Chapter 1 - Black Swallowtail

AUGUST 26

When I hold myself tight enough, and the pads of my fingers turn white against a portion of my skin, I’m reminded of the person who should care for me the most, for every last bit of me.

I am that person.

The longer the hug, the more I know that I am my own tribe, my own people. And on most days, like today, I need only myself to hold.

     [From: Vice President of Playlist Locos

     To: Mariposa Flores

     Cc: Leila Bankz, Vincent Cardejo, Olivia Kates, Marco…

     Hello Locos,

     I have sad news regarding our club’s operations. For the longest time now, the school board has been cutting club spending in order to focus on curricular areas they deem more important. Over the summer, they made a decision about the future of Playlist Locos.

     Considering the lack of attendance, previous fundraiser no-shows, and certain club member misbehavior, Principal Romo has brought the hatchet down and called for our disbandment.

     First, I want to thank each and every one of you for being the most wonderful, obedient, awesome, engaging, magnificent- ]

Adjective. Adjective. Adjective. Por Dios. He’s mocking us.

I rest my phone beside my hip and pull my knees closer to my chest, the latter position forms a cage-like embrace that never fails to placate the angry churning raking at my insides. The afternoon gets colder, but the chill is uplifting, like spending a burning summer day underwater and coming out just in time for the sun to set and the wind to touch your body.

And although I’m sitting on the roof of one cripplingly hideous van, parked on an unused road and nowhere near a body of water, I’m exposed to the same kind of feeling. 

It’s the wind, I think. It sends tufts of my hair to tickle my shaved brow bones and helps with the stomach-churning pessimism that the vice president's email leaves for me.

They really had the balls to message us a day before school starts. Where the hell do I go now?

Note. Surprise is not what I’m feeling. I was one of those people who showed up to Playlist Locos every day but never bothered to note down their attendance. Regarding fundraisers, family-friendly booths aren’t the best place for stereotypical loner-goths like me (I’d gamble to say they aren’t the best place for anyone with a glaring septum ring and five piercings on one bald eyebrow) so I never bothered showing up to those either.

As for certain...misbehavior, most faculty and students are aware of the measures that were taken to punish me and Reina Something Or Another. I spent some time out of school for letting my fists talk for me. (And before you jump to conclusions, I’m not a fighter — not anymore. It’s just that defense can get out of control, and I wasn’t having a bad day until she tried me.)

So no, I’m not shocked that my only after-school curriculum was axed out of my simple routine. That doesn’t mean I’m ecstatic about it. Where else can I rest my head over my desk for hours, listening to shitty underground bands, and not get bothered for it? At least, not always.

I need a place. Just any place where I can be away.

Above me, the sky sheds the orange and red of the afternoon and dons a dark blue. The end of the day approaches and so does the beginning of my senior year of high school.

I’ve been told that it’s a big deal.

Directionless is the word that comes to my mind when I think about my last year at Cardinal’s High. I don’t know where I want to go or what I want to be or who I want to be. All I know is that I’ll be comfortably alone figuring that out. Alone, as it should be.

Within the three years I spent in school, I didn’t bother making a close or permanent friend. I’ve had acquaintances and a rival here and there, although none lasted for long. People just leave. It is what it is, and I’m not sad about it.

Maybe I'll always go about existing this way. I am the opposite of a social butterfly. 

Ironic given my birth name. My dad was one of those eighth-generation Latinos struggling to keep a hold of his heritage, so he named me the first Spanish sounding thing he could come up with. He liked that his last name meant flowers, and when he thought of flowers, he thought of butterflies. 

My mom loved him too much to say no, even though she was perfectly aware of how unusual it was to name your daughter after an insect, no matter how pretty the word sounds in her native tongue.

Erik Flores was real proud of my name, but that was about all he was proud of. When push came to shove and I entered my terrible twos, he dipped.

People just leave. It is what it is, and I’m not sad about it.

Houston has too much light pollution, which makes the sky starless and takes the mystery out of the dark. To a person who enjoys the company of the cosmos, the lack of lights in the sky might be a cause for gloom. But I enjoy seeing the moon by herself.

It’s midnight, my half-sister’s preferred bedtime, and by now, any sensible eighteen-year-old should be heading home. So, I scoot closer to the edge of the roof of my barely alive Volkswagen and jump off, sending gravel and dust up into the air to get caught by the wind. The shaven sides of my head get hit with the worst of the debris, forcing me to untie the hoodie wrapped around my waist and shove it over a sweaty tank top. When the wind kicks up again, I put my hand on the rusty blue door of the van and jump inside.

Mierda, the dust is gonna itch tonight. Good call on this dirt pit, idiot.

Price to pay from doing this so often, I’ve realized. I end up pulling a thin blanket from the passenger seat and tossing it over my scratchy legs. I’ve got no pillows, but a backpack never stopped me from gaining some shuteye during an in-school suspension, and it wasn’t going to stop me now. I crank open the window a bit. Make sure all my doors are locked. Take a second to remind myself that no one’s caught me before and that las maras, the gangs that roam the inner city where I live, aren’t going to bother stealing a van that looks virtually useless. Then after all that, I close my eyes and lay sprawled in the back of my van.

“Night,” I say.

As I mentioned before, any sensible eighteen-year-old should be heading home, instead of falling asleep in a vehicle, listening to the sound of cars on the highway nearby.

Happy Summer,

Mariposa.