Jack Kerouac is Dead to Me - Gae Polisner Page 0,4

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.

My phone buzzes again—this time a brief, single message alert—so I force myself over to my desk to clean up. But when I get there, the butterfly is upright, her wings folded back and her antennae poking about in the air.

I know she’s only a butterfly, but I’m so happy I could cry.

I watch, overwhelmed, as she crawls to the edge of my desk, her proboscis dipping, her wings preparing for flight. She takes off, circling the room a few times before she lands on the habitat, next to the orange slice I placed there.

I give her a moment to drink, before lifting her with the fruit and slipping her carefully back inside.

On my cell, the message is from Dad. My chest tightens. What if he’s changing his plans? I dial him back, my heart sinking, but it rings four times, and goes to voicemail.

Maybe that’s best. Maybe I don’t want to know.

The front door opens. I hear Mom move through the