Crumpled Butterflies

I’m watching the little girls through the door window, my eyes following pink tutus puffing and sinking with pirouettes. Do you remember when we did this together, our cheeks pressed against one another’s, breath mingling? It was fall then and it smelled of apples. It’s spring now, a day before my sixteenth birthday. I miss walking home with you, the heat of our intertwined hands warming us. The walk doesn’t look any different: there are the same aspen trees; the pavement’s still cracked and laced with strips of tar; I still watch the butterflies.

The walk is different because you’re not with me. Since you died, I haven’t gone to Pointe classes. I did once, close to New Year’s, but couldn’t do across-the-floors without you. I cried in the hallway after class. No one noticed. I think I melded into the shadows that day.

One of the little girls behind the pane of glass makes eye contact with me and smiles, feet in fifth position. She reminds me of the first time I met you.
You were watching butterflies untangle themselves from their cocoons. You mentioned how much harder it was for you then the butterflies – guilt and disappointment knit themselves into you. I didn’t understand at first. I do now.
I remember that you knelt and whistled at the crumpled butterflies, trying to raise them with your soft breath. You glanced up at me and tucked a strand of hair behind one ear. Your eyes did the smiling for you then.

We talked about our childhoods on our way home. You spoke about emigrating from France; I murmured the memories of my father. You were afraid to cry in front of me, but I saw tears tremble in your eyes. We shared tears on that walk even though they were silent.

Do you remember that?

I remember our promise. It was the beginning of fall then, the edges of leaves just barely turning yellow. The air still grasped to the smell of summer: the cut grass, the overheated pavement. We sat on the sidewalk together, beneath the slow-moving butterflies, on our way home. You kissed me and I kissed you back, lips open and barely brushing. So innocent. You tasted of peaches and the wind.
A sob forced its way through my lips and into your mouth. One of your tears slipped down my face and our hands clawed in the air for each other. We held and collapsed into each other on that sidewalk underneath the butterflies. Your whispers were drenched with tears as you murmured harshly to yourself in French. I held your face between my hands until you would look at me. I didn’t want to love you. But I did. Uncontrollably.

We agreed no one could know.

My mom knows now. I told her after your funeral. When I did, she stood up and left the room without a word.

That day underneath the butterflies was just the beginning.

I step back as the door opens and the little girls in tutus stream out for a water fountain break. The girl who I had made eye contact with flashes me a grin.
Remember Pointe class the day after the butterflies? We did partner stretches together just so we could have our fingers linger on each other’s skin. While scampering down the stairs for our water fountain break, we snuck kisses from one another before anyone else had a chance to see. I never minded.

The sun is slipping behind the mountains. I really should head home. Cracking open the door, I give the girl one last smile. The air smells of rain. There’s a trail of moonflowers climbing up the corner of the building and I pick one for you. They were your favorites.

Rain splatters on the same ground where we lay together, pulling our bodies and lips closer. It was raining then too. Your hair was a veil of water droplets and our hands gingerly slipped over each other’s bodies like silk. It was the first time we cried in front of one another, but I couldn’t tell the tears from the rain.

Now my eyes are dry.

I blame myself for when your dad found us. The moon had risen and he came searching for you with a flashlight and an empty grimace. I didn’t notice the beam of light sweeping over the grass. He discovered us lying together, you on top of me and sliding off my shirt and me underneath, kissing you.

We thought the darkness would hide us.

He dragged you out of my arms. I can still hear your whimpers echoing in my mind. I scrambled up to try to help you, but as soon as my fingers touched yours, he hit me.

Your dad walked you into Pointe class the next day, a hand firmly on your forearm and ice in his gaze. Your head was high, back rigid, but I could see the tears quiver in your eyes. There was a cut across your cheekbone and bruises clouded your fair skin. I pressed my lips together hard to keep from crying out. He released you and talked to the Pointe teacher in the corner. You walked to your spot on the bar next to me and gazed down at the floor. They talked in low tones across the room and your hand slipped into mine. Our eyes didn’t meet until your dad left.

After class, you pulled me into the bathroom and locked the door. You started crying and collapsed onto the floor, your tutu splayed around you. I kneeled and kissed away your tears; they were salty on my lips. You apologized over and over: I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. When you stopped, your lips trembling and eyes wide in a pool of tears, you kissed me hard and soft at the same time.

Like the rain. You were like the rain.