“I was,” you say, adding defensively, “I mean, I am.” You type something else fast, before swinging your legs around the side of the bed to sit up. “Plus, I offered to help last night, remember? After the mall. But some of us were too busy to go.”
But you knew when you invited me I wasn’t going to. You knew I wouldn’t be comfortable hanging with those girls or, worse, being stuck inviting them over here after. Not with Mom the way she can be. Is. Not until she’s doing better. There are people you can risk things with, and people you can’t.
“But, seriously, JL,” you say, lowering your voice, “I’m still not sure what you see in him.”
Liar, Aubrey!
Sorry, but you are. Whatever people had to say about Max Gordon, or thought they knew about him, he is undeniably hot, and undeniably good with his hands. Not like you’re thinking, either—I’m not saying that. But he can make anything, fix anything. Build dirt bikes from scraps. Play guitar.
People underestimate how smart he is, too. His mother is an English teacher, so he’s read all sorts of books. More than I ever will. More than you. All the classics, and famous poems, lines he can recite by heart. So if he wasn’t Mr. Honor Society, maybe it’s because he didn’t want to be. Maybe he didn’t give a crap about that kind of thing …
And that day the Tropicals arrived? I was happy, Aubrey, happy about Max, about us being a couple, and all I wanted was for you to be happy for me, too.
But you weren’t, were you? You weren’t even willing to try.
I don’t answer you. I won’t justify your jealousy, or whatever it is, by defending Max Gordon. At least you slide back onto the floor as if you might be ready to help me. I hand you the cup with the Jezebel larvae.
“Ew, gross,” you say, peering in.
“They’re not gross. They’re cute.”
I look into the other culture that holds several tiny brownish-yellow worms with pin-sized black heads. It’s the first time I’m raising butterflies from this early larval phase, and, yeah, they’re definitely not as cute as the full-grown Monarch or Swallowtail caterpillars, with their yellow and black stripes and little Muppet-looking faces.
“Wait till you see them hatch,” I say. “They’re ridiculously pretty. And these,” I add, holding out the cup with the Glasswing larvae, “the chrysalises are this amazing iridescent, neon green, like a gemstone, and the butterflies are totally transparent.”
“Like glass,” you say, and I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic. You tip the culture cup you’re holding at me, and think for a second. “And these? Why are they called Jezebels, anyway?” Panic rises in my chest before I even know why, because there’s something in your voice, something cruel, even if you’re pretending the question is innocent. It’s as if you’ve been waiting to ask it. “Jez-e-bels,” you repeat purposefully, emphasizing all three syllables.
“I don’t know, Aubs; why?” I swallow hard. “Why would I care?”
“No reason. It’s just, I asked my mom one day, because you had been talking about the butterflies, you know, ‘Jezebels this, and Jezebels that,’ and she was watching one of those old black-and-white movies she loves, and when the commercial break was over and the title came on—get this—guess what it was called?”
“Jezebels,” I snap back, annoyed.
“Jezebel, singular, actually. But, I mean, what are the chances of that?”
“I have no idea,” I say.
“Anyway, I asked my mom what the film was about, because it’s such a coincidence, right? And she said it was about this skanky Southern belle who everyone thinks is a whore. Because that’s what a Jezebel is, JL. A Jezebel is a whore. And it’s just kind of odd that, of all the butterflies you could have picked—”
My eyes shoot to you, my throat lodging with tears. “We both know your mother didn’t say that,” I challenge, because there’s not a chance in hell Mrs. Andersson used any of those words.
“Not directly … but she made it clear.” Your eyes laser focus on me and you add, “I’m trying to help, JL. That’s all I’m doing.” You shift your gaze from me to Max, and back to me. “Like, you know he’s nineteen, right? And not exactly—”
“Of course I do!” I cut you off. “You’re being stupid is what you’re doing.” I fight to keep my voice from breaking. I don’t want to give you the satisfaction. Besides, Max and I haven’t been dating that long. We haven’t done much. I haven’t done anything. “Why don’t you go, Aubrey?” I say, standing. “It’s obvious you don’t want to be here.”
You stand, too. “I’m just saying, JL, if you talk about them in public—the butterflies, I mean—the name is kind of suggestive. So, maybe don’t call them that, is all.”
“Noted.”
You move to my bedroom door, and I hold it open for you, half-hoping you’ll argue, say you’re sorry, that you really want to stay. You hover there, wordless.
“All set, Jailbait!” Max exclaims too loudly, before yanking his earbuds out and tossing them onto my desk. He stands, nearly knocking my desk chair over with his strong, solid body, and stretches, causing his white T-shirt to ride up, revealing the edge of a sleek black motorcycle tattoo peering from the waistband of his jeans. I’ve traced my finger along its outline, asking questions, but all I really know is that he put it there, hidden, because his dad would “kick my ass otherwise.” He turns to me and says, “One deluxe butterfly habitat, fully assembled, though it wasn’t much more than screwing a few screws.”
(I feel your eyes bore through the back of my head.)
Max kicks the cardboard and Bubble Wrap away from the leg of the chair with his work boot–clad foot, and places the multi-level habitat on the floor. He scans the room, confused, and raises his eyebrows at my open door, but I don’t turn.
“What happened?” he asks. “Where’d she go?”
I don’t answer.
It’s better at this point if you’ve gone.
SEPTEMBER
FIFTH GRADE
1. Always be friends.
2. Never fight.
3. Never ever date a boy the other person likes.
4. Never keep secrets from each other.
You put your pen down.
“Anything you want to add?” you ask.
MID-APRIL
TENTH GRADE
My cell phone buzzes from my desk, next to the dead, splinted Jezebel and my closed, unhelpful laptop.
“Shut up,” I say, as it vibrates against the wood, but what if it’s Max?
I still can’t bring myself to answer it.
I close my eyes. Poor, dead butterfly.
From the larvae that shipped, only half survived through the fifth and sixth instar phase, and of those, only seven butterflies had emerged from their beautiful chrysalises. Three Glasswings and four Jezebels, that’s it. I had already felt like a failure, and now one of the Jezebels is dead.
Aubrey would be pleased. Not including me, one less Jezebel in the world.