'Delect-o -are -avi -atus: to delight; to amuse; charm; attract; allure'
Written for Robert.
Joi sat on a bench in the park, and blew on his hands. A notebook was lying open beside him, and every now and then he'd grab his pen and write something down. He shivered, and hugged himself. He was only wearing a sweatshirt and shorts, and it was early March, and that meant he was freezing. He rather liked it, though, and he certainly liked be alone to write poetry.
He was fourteen, and awkward; very short and very thin. He had longish black hair that flopped over his eyes, and a bit of a stammer. Luckily, he didn't need to speak now, and he smiled as the sun warmed him through the wind. A moment later, of course, it went back behind a cloud, and he was cold again.
"Cold."
He cupped his hands before his lips and blew on them again. And then he stared. A tiny, purple butterfly was sitting in his hands. Cautiously, he poked it, and it shuddered its wings. He poked it again, enthralled, and it flew up. He jumped to his feet instantly, and tried to catch it again.
The butterfly flew higher, and he climbed up on the bench and stood unsteadily as it rocked. He cast around in the cold air for it, but it disappeared directly into the sun, and his eyes hurt when he tried to find it.
He sighed, and turned around, and of course the bench tipped. He fell sprawled in the wood chips, and struggled to sit up, brushing them off his grey sweatshirt.
"Oh..." he sighed.
He looked around quickly to see if anyone was watching him, then blew into his hands again. This time, he felt a flutter in his throat, and a tiny, jewel-blue butterfly tumbled onto his fingers. It righted itself, flicked its wings, and flew away just like the first one had. Joi's grey eyes widened.
"W-what?" he said, bewildered.
The butterfly that fell into his hands was wine-red.
~~~
He ran as fast as he could, feeling his sandals slap against the pavement. When he reached Mark's house, he pounded helplessly on the door. He was afraid to speak, so he didn't say anything.
Mark opened the door, frowning. He always towered over Joi. "What is it?"
Joi had only known Mark two months, and not at all well, but that was better than nothing. Besides, he didn't really know anyone else. He didn't try. He just spent a lot of time in the park writing, and he was happy to do that, so he didn't need to know anyone. Mark was only an accident, because he'd walked over and asked what Joi was writing.
"I--" He turned away, coughing.
"What's wrong?" Mark put out a hand.
"I'm--I--I don't know--" At that point, it was rather obvious he couldn't do anything about the butterflies. When he talked, they fell from between his lips. For a moment, they seemed stunned; then they simply flew away.
Mark stared, and cupped Joi's chin in one hand. "What the hell have you done to yourself?"
Joi just shook his head. He didn't dare speak.
"All right. Perhaps it'll stop after a while."
"What if it d-doesn't?" Joi managed. Two green butterflies fluttered away.
"If it doesn't stop... It will. Come inside." Mark opened his door, and nudged Joi in. "Follow me. We'll go up to my room, in case my mother comes home."
Joi nodded and followed silently.
"Sit down wherever you like," Mark said shortly.
Joi sat on the bed, tucking his legs beneath himself. "What am I going to do?" Three butterflies, one green, one blue, one transparent, drifted up and clung to Mark's ceiling.
"You're going to stay here until I think of what to do. What have you done to-day?"
"I got up... I didn't eat breakfast. I didn't have time."
"My sister always tells my mother that, and she's usually lying," Mark remarked, watching Joi.
Joi blushed. "I--um--I got my notebook and went to the park. And I wrote for a long time, until..." He trailed off, as five new butterflies joined the ones on the ceiling.
"All right. Well." Mark sat on the bed beside him. "It's clearly not something we can get a nice, scientific explanation for. It's something quite different. So we've got to figure out why it's happened. Talk to me. Tell me everything about yourself."
"Um--my name's Johannes, but no one calls me that. I'm an only child. I've got Raynaud's syndrome, and it hurts my hands in the winter because they get cold. I hate Poe. I write poetry lots, and I'm shy."
Mark smiled. "That's perfect. Just that sort of thing. Really random. Anything might be important, you know. Keep talking."
"I wear my hair long because it looks better. I can speak Latin, and French, and Italian, too, because I like to read poets and things in their own language. I hate translated books. I can speak Russian, too. I love strawberry ice cream." Very carefully and slowly, he was uncurling himself and lying down on the bed. Mark's ceiling was dotted all over with the butterflies. "I like cats and kittens, and I don't like dogs because one bit me when I was little. I like ponies but not horses. I'm allergic to shellfish. I hate it when grown-ups ask to see my poetry just to humour me, and when they try to find symbolism in it. There isn't any," he explained. "My poetry just means what it says. I'm not good at hidden meanings, and irony, and that sort of thing."
Mark nodded.
"I've no sense of direction. My worst subject is geography, but I'm good at math and language arts. I hate math anyway."
Mark laughed. "So do I."
"Shiny things make me happy. I collect anything shiny. I listen to musicals. I like CATS."
"But that's so pointless." Mark wrinkled his nose. "It's just a bunch of songs about cats."
Joi blushed. "I know. But I still like it."
There were so many butterflies on the ceiling that they covered it perfectly, like a blanket.
"My favourite smell is coconut, but I hate real coconuts. My family is Icelandic, but I was born in Massachusetts. I collect seashells and I love roses. I love ivy. I don't like taking risks. I don't like Disney movies."
Mark looked extremely amused.
"I love the fall--"
Joi looked up sharply. A butterfly had just fallen to the bed. The ceiling was entirely covered, and the butterflies didn't have enough room.
Mark jumped to his feet, went over, and opened the window. "I prefer the winter. I'm so tall people make fun of it." He shoved a green cardboard folder into Joi's hands. "Try and blow them towards the window. I don't want them in here."
Joi stood up on the bed, and flapped at the butterflies with the folder. For the most part, it didn't do much, but it began to help a little. Mark, meanwhile, plugged in a fan.
"There we are." He turned it on, and held it up to the ceiling over his head. It made him look like a bizarre sort of statue, because he held perfectly still.
The butterflies tumbled out of the window in a sweeping cloud, due largely to the fan, and a bit to Joi, who was still flapping earnestly. However, it took them nearly fifteen minutes to get every last tiny, jewel-like butterfly out.
When they finally did, Mark flopped down on the bed. His goldeny-brown hair was damp with sweat. "God!"
Joi folded back to his knees. "Wow... that was a lot of work..." He blinked. "Mark. Mark."
"What?"
"I'm not--there aren't any more--" He opened his mouth wide. "See?"
Mark swatted him gently. "Shut your mouth."
Joi complied. "But--why not? Why did they go?"
"Beats me." Mark shook his head. "What do you mean, 'why did they go?'? Aren't you glad?"
"Oh! Yes!" Joi nodded furiously. "Yes! Don't you think this would make a good poem? I need my notebook. I need to write." He sat up. "Damn, I've left it at the park. I'll be right back, okay?" He flung his arms around Mark's neck and hugged him. "Thanks!" Then he sprang off the bed and disappeared out of the room.
Mark smiled, and dismantled the little charm on his desk behind the picture of his aunt Bunny. He threw the butterfly pin and the piece of Joi's hair into the wastebasket.
His mother always said it was easy to make friends. 'Looked like she was right, after all.
Back to the Index.