The Boxer and the Butterfly

Chapter One

While I sat in the last class for the day—Honors English—I fidgeted in my seat, waiting for my punishment to come. Usually nothing could shake my focus. This was my senior year, the last semester and the final months leading up to college life. I was driven. But last weekend I decided to have a complete brain disconnect and did something I would’ve never done. I still cannot come up with any kind of logical reason why I did it.

Along with a bunch of other kids, I decided to graffiti the side of the school. We were caught by Mr. Romano, the same teacher I was staring at now as he lectured us about Beowulf, how we interpreted it, what we came away with, on and on and on. Pre-graffiti, I would’ve jumped in and voiced my opinion on the crazy mother in Beowulf. Not today. I had no words, only nerves creeping up my spine, driving me mad all day long as I waited for our principal to call my name out on the intercom ordering me to his office. I’d never been in trouble in my entire life, so I was seriously struggling with being in an unfamiliar role. What would Principal Oliverio do to me?

Mr. Romano was new this year, and was Principal Oliverio’s younger half-brother. Not that I kept tabs on our principal outside of school, but had I not been told they were brothers, I would’ve never guessed. On occasion I noticed the two pass in the hallway and it felt cold, restrained. There would be a stiff nod at times, but nothing more. It was as though the two either worked to be completely professional, avoiding the conflict of interest that can be created by two siblings working together, or there were larger issues at hand.

Principal Oliverio adored me. I was on my way to graduating top in my class, so in a sense, I was the educational pride of the school. Mr. Romano, on the other hand, was a great teacher full of passion for his profession, but as I found out last Friday, he was also a complete hardass.

Autumn Chamberlain, please report to the principal’s office. The secretary’s voice leaked out of the intercom in a dull tone, resonating my doom.

All heads turned my way. Oh, God. My palms were sweaty, my heart hammered away in my chest. I knew this was coming, but in those last few seconds it felt like I was suffocating. Choking down my fear, I snatched up my purse, my English book, and stood with the poise people expected of me. Smoothing down my skirt, I walked out of the room into the hallway where the click of my short heels sounded like nails sealing my coffin. Why was I being so ridiculous about this?

After berating me, my mom and dad, the well-respected Frank and Estelle Chamberlain, went over what would likely happen. My parents leveled with me that they, being prominent members of the community alongside Principal Oliverio, were not without benefits. A donation would be made, appearances would be kept, nothing would go on my permanent record, and this little incident would soon be forgotten. Then why was I so apprehensive?

Finally reaching the door that led to my fate, I stopped abruptly as I faced a boy barging out of the door, obviously pissed.

Mickey Costello.

My breath hitched in my throat as our gazes met. His blue eyes looked like a frozen tundra; an icy hell was captured there, cold and frigid. And he was staring me down as though I was the object of his irritation. He moved a little closer toward me. I was a timid rabbit, not sure what to do, but held in place under his spell. He let out a soft sigh. His lips curled up slightly, showing a devious grin, his white teeth glaring. He lifted his fingers to cup my chin.

Oh, dear Lord, what was happening? Why was I standing still, paralyzed, unable to move away from him? My pulse thrummed in my ears so loudly I nearly didn’t hear him when he said seductively, Stay out of my way.

He jerked his hand away and shoved past me. I was rattled. Stunned. What in the hell just happened? Mickey Costello had a reputation, and after that experience it would seem the negativity associated with him was true. He reeked bad boy all the way.

Finally letting out the breath I’d been holding, I shook off the remnants of Mickey’s spell and walked through the door leading to Principal Oliverio’s office. Our secretary, Mrs. Smith, was seated behind her desk. Looking over the rim of her glasses at me, she said in her monotone voice, You may go in.

Silently, I pushed the door open and walked into his office. Shutting the door behind me, I immediately caught sight of Principal Oliverio gazing out his window, his hands behind his back, his shoulders squared with tension. He definitely looked mad. Was I to blame for his rigid posture, or was it the equally pissed off boy who stormed out before me?

After the door clicked shut, Principal Oliverio turned to face me. Please have a seat, Autumn.

I slid down into the leather upholstered chair facing him, trying to breathe in and out evenly so as not to give away how scared and shaken I truly was. He never sat. After staring at me thoughtfully for what felt like forever, Principal Oliverio finally said, I trust you know why you’re here.

Words jammed in my throat, I mechanically nodded my head. Leaning against the window pane, the light caught on Principal Oliverio’s receding hairline made him look more sinister than I remembered.

Let me preface what I’m about to discuss with you by stating that I frown upon school destruction of any kind, Miss Chamberlain. Typically—he seemed to be choosing his words carefully—this kind of situation could be dealt with discreetly. But Mr. Romano has personally involved himself as he was the one to witness the misconduct.

Where was he going with this? My mind started to race as I began to think of horrible scenarios, ones where my record would be scarred by the one stupid thing I did in my life. Or community service where everyone coming and going could see me picking up litter alongside the road like branding a scarlet letter on my back for the world to see. Or worse. Oh, no. I couldn’t even think about it. Could my one poor decision end up with me being on probation? No, no, no!

I cleared my throat. From somewhere I gathered enough courage to ask, What do you mean?

I think you and I both know normally this would result in mild punishment, but my hands are tied and Mr. Romano and I have come up with something, however unconventional, that we can both agree on, he said, looking down at me as though he were struggling to say enough for me to understand but equally refraining from divulging too much.

Okay, I squeaked out. I didn’t want to hear what he was going to say, but I needed to know. The suspense twisted my insides. My future hung on his lips and it was killing me.

We have a student, a senior who needs help completing his academic requirements in order to pass a particular class. He paused as though evaluating how I was processing his words this far and then continued. With the last semester just beginning, there is still time for this student to catch up his grade, allowing him to apply to certain colleges should he choose.

What does that have to do with me? I asked.

As you are slated to be the valedictorian, what better student do we have than you to catch up this student? Tutor him, if you will.

"What do you mean? Like I need to make sure he passes?" I asked, somewhat astonished at how things were turning out nothing like I predicted.

Exactly. Mr. Romano, he said through gritted teeth, suggested the two of you pairing up in his class for a joint grade as that would ensure you taking your part in this serious and guaranteeing that this student pass Mr. Romano’s Honors English class.

What? Are you kidding me? How is that fair? I can’t be held responsible for someone who, according to you, is failing the class. I have good grades because they are my own, not averaged in with someone else’s. I crossed my legs, my spine snapping straight with irritation.

I could exercise the most serious punishment within my power and I promise you this pales in comparison, Miss Chamberlain. For reasons of his own, Mr. Romano wants this student to pass his class. I, on the other hand, want this boy out of my school forever, and as Mr. Romano is the hold up, there is little I can do but place this in your hands and trust that you’ll understand the situation, he said, his voice clipped.

I was completely baffled, but I could see the resolve in Principal Oliverio’s gaze. I wasn’t going to win this. Reluctant to find out who my new responsibility was, I finally asked the dreaded question.

Who is it?

Mickey Costello.

Chapter Two

I felt confident our conversation was over. The bell rang and I bolted from the principal’s office and ran to my Jetta. Sliding in, I sat with my hands gripping the wheel, ignition off, trying to digest what just happened.

After arguing that Mickey and I didn’t have Honors English together, Principal Oliverio made it perfectly clear the schedule change would be taken care of. I still reasoned that if Mickey was in Honors English, why in the world would he need help? He’d have to have done well enough in all prior English classes to even be in Honors English. The only comment Principal Oliverio would make regarding my questions was that Mickey failed the first semester and he needed to pass the second in order to graduate without that blemish on his transcript. That was no kind of answer at all. Why would he have worked that hard to quit in the last semester of Honors English?

Letting a frustrated sigh escape between my teeth, I turned the key, firing up my Jetta, and backed out of the parking lot. My head was spinning in circles as I drove out onto the main road. How was it fair that Mickey Costello was my responsibility? What agenda did Mr. Romano have? Why would he care how I was disciplined or if Mickey passed his class? And why would our principal go along with it? It didn’t add up. I couldn’t wrap my head around it.

I was going to have to come up with a game plan on how to tackle Mickey. Thinking back to our run-in, I couldn’t fathom how to approach him about us working together to achieve the grade I needed in Honors. But then again, I was a Chamberlain. We didn’t lower ourselves like this. My parents would convince Principal Oliverio to see things my way. Screw Mickey. I wasn’t going to let some badass loser mess up the bright future I’d worked my ass off for.

Driving through the entrance of our gated community, I decided this wasn’t for me. It wasn’t fair. Not trying to minimize what I’d done, but the school could cover up my mistake with a paint brush. Nothing could change my grade but me. Adding Mickey Costello into the equation wasn’t going to cut it.

I pulled into the driveway leading up to our white two-story home surrounded by perfectly manicured lawns. My mother made sure our home had the greatest curb appeal. She knew where every blade of grass belonged. Killing the ignition, I jumped out of the Jetta and ran inside. My parents would side with me. Fix this. Make this problem go away. There had to be another way to dole out punishment other than pairing me with Mickey.

As the regional director in West Virginia for Clarksburg Trust Financial, my dad was on another business trip. But my mom would be lounging around the house somewhere. If she or I needed, my dad was only a phone call away. If she couldn’t fix it, he would. Throwing my keys on the granite countertop, I walked through the sliding glass doors leading to the outside veranda.

Mom?

She wasn’t outside and I paused for a moment, trying to remember if her car was even in the driveway. I’d been too caught up to even notice. I walked back through the doors and came into the kitchen. I looked around but only found fresh cinnamon rolls, meaning our maid, Mary, was recently here. Hearing the shuffling of feet, I turned to see Mary coming from the living room into the kitchen.

Oh, hi, Mary, I said. Have you seen my mom?

She’s at the Country Club. The committee called for her earlier, Mary said, grabbing a Lysol wipe and cleaning off the stovetop.

What for? I needed to talk to my mom while my anger was fresh.

I think they’re wanting to organize a fundraiser and needed your mother’s input, Mary said, her back to me as she attended to her task. Is there something I can help you with? She looked over her shoulder at me.

No, that’s okay, I said, a frustrated sigh escaping me.

Mary raised a sharp, skeptical brow at me. If you’re sure.

I bit my bottom lip. Okay, I said. I needed someone to talk to and I couldn’t call my mom at the Country Club and interrupt one of her meetings. She would tell me that unless I was dead, dying, or on fire, while attending Country Club business she should never be interrupted.

You know I got into trouble, right? It was embarrassing bringing it up, but I knew Mary was aware of my little debacle.

She gave a stiff nod while continuing to clean the stovetop.

Principal Oliverio called me into his office today and instead of this thing going away like it should, he told me that I have to help this boy at school raise his grade as punishment, I said, full of confidence Mary would jump to my defense.

And?

And? What do you mean? I said incredulously.

"And, what’s the problem?" Mary asked, her brows drawn up.

Well, for starters, why should I have to tutor anyone as punishment? Secondly, my parents donate enough money to school that me having to do anything is ridiculous. And lastly, this boy in particular is hopeless, I said, anger welling up inside me thinking about him.

Mary put her wipe down and brushed her hands off on her apron. You’re asking me to evaluate your situation? Is that correct?

Yes.

With her faced scrunched up, Mary looked like she was ready to say some things I might not want to hear.

You painted the side of a public wall, Autumn. And you think your punishment for that, your penitence should be paid for with your parent’s money?

I opened my mouth to respond, but the words were jammed in my throat. It didn’t sound that ridiculous in my head, but when she voiced it I felt awkward.

Well?

No, I whispered.

Did you know that in some countries what you did would result in a public flogging or worse? Mary’s lips were pursed. She was obviously disgusted with my behavior.

No, I, uh…. I could feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. This was so out of character for Mary. But what could I say? I asked for her opinion. This wasn’t the one I expected. I guess she wasn’t on my side after all.

Then what would be a fair punishment for you? Mary asked, throwing this all back on me.

I don’t know, I answered honestly. My parent’s money fixed everything. But having her insinuate that it was wrong, verbalizing it and making it real, made me feel ashamed for the first time in my life.

Perhaps it’s time you face the music you wrote and dance to its tune. You did the crime. Helping a boy raise his grade in your last semester certainly is far from the worst thing that could ever happen to you, Autumn, Mary said, her gaze softening toward me.

But… I started. Mary cut me off.

No, Autumn. The right thing to do is clean up your own mess, and if that means tutoring a hopeless boy, then you’ll be faced with another task in addition to the damage you did to that wall, Mary said.

What do you mean?

You say this boy is hopeless, Mary said, a bit of humor glinting in her eyes. Then it sounds like to me you need to find the hope in him.

Chapter Three

After talking with Mary I went to my room and lay on my bed for a long time. I don’t know how long I lay there, staring up at the ceiling, before I actually fell asleep. I heard my mother pull into our driveway, but for some reason, I didn’t have it in me to see her. It felt strange dealing with a new emotion, the shame inside of me. As I lay there, the shame I felt soon gave way to another feeling: guilt.

****

Hearing the screeching of my alarm clock, I sluggishly sat up in bed, peeling my lids back. In a hurry, everything that happened yesterday came rushing back to me. I thought about Mary, about facing the music, dancing to a strange new tune. If I were to go through with all Principal Oliverio and my new conscience wanted me to, I needed a strategy. I needed a plan of attack that didn’t involve my parent’s money. This would be a first for me.

After taking a hot shower, I assessed myself in the mirror. I looked at my wet, limp brown hair and makeup-free face. After dressing, blow drying my hair, and adding some mascara, I trailed downstairs.

Mary was in the kitchen. As I turned the corner, the clunk hitting the bottom of the trashcan told me my mother must’ve had her usual nightcap which generally involved a bottle of wine. Mary used to have my mother’s mess cleaned up before I came downstairs in the morning. But after I caught Mary one morning sometime back, cleaning up broken glass in addition to the strong smell of alcohol, we both stopped pretending. Mary knew I was aware and we simply didn’t discuss it.

Is she still in bed? I asked.

Yes, Mary said. She pulled out a turkey and began seasoning it. I knew we would be having a good supper tonight. In addition to her keeping our house spotless and cleaning up my mother’s messes, Mary was an amazing cook.

Clutching my purse, I grabbed a banana and went to walk out the door.

Stop! Mary shouted.

I turned to see Mary quickly shuffle over to me, a brown paper bag in hand.

You didn’t eat any of my cinnamon rolls last night, Mary said, a smile on her lips.

Mm. Thanks, Mary, I said, taking the bag and walking out the door. While not rehashing last night’s conversation, Mary and I both knew why I didn’t eat. Her sermon displaced my hunger.

Opening the car door, I slid into my seat and plopped my purse and Mary’s cinnamon roll down on the other seat. Strapping my seatbelt into place, I fired up my Jetta. Shifting into reverse, I paused. On second thought, I wanted the cinnamon roll now. It sounded better than a banana anyway.

As I drove toward Clarksburg High, I thought of ways to wrestle the Mickey situation. The gooey cinnamon roll filled my belly with courage, but once it was gone, my brain came up empty.

Should I approach him? Try to reason with him? Beg him? No, not the last one. I was a Chamberlain. We didn’t beg for anything. We took what we wanted. Made it happen. Suddenly I remembered the look in Mary’s eyes, the guilt I felt last night and waking up this morning telling myself I was going to do things the way most people did. I was going to do this on my own. No help. Only I didn’t have any experience in that department.

I pulled into the paved parking lot at 7:45 a.m., right on time. Turning my Jetta off, I grabbed my purse and fished out my iPhone. While they permitted us to have cell phones, there was zero tolerance for them ringing while in class. I turned it to silent and walked into school. I had no classes with Mickey except now, apparently, the last class of the day. Principal Oliverio assured me Mickey’s schedule would be switched to allow for that.

My heels clacked down the hall as I made my way to my locker. I took care in choosing my outfit today, something else I generally didn’t pay too much attention to. I wore snug jeans, black heels and a white textured lace camisole I ordered online from Nordstrom.

Grabbing a few books from my locker, I quickly became self-conscious. Were the heels too much? The camisole? The jeans started to feel too tight. What would I look like to him? Oh, God. I took a deep breath and shut my locker. I needed to calm down. I never cared what I looked like before, today should be no different.

I held my head high, clutching onto my books, and made my way into Calculus. Maybe in there I could solve the equation of how to approach Mickey come Honors English.

****

Nothing. No sign of Mickey all day long. Not even at lunch. Where was he? Walking into the very last class of the day, I held my breath, hopeful and scared at that same time he would be there.

I strolled in and glanced at the clock: 1:29 p.m. One minute until the bell would ring. I took my usual seat in the front row. The boy who always sat behind me, Dakota Rollins, I noticed was now seated two seats behind me. Was this for Mickey? My palms became sweaty. Why would Mr. Romano seat him right behind me where surely his gaze would burn hellfire holes in the back of my head? I needed my brain.

I flicked my gaze toward the doorway, waiting for I-wear-vintage-t-shirts-and-ripped-jeans-bad-boy Mickey to walk in, but the sound of the bell rang in my ears. I jumped at the noise, nearly knocking over my neatly stacked books and notes.

Where was he? Was there a change in plans? No, or Dakota wouldn’t be seated differently. I nervously eyed Mr. Romano. He sat quietly behind his desk tapping a thumb across the wooden desktop. When he scooted out of his chair and stood up, my heart pounded in my chest. He glanced at me momentarily and then pulled out roll call. I watched him go down the list of names, quietly marking off all those in attendance. He murmured a name, quickly glancing at the empty seat, flicked his pen across his clipboard, and then resumed class.

Mr. Romano never said anything directly to me, but I could occasionally feel his gaze on me and the empty seat behind me. The one where Mickey Costello was supposed to be. Did Mr. Romano blame me for Mickey’s absence? Would I get in trouble? Doubt swam through my mind. I couldn’t focus on anything Mr. Romano was saying.

Somehow through my clouded thoughts, I heard the faint roar of what sounded like a motorcycle outside. The sound grew closer and closer. I glanced out the window and saw a dark figure pull in, a girl clutching onto the driver for dear life.

I forced myself to look at Mr. Romano in the hopes he’d believe I was paying attention to him and the class in general. After what I felt was a few believable seconds, my gaze was drawn back to Mr. Motorcycle. Glancing out the window, I scanned the parking lot until my gaze landed on the girl, the guy, and the oh-so-cool bike. I watched the girl, lithe legs, too-short skirt, and bottle blonde, rear her head back in laughter as I watched the boy ease out of his helmet.

Mickey.

Of course it was him. I rolled my eyes and felt my blood boil. Not because of the girl. I didn’t know who she was nor did I care. My grade was what I cared about. And it pissed me off that Mickey was out gallivanting with some cheap blonde instead of attending class. He could ride all he wanted after the bell rang. In a spur of the moment decision, I raised my hand.

Yes, Autumn? Mr. Romano said.

May I be excused?

Class is almost over, Mr. Romano said, insinuating I could wait.

It’s an emergency. I grabbed my purse and pulled out enough of a tampon for Mr. Romano to get the idea.

Stop, stop. Just go. Mr. Romano waved his hands for me to halt pulling out something he didn’t want to see.

I lied, but it was necessary. I grabbed my notes, book, and purse and quickly ran out of class. I didn’t have a plan mapped out yet, but something told me if I didn’t catch Mickey before he went on his next joy ride, today would be a preview of the rest of the week. And I needed this grade.