drawings now.
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“You do that.”
“You’re an idiot,” I say, laughing. He opens to page one: butterflies. Page two: butterflies. Page three: Pre-Raphaelite notes and drawings. Loose papers: shopping list, revision notes I haven’t typed up yet and probably never will. Page four: view from my bedroom window, sky like marble, fluid. Pages five to eleven: sculpture designs for my Art coursework, colour tests, notes on the type of butterfly.
“You like butterflies,” he comments.
“Your powers of deduction astound me.”
“Why butterflies?”
“They’re gorgeous. Free. They start as a tiny egg stuck to a leaf somewhere, insignificant, and go on a journey to become this almost magical creature.”
I don’t say it aloud, but I think, that’s what I love most about butterflies: their ability to completely transform, and with such exquisite style. Imagine waking up one morning and being able to fly. Yesterday you were the short, fat kid under threat from the bird bullies. Today you’re Angelina freaking Jolie with wings. Complete metamorphosis.
“They’re pretty, I guess. Like you.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes, but can’t help feeling flattered.
“I mean it.”
“Well, thanks, Casanova.”
“You’re welcome, Francesca.”
“Francesca?”
“In the story. Casanova’s in love with Francesca. Not that I’m saying I’m… Well, you know what I mean.”
I narrow my eyes at him. It’s kind of nice to see him squirm, with his guard down.
“So anyway, could you draw me? Just my face or something,” says Finn.
It’s one thing drawing him from across the hockey pitch but up close… “I’m no good at faces.”
“Why don’t you just draw my hands, then?”
“I could handle that.” I look at his long, tapered fingers, calloused and manly. Big. I trace my finger across a barely there red line on his palm. “Boarding scar?” Finn nods. I rough out the edges of his fingers, and use different colours to add tone and depth. They look older in pastel. The hands of a trawlerman; powerful, rugged.
“Did you know there’s a butterfly called a Chequered Skipper?” I don’t look up. His hand, the hand I’m drawing, rests on my left knee. The book sits in my lap. I have a glance-rally between the page and his hand, making sure to capture each contour, each shadow, exactly.
“No.”
“And a Scrub-Hairstreak?”
“Ah yes, from the lesser-known family of Bad Dyejob butterflies.”
“You’re funny,” I say, sarcastically. “They have all sorts of names. Red Flasher is one of my favourites for obvious, childish reasons. Daggerwing. There’s one called Question Mark. And a Comma. How weird is that?” I don’t stop for an answer. “There’s even one called Mourning Cloak.”
“I assume that one’s black,” he says. I stop drawing, flick a few pages back.
“Yup,” I say, tapping a sketch of a Mourning Cloak. “But I think you’ll appreciate this one.” I turn the book so he can see another pencil drawing.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah. It reminds me of you.”
“What’s it called?”
“Dogface. Not kidding.” We fall about, play-fighting, joking. Free like butterflies.
Thank you, Lovegods, from the bottom of my uber-grateful girlie heart.
CHAPTER 13
School is an escape. None of these people know me. I can be anybody. I want to fit in, but on my terms. I don’t want to slot in where I’ve always been: inconsequential, forgettable, nobody. This is my chance – my final opportunity – to shine.
School is an alternative universe where I can be cool and assertive. OK, I was shy at first, who wouldn’t be? But then I discovered you can fake confidence, and soon it starts paying off. Act confident, be confident.
In the common room at break, Lauren and Sienna sit dissecting
Heat
magazine.
I pick at a satsuma’s white veins.
Lauren flips through the pages. “Look at the size of her bump. She must be carrying a litter. Of
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“You do that.”
“You’re an idiot,” I say, laughing. He opens to page one: butterflies. Page two: butterflies. Page three: Pre-Raphaelite notes and drawings. Loose papers: shopping list, revision notes I haven’t typed up yet and probably never will. Page four: view from my bedroom window, sky like marble, fluid. Pages five to eleven: sculpture designs for my Art coursework, colour tests, notes on the type of butterfly.
“You like butterflies,” he comments.
“Your powers of deduction astound me.”
“Why butterflies?”
“They’re gorgeous. Free. They start as a tiny egg stuck to a leaf somewhere, insignificant, and go on a journey to become this almost magical creature.”
I don’t say it aloud, but I think, that’s what I love most about butterflies: their ability to completely transform, and with such exquisite style. Imagine waking up one morning and being able to fly. Yesterday you were the short, fat kid under threat from the bird bullies. Today you’re Angelina freaking Jolie with wings. Complete metamorphosis.
“They’re pretty, I guess. Like you.”
“Oh, please.” I roll my eyes, but can’t help feeling flattered.
“I mean it.”
“Well, thanks, Casanova.”
“You’re welcome, Francesca.”
“Francesca?”
“In the story. Casanova’s in love with Francesca. Not that I’m saying I’m… Well, you know what I mean.”
I narrow my eyes at him. It’s kind of nice to see him squirm, with his guard down.
“So anyway, could you draw me? Just my face or something,” says Finn.
It’s one thing drawing him from across the hockey pitch but up close… “I’m no good at faces.”
“Why don’t you just draw my hands, then?”
“I could handle that.” I look at his long, tapered fingers, calloused and manly. Big. I trace my finger across a barely there red line on his palm. “Boarding scar?” Finn nods. I rough out the edges of his fingers, and use different colours to add tone and depth. They look older in pastel. The hands of a trawlerman; powerful, rugged.
“Did you know there’s a butterfly called a Chequered Skipper?” I don’t look up. His hand, the hand I’m drawing, rests on my left knee. The book sits in my lap. I have a glance-rally between the page and his hand, making sure to capture each contour, each shadow, exactly.
“No.”
“And a Scrub-Hairstreak?”
“Ah yes, from the lesser-known family of Bad Dyejob butterflies.”
“You’re funny,” I say, sarcastically. “They have all sorts of names. Red Flasher is one of my favourites for obvious, childish reasons. Daggerwing. There’s one called Question Mark. And a Comma. How weird is that?” I don’t stop for an answer. “There’s even one called Mourning Cloak.”
“I assume that one’s black,” he says. I stop drawing, flick a few pages back.
“Yup,” I say, tapping a sketch of a Mourning Cloak. “But I think you’ll appreciate this one.” I turn the book so he can see another pencil drawing.
“It’s beautiful.”
“Yeah. It reminds me of you.”
“What’s it called?”
“Dogface. Not kidding.” We fall about, play-fighting, joking. Free like butterflies.
Thank you, Lovegods, from the bottom of my uber-grateful girlie heart.
CHAPTER 13
School is an escape. None of these people know me. I can be anybody. I want to fit in, but on my terms. I don’t want to slot in where I’ve always been: inconsequential, forgettable, nobody. This is my chance – my final opportunity – to shine.
School is an alternative universe where I can be cool and assertive. OK, I was shy at first, who wouldn’t be? But then I discovered you can fake confidence, and soon it starts paying off. Act confident, be confident.
In the common room at break, Lauren and Sienna sit dissecting
Heat
magazine.
I pick at a satsuma’s white veins.
Lauren flips through the pages. “Look at the size of her bump. She must be carrying a litter. Of
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