Someday, I will be a beautiful butterfly, and then everything will be better.

~A BUG’S LIFE (MOVIE)~

I stand still, hardly breathing.

This second butterfly isn’t as shy as the first. It circles the room, its wings fluttering furiously as it begins to circle me. My eyeballs strain to see where it’s going next — because this butterfly is practically invisible!

A set of gorgeous, nearly translucent, dainty wings beat at the air. The only reason I can see where it’s going is because the wings are outlined in magenta red with a splash of white like the wisp of a feather.

The butterfly creates a magical breeze against my face, and I can see my alarm clock sitting on the night table right through it! Like the wings are pieces of shimmery cut glass.

“Can I hold you?” I say in my softest voice. It circles again, inspecting me, studying me. “I’ll protect you,” I whisper, holding out my hands. The transparent butterfly floats downward, and then actually sits inside my palms. I think we just had a conversation! “What are you?” I ask. “Who are you?”

Stupid questions. Of course it’s a butterfly, but it’s not like any butterfly I’ve seen flitting around our azalea bushes. But why did I ask who it was — crazy — and yet it’s wonderful to think about. I feel myself relax as I hold the beautiful creature in my hands. My thoughts seem to change, too, and I don’t feel so sad anymore.

“How can I help you?” My skin prickles as I realize that I’m talking to an insect! Every kid at school would laugh if they saw me. I know the boys would try to catch it and pin its wings to a board. My best friend, Alyson, would probably swat it away if the butterfly tried to touch her. She hates bugs and smashes cockroaches whenever she has a chance.

But a transparent butterfly isn’t any old ugly cockroach. Not by a long shot.

I don’t move a muscle as the butterfly’s wings slowly open and close. Almost like the butterfly is absorbing my warmth, or my soul.

Do butterflies actually fly, or do they move on the wind, floating from flower to flower? I blink my eyes, wondering if I’m dreaming. “Do you know where you are?” I can’t help asking. “Do you know who I am?” Peculiar tingles run down my neck. “I’ve never had a butterfly come flying into my room before. And today I’ve had two. Two in an hour. What does it mean? Where did you come from?”

The butterfly moves its head, looking up at me, as though it wants to answer my questions. The idea makes my heart pound so hard I’m afraid it’s going to leap out of my chest.

Out in the hallway, Riley tosses a suitcase onto the landing with a wallop that makes the walls shake. The butterfly cocks its head like it can hear my sister, then lifts off, hovering above my fingers. The creature is so delicate, so exquisite, tears sting my eyes.

“Yeah, my sister sometimes scares me, too,” I murmur. “Oh!” I cry as the butterfly quickly circles and floats out the window. “Don’t go!” It turns once, closes its wings just like a wink, and disappears into the sunshine.

I race to the window again, but there’s no sign of it, like it vanished into thin air. Well, I guess it is a transparent butterfly, after all. Much harder to see once it takes flight. Two butterflies in an hour. What is going on? I fall onto my bed, rumpling the sheets — and I’m a girl that never lies on my bed in the middle of the day. Wrinkles and lumps in the bedspread make me cringe.

I want to call Alyson, but I know deep in my heart she won’t understand what just happened. Her daddy — the town sheriff — would call a doctor to come examine my head. Her mamma would bring me sweet tea and pat my hand and tell me I’m only imagining things because I’m grieving.

And they’d give me secret looks of pity because Mamma’s gone missing again.

I wish I could show those butterflies to Grammy Claire. She wouldn’t laugh at a conversation with a butterfly. Pulling out the letters, I read them one more time, memorizing the words, relishing the way she loved me. I’ve bawled my eyes out for days, and yet when they fill up with tears all over again, it actually hurts as though my heart is cracking into little pieces.

The next moment, I jump up from my bed and stand at the open door. I can’t hear anything from downstairs, but soft rustling noises are coming from the other wing of the house. The wing beyond the staircase, just opposite Riley’s and my rooms. The sneaky, furtive sounds send a chill right up my neck. Before I can investigate, Riley storms into my room without knocking.

“There’s some kind of butler dude downstairs with a British accent examining the ratty Doucet antiques. And a noisy truck out front.”

“I know.”

My sister takes a step backward, surprised at my answer. She points to the letters I’m still clutching. “What do you have there?”

“Um, these are — they’re from Grammy Claire.”

“No, they’re not. She’s dead.”

“Do you gotta say it like that?”

Her eyes are sorta cold, sorta vacant, sorta crazed. “It’s just the truth.”

Rage swells up inside my throat. “I think I hate you.”

She shrugs, unapologetic. “I hate playing word games. I hate —” She stops, then gives my bed frame a good kick.

“Go ahead and say it. You hate me, too.” But even as I give her permission to despise me, I regret saying I hate her and hope she wasn’t going to tell me the same thing in return.

“Actually, I wasn’t gonna say that at all. I hate Grammy Claire dying. We didn’t even get to see her. I also hate funerals. And funeral potatoes. And Daddy not even coming out here because of his stupid new wife. And —” She breaks off and if she’s fighting tears, that would be a first for my combat-boot-wearing sister.

“What?” I prod, wanting her to go on. Desperate for her to go on.

“— I hate that Mamma takes off and leaves us alone every time there’s a crisis. She and Grammy Claire are so different it’s like they don’t even share the same gene pool.”

“We have something in common, then.” Riley gives me a half smile and my heart suddenly warms to her, even as fear takes over. “Are you leaving me, too? Are you running away with what’s-his-name?”

She lets out a noisy sigh. “Brad. His name is Brad. And — no. I was going to, but I won’t.”

“Because you don’t want to leave me alone?” My heart jumps with hope that my sister doesn’t find me completely annoying.

“Get real. Guess I just decided to obey Grammy Claire’s dying wishes.”

“I knew you loved me!” I throw my arms around her neck and get stabbed in the ear by a wad of brittle hair glued together with super-duper-holding goop.

“Brad has to work a construction job with his uncle the next few weeks in Shreveport. He’ll get overtime. Maybe when he comes back he and I’ll run away together.”

I blink at her. “For real?”

She rolls her eyes. “You’re so gullible. But, yeah, maybe we will. You gonna make something out of it?”

I shrug my shoulders and flip my hair. “You gonna get married? Do you actually love him?” I wonder what it’s like to kiss a guy with an earring in his tongue.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine.”

“Fine.”

We stand there staring at each other.

The clock ticks.

Riley finally says, “You ready?”

My heart gives a jump. “For what?”

“Well, I declare, Tara Scarlett Doucet!” she says in an obnoxious Southern accent. “I coulda sworn you graduated sixth grade last month! What do you think I’m referring to? Are you packed for Grammy Claire’s house? Unless I’m going alone and you’re staying here by yourself.”

“Don’t you dare leave me behind, Riley Samantha Doucet! I’m going and you can’t stop me!”

Her lips curve into a small smile. “Good, because that butler dude says we’re leaving ASAP.”

“I didn’t think you’d met him yet.”

“I know what’s going on in this house more than you think, Tara. Believe me.”

“Shh!” I suddenly hiss. “I hear funny noises.” There’s definitely the sweep of a door closing softly and the muffled sound of running water. “Is that the dishwasher?”

Riley’s eyes flick away down the hall. “Nope.”

“I think it’s coming from the South Wing.”

“You’re so brilliant I can hardly contain myself.”

I ignore her sarcasm. “Is someone breaking into our house?”

“Guess again.”

That’s when I know, and the knowledge makes my heart skip a whole beat. “It’s Mamma, isn’t it?”

“Give the girl the grand prize!”

“I thought she went away to some resort hotel so she could watch television twenty-four seven and order room service.” Mamma’s note didn’t actually say that, but I was sort of hoping that’s all she was doing.

Riley gives me a look like I’m the dumbest person in the whole world. “We don’t have any money for a resort hotel and room service.”

“That’s better than some mental hospital, ain’t it?”

“You don’t pay attention to anybody else in the world but yourself, Tara. Have you ever heard of the Doucet Family Trust Fund?”

She says it in capital letters like it’s more important than the governor. I shrug, pretending I know all about it when I really don’t.

“Read that note again. Mamma doesn’t ever say what she’s doing. She likes to be all vague and cryptic.”

I don’t like hearing her talk negatively about Mamma even though Mamma makes me angry, too. I’d spent the whole previous night wishing Mamma would come into my room and stroke my hair and tell me it was going to be okay without Grammy Claire.

I guess Mamma can’t lie — because nothing will ever be the same again without Grammy Claire. Not for me, not for Riley, and not for Mamma neither. Grammy Claire rescued us all the time. She was our Superwoman Grammy. The person who made you smile and know that everything was gonna be fine. Nope, better than fine — you knew things were gonna be good.

Then I spy the corner of the small padded envelope sticking out from under my pillow where I’d hidden it — the one I haven’t opened yet. The one with something inside.

“Pack,” Riley tells me. “And fast. None of your silly dawdling and trying on clothes.”

“Okay, okay,” I say, pushing her out the door.

I’m packing but don’t have a clue where we’re really going or what I’m going to do once I get there. A strange butler is in my house. Mamma’s gone off the deep end. Riley’s being sort of nice. Best of all, I have two letters from Grammy Claire.

Running across my room, I reach under the pillow and bring out the soft, squishy envelope, ripping open the seal. I shake out the contents and a single brass key falls into my lap.

A white tag is stuck through the little hole of the key and on the tag is written the words Number One. Are my eyes playing tricks? I know exactly what door this key will open. And all of a sudden I feel a whole lot better.

Sticking the key into the pocket of my sundress, I start throwing underwear and socks and shorts and shirts into piles on my bed. Soon as I’m packed, I sneak down the hall of the South Wing, listening to the echoes of Riley’s suitcases bumping down the stairs. One, two, three … for a girl who only wears ripped jeans and T-shirts accessorized with an occasional baggy sweatshirt, she sure has a lot of luggage. Must be a whole case just for her hair goop and neon hair dye.

The front door slams and the whole house lets out its breath.

Silence invades the very air I’m breathing.

My heart starts to yammer inside my chest when I reach the splintered mahogany door to the guest suite. Rubbing my sweaty hands against my dress, I get up the nerve to knock. I’m trying to remember the last time I saw Mamma. Ever since the police arrived at our doorstep with news of the car accident, the days are a blur.

I make three taps with my fist — but there’s no answer. ’Course, she’s not gonna answer. She ran away from us, from the world, from her life, to the other side of this big ole house.

Wrapping my fingers around the fake crystal doorknob, I jiggle it back and forth. It’s not locked so I push the old door open, slowly, slowly, and let myself inside.