“Like a roster?” I aid through clenched teeth. "To put a name down."

Curly-haired twin comes through once more. “Oh ok, yeah sure! Y'all can sign my journal.”

He gets off the desk and crouches to where his spotless backpack is. I look up to find the three remaining boys still examining me. One slightly anxious. The other amused. The other territorial. But it’s fine. Their eyes don’t bother me.

“Got it!” Twin two says after a brief minute of searching.

The first thing I see is a name. Joel. It’s written at the top of his red journal in spiky letters. He flips the cover and comes around to my side so that he can sign the top of the page, date it, and finally cue me in on what the name of this club is.

Craig’s Creativity Corner? Who…?

“Yeaaah. Craig’s our club president.” Joel explains after catching the millimeter shift in my expression. Rather impressive. “He was supposed to be here early, but he’s working the bookroom last minute. My names Ho-el by the way.”

“Mn,” I respond.

I hunch down and take the sharpie from the teacher’s assistant desk, but before I can sign, a dark hand descends on the spiral and pulls the journal out of reach. My back straightens, I shift two black pupils toward the owner of the hand, and I glare steadily. With a smirk, Angry Chin scribbles his name underneath Joel’s, taking up two college-ruled lines.

Asshat.

Joel wrings his hands together and grins apologetically, “Sorry about that, as soon as Tigo writes down his name then you can write down yours and our first meeting will be ovah.” 

He’s making an effort to be kind, unlike his brother and his cohort. That’s not something I’m particularly used to, but I note it, and I also note the tips of his fingers covered in baby blue bandages, a contrast to the unashamed cuts and calluses belonging to his twin.

Speaking of whom, Buzzcut steals the spiral, and with a click, he pens his name down so theatrically I wouldn’t be surprised if there were doodles written on the line where his name should be. Then, after winking my way, he slaps the journal on the desk, in front of Argus.

The boy in the wheelchair stares at the journal like it’s a bomb and at me like I’m the only one who can diffuse it, but if the journal was a real bomb, I’d let it explode and take Angry Chin and Buzzcut with it.

“Sign, Miller,” says the former. Argus veers his eyes far away from my silent observation, then writes his name underneath Buzzcut’s in a scraggly cursive that leaves no space on the line underneath it. Finally, he slides the spiral over the desk and my way.

I breathe in deeply and exhale slowly. Signing a contract with people who actively dislike me is not something I want to do, but I do so anyway. In scratchy handwriting, I pen my name two spaces underneath Argus Miller’s, joining him and Ortega Vallejo, Tigo Gart and Joel, whose surname is also Vallejo. This is the closest I’ll ever be to a social butterfly.

When I’m done, an odd satisfaction makes my rigid shoulders slump. I think, just maybe, the first day of my senior year won’t be thoroughly crap. And while I don’t know how long this small unimpressive club will last, I do know I’ve signed up for an ass-grinding ride, if the uncomfortable expressions on these four boys’ faces are anything to go by. (Who knows, maybe I’ll get a kick out of disrupting the peace.)

My fingers tighten on Gina Oleander’s brown paper bag as Ortega Vallejo takes the spiral and examines it. I’ve already done what I came here to do, so I have no reason to stay. No goodbyes leave my mouth when I turn, and no comments escape me when I hear Tigo Gart’s laugh, nor when Ortega whistles to get my attention and hollers,

“Adios, Butterfly!’