school today when I went to pick up Gigi at Midnight Brew where she works behind the counter. Mom was due home tomorrow, so I had only one more night on the couch. Plus school break was just around the corner. Right now, the idea of sleeping till noon in my own bed for two whole weeks felt like winning the lottery.

The good mood didn’t last long though. I knew something was up as soon as I saw Gigi sitting in the shop’s window seat nursing a big styrofoam cup of coffee. She never drinks that stuff, at least not since she started working at this place. Terrible hours, terrible people, terrible uniform—sort of like my life but with minimum wage thrown in. She can’t even stand having the smell of joe in her apartment anymore. So she must’ve really needed the jolt now.

“Hi Geej.” I dropped my backpack under the coat rack, which is painted to look like a smiling octopus holding up its tentacles.

“Huh?” Gigi seemed startled by my voice. “Oh, hi Penny. You’re early today, aren’t you?”

“Nope.” I flopped down next to her and waited to see if she’d unload. I figured the chances were 50-50. If she’d just had a fight with her boss or come up short on her cash register, she wouldn’t say anything here. But if it had something to do with me, she’d want to say it in a public place, where I couldn’t get too…expressive.

I kicked off my clogs and settled into my habit of watching the Harvard kids sip their fancy teas over their iPhones and their poetry books. Gigi peeked at me over the top of her cup and took a big gulp of air. I call this a warning breath. It’s what people do right before they say something they know you don’t want to hear. They take in an oversized lungful of air and hold it, hoping, I guess, that their bad news will magically disappear by the time they get around to exhaling. Damn, it was about me.

“Your mom called earlier,” Gigi said, trying to act nonchalant, but I knew a warning breath when I heard one.

“She’s not coming home tomorrow, is she.” It was a statement, not a question.

I couldn’t believe it. I’d literally been counting down the hours until Mom’s return. Not because I really thought we’d be rolling in glory. I know the deal by now, how no one will buy or even consider her film, how she’ll sit around staring at her toenails until she gets up the oomph to beg for her job at Whole Foods back, and how she’ll eventually start snooping around for another lead. Still, I wanted to get back to my own bed, my own clutter, my own life—such as it is.

Gigi didn’t say anything, just played with the red velour throw pillow that sat between us, twisting the fringes around her fingers.

“She’s not quite wrapped up,” I said. “Or she got another lead. Or did she lose her airplane tickets again?” Now my eyes stung.

“I’m sorry,” Gigi said, like that was supposed to make me feel all better.

“Am I spending Christmas with you,” I asked, “or is she shipping me off to Uncle Cosmo?”

“Cosmo’s going to his in-laws in Las Vegas for the holidays. And I, I’m not going to be around either. I’m going to my sister’s this year.”

Oh no! That only left Great Aunt Aggie, the world’s spittingest, bad-breathiest old maid. Or Cousin Walter, the most gassy, boring loudmouth I’ve ever had the rotten luck to be related to. “So, how about I cat sit for you?” I offered weakly.

“Penny,” Gigi said with a half laugh, “your mom isn’t going to let you stay by yourself—or be alone for Christmas. She’s made…other plans for you.” Her eyes drifted to the floor as she sucked in another warning breath. “Let’s go home and you can call her.”

Wanting to scream but knowing it might get Gigi in trouble, I went to retrieve my backpack from the octopus. “I hate my life,” I muttered as we left.

By the way, this is how your life looks when it’s run by someone like my mother: you have to shop for clothes at SecondHand Ro’s, and even then, you wait for clearance sales. You take the subway everywhere because there’s no car. Your idea of a vacation is a day at the Revere boardwalk. And you move a lot. Never far, just from one crappy apartment to another whenever the rent goes up, just far enough to force you to switch schools every year or two. You don’t make friends, so you sit at the outcast table in the cafeteria. You write quotes on your jeans. And you spend a lot of time at Gigi’s.

“You hungry?” Gigi asked as we walked in the direction of her apartment. “We could stop at Big Scoops if you want. They have their Christmas flavors out. Peppermint crunch and pecan pie.”

“No thanks,” I sighed. “I couldn’t eat if you paid me, not now.”

Mom’s bouncing around wouldn’t be so bad if there was a dad in the picture, but there isn’t. Never has been. All I know about The Donor (a.k.a. Justin) is that Mom met him in Chicago at the Pizza Hut where they both worked part-time. They were in their late twenties, apparently still waiting to bloom. Mom claims they were in love and thought they were going to last forever. Then she decided to go to film school in Boston, and—surprise, surprise—he wouldn’t follow her. So she went to Boston by herself—sort of. She was carrying me, only she didn’t know it until she got here. She didn’t bother telling him. So it’s always been just Mom and me, the two of us.

Except when it’s just me, alone. And right now, alone felt like my middle name.

Life is divided into the horrible and the miserable.

—Woody Allen

“Mom?”

Static.

“Mom.”

“Is that you, Penny? I can barely hear you.”

“It’s me. How could you do this?”

“Gigi? Penny? Is it Penny or Gigi?”

“When are you coming home, Mom?”

“Didn’t Gigi tell you I can’t get back on time? Let me talk to her.”

“She told me. But when are you coming home?” Not that I ever want to see you again, I thought.

“What? Penny, speak up. It’s terribly noisy in here, and we’ve got a bad connection.”

“Where are you, anyway?” As if it matters.

“I’m in Coyote, Idaho. You know that. At the Shotgun Murder Mansion. It’s gorgeous out here, honey. I’d love to take you some—”

“Where are you sending me? And for how long?” You traitor.

Muffled sounds of chatter.

“Jesus, Mom, can’t you go somewhere quieter for half a minute?”

“I’ll try. There’s a big crowd here waiting to hear the head of the National Paranormal Society speak. Wait now…excuse me, sir. Thank you. Hold on, honey…okay, how’s this? I’m outside now. Better? I miss you.”

“Look, just tell me what the deal is so I know where I’m gonna be.”

“You’re going to love it, Penny. At first I was worried. It looked like no one was going to be around this holiday. Then I remembered my old friend Bubbles and crackle—said you could pfffsst—that Sunday if you want to crackle—flight—”

“Mom, you’re breaking up. Talk fast before I lose you altogether.”

Silence.

“Mom?”

“Penny? Sorry honey, the cell signals are bad down here. I told it all to Gigi before but I’ll try again now. I’m going to be here a while longer, so you’re going—”

Static. Rapid beeping. Dial tone.

That’s how Gigi got stuck telling me Mom’s dirty little plan: I’d be spending my Christmas break with Mom’s childhood friend Bubbles, someone Mom had never managed to mention, much less introduce me to. Christmas with strangers. Could it get any worse?

Yes, as it turned out, it could. “Where does this Bubbles person live?” I asked, pacing the length of the couch with Tuna Breath kitty at my heels. “Please say Florida, on the beach.”

“Well,” Gigi said, “it does have a beach.” She tried to laugh, but it sounded more like she was gargling. “It’s called Islemorow. It’s an island, a pretty little island. And it’s, it’s…”

“Where?”

She wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“I’m not going to need sunscreen and tank tops, I take it.”

“More like thermals and turtlenecks,” she finally confessed, plucking the TV remote from between the cushions and twiddling it. “It’s off the coast of Maine, according to your mom. Bubbles runs an inn there. The Black Butterfly Inn. I guess there’s a big summer business, but not too many visitors this time of year. So there’s space for you. You’ll have your own room, at least—that’ll be nice. And just think of your poor mother –”

“Oh, yes,” I said with all the melodrama I could muster. “My poor, poor mother.” Burdened with that pesky little offspring who has the nerve to expect a roof over her head every night. How does she ever manage? “So how am I supposed to get to this frozen pebble—swim?”

“Actually,” Gigi said, curling her legs under her, “Bubbles is setting up the travel arrangements. You’re going to fly there. She must be some friend, that Bubbles, huh?”

I collapsed onto the couch. Tuna Breath pounced on my lap for a cuddle, but I threw him off. He half purred, half meowed, like he wasn’t sure how to feel about this unexpected betrayal. My eye caught the famous photo of Mom and Gigi propped up on the end table. They’re at Boston’s Quincy Market eating ice cream cones, and Gigi is giving Mom a piggyback ride. Gigi is big enough and Mom is short and wiry enough that this is an easy feat for both of them. Mom’s frizzy blonde hair takes up half the picture, but your eyes go straight to her legendary smile, complete with ice cream mustache. The two of them look like they’re having a blast.

“If this Bubbles is such a great friend,” I said, “how come I’ve never heard of her before? Has Mom ever mentioned her to you?”

“Well no, but—well anyway, it doesn’t sound so bad, this place, does it?”

“I’m not going.”

“Of course you’re going. You have to go.” Gigi pushed her plentiful body off the couch and gathered up silky white Boccaccio, her favorite. Boccaccio jumped from her arms straight onto my lap and started rubbing his white whiskers against my cheek. I pushed him away.

“I’m not going,” I said again. I stared at the blank TV screen, wondering how Gigi would try to handle me. What could she do, anyway? She couldn’t throw me over her shoulder and haul me onto the plane. She could try calling my mother, but even if she got through, what could Mom do all the way from Idaho?

So this is what being in control felt like. And I was. For once in my life, I was in control. No one could make me go to this stinking island if I didn’t want to. I could stay right here if I felt like it. I was in charge, and you know how it felt? Rotten. Because if I didn’t go, Gigi would end up skipping her family Christmas to be with me. And when Mom found out, she’d make my life even more miserable than it already was, if that’s possible. So I wasn’t really in control at all. Mom had won again.