BUTTERFLY PINNED

Here’s what they don’t tell you: When a caterpillar turns into a butterfly, the metamorphosis is gruesome. The creature self-destructs, disintegrates, and then morbidly digests itself. It rips its own cells apart, then uses those mutated bits to recreate its very being, like a phoenix rising from ashes.”
If I’d known just how terrifying rebirth would be, I never would have ever stepped foot on that campus last fall.
The man stares at me, as if I haven’t spoken a word. His gaze is intense, and I’m relieved when the intercom on his desk announces that Mrs. Ellison is in the front lobby. He excuses himself but stops at the door and turns back to me.
“You won’t leave?”
I shake my head, and he disappears into the hallway.
I find I’ve been holding my breath, afraid of making any missteps or of saying too much. The voices outside the door grow fainter and finally disappear; they’ve gone elsewhere to finish their business. I don’t mind waiting. I believe I’m somewhat safe in this room.
I stand, stretch my arms above my head, and do ten jumping jacks in short, quick succession, trying to shake off my nervous energy. My knees protest. The scabs that covered them fell off many months ago, but the damage to the tissue and cartilage will stay with me indefinitely.
A quick glance into the empty hallway tells me I’ve been allowed a brief moment to peruse.
The man’s desk is custom-built in dark mahogany, matching the paneled walls. A framed law degree hangs front and center, assumedly to assuage any concerns that the man is not qualified. Built-in shelves flank the frame on all sides, as if the space had been designed around the certificate. Crystal awards and engraved plaques line the shelves, showcasing the man’s many career milestones and achievements. I spy a “World’s Greatest Dad” mug among his treasures and give a cynical chuckle.
I turn to the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the desk. The city of Chicago sprawls in front of me as far as I can see. The sun is out, belying the February chill that turns midday commuters into walking cocoons, wrapped in overcoats and bundled in layers of scarves. This city once represented a new life and endless possibilities—but now, it’s lost all sheen to me.
I walk behind the desk and open the man’s laptop on the off chance it’s not password-protected. No such luck.
Various framed photos sit next to the computer, along with a yellow notepad and pen. One photo is of the man and his beautiful wife, triumphantly holding ski poles in the air. The mountains rise behind them and they wear ski goggles and puffy, brightly colored jackets. Judging by their lack of wrinkles, the picture is from years ago.
Three photos are of groups of people—extended family, friends, and coworkers, from what I can gather. Beers are held up in cheers with arms slung around each other, loved ones flock around an elderly woman clutching a cupcake and bouquet of flowers, and four men pause mid-handshake while holding a plaque between them. Despite the dark rumors that must still swirl around him, the man is popular.
A small photo toward the back of his desk catches my eye. It’s partially hidden behind a stack of manila folders, but I immediately recognize who it is. My breath catches as I pick it up. Her platinum blonde hair is longer, just past her shoulders, and her head is thrown back in laughter. Her cheeks are flushed, healthy. She’s beautiful. Behind her is a blurred scene of Mediterranean-style homes.
Glancing at the door again, I slip the photo out of the frame and slide it into my back pocket, then toss the frame into the trash and cover it with discarded papers. I never knew her to look like this, but it’s how I want to remember her.
I know I don’t have much time left before the man comes back, so I open the drawers of his desk. I’ve made the step to come talk to him. He was overly eager to meet me, and he doesn’t seem to be trying to hide anything. I don’t know what I’m looking for, don’t have a clue what I expect to discover, but I find myself back with the familiar, desperate urge to know more, to make sure I didn’t overlook some key writing on the wall. I want to trust what I’ve been told, but I’ve learned that everyone has their own version of the truth—and it isn’t always truthful.
I rifle through the top-center drawer, finding only a handful of identical pens and a bundle of Post-its. My hand searches the back of the drawer, and I pull out a stack of business cards bound by a rubber band. The top card reads Dr. Joan Kraft, St. Luke’s Hospital, Psychiatric Care.
My heart begins to race. I palm the card as I close the top drawer and quickly move on to the next. The other drawers hold nothing of interest: A bottle of men’s health vitamins, a clean tie in a box, a box of tissues. I begin to wonder why he needs a desk at all, since his laptop makes personal file folders obsolete. Stepping away, I spy a small safe under his desk, screwed into the floor. I had bent down to reach under the desk and give the safe handle a tug when I hear footsteps.
As the door opens, I jump to my feet and spin around to face the windows.
“Quite a view, isn’t it?” His voice is calm and friendly.
I take a deep, silent breath and try to match his tone. “It must be nice to see the river every day.” I turn to him and smile casually.
He returns to his chair behind the desk and settles in as I move back to my original seat. I glance at his face to see if he notices anything out of place.
He doesn’t.
The man leans forward, placing his elbows on the desk, and closes his eyes as he laces his fingers together. He takes a moment, then looks at me. His expression shifts and his face changes, as if an entirely different being has taken over. One mask exchanged for another. I’ve seen this metamorphosis before, and it always gives me chills.
“I—” His face is serious. “I’d like to hear the story again.”
“I’ve told you everything I know.”
“I know you have, but this is a serious matter.”
I bristle. “You don’t think I know this is serious?”
The lawyer doesn’t back down. “I need to know every detail. I want to make sure every stone is turned and thoroughly examined.”
“I’ve told you everything.” I haven’t.
Of course he knows. He would know better than anyone, and I’m being naïve, thinking I can dodge the truth. My mind is racing like a trapped mouse trying to find an escape, but there is none. I stare at the ground, praying for some miracle to whisk me away from this room. Finally, I rub my hand over my face, flinching at the scar running across my cheek. He blinks at this, possibly remembering there is more than one victim involved.
“Haven’t I done enough for you already?”
The man considers this for a moment and softens as he sits back in his chair. It swivels slightly, and I think of the safe under his desk. I wonder if it’s filled with envelopes of cash, ready to be distributed at a moment’s notice. He taps one finger on the desk as he regards me before speaking.
“I—I know this has been extremely difficult for you. It’s been devastating for the family, as well, as I’m sure you can imagine.”
Her family, I think. I crack, tears springing to my eyes.
He continues. “What I’m trying to do is to make sure we haven’t overlooked anything important. When so many large details and events are involved, it’s easy to dismiss something small as irrelevant. However, I’ve found, in my line of work, that the small details are the most important ones. I know it’s hard to understand, but I’m trying to protect you—along with everyone else involved.”
He hands me a box of tissues, which I gratefully accept with a nod.
“I’m not here to ask you to paint yourself into a corner. I’m here to be your partner and am asking, after everything that has happened, if you can find the strength to be mine.”
I’m crumpling a damp tissue in my hand, shredding it bit by bit. This is my life now. This room and this man are my truth. I will never again be an innocent. I will never again be able to trust blindly or be free of the memories that I carry in my heart. I may one day find happiness, I may find love, but it will be far into the future. It will take painful work to get there. It will take an immense amount of healing.
Maybe this moment is an opportunity to take a step in that direction.
I decide to tell him the whole story again, from the very beginning. This time, I won’t hold back. I haven’t forgotten anything. There are no small details to me. There is nothing I deem irrelevant.
I know who did this to me.
I know the girl who tried to destroy me.
She was once my best friend.

Chapter Two

As I shoved the last of my faded jeans into a rickety dresser, my roommate came tumbling in, followed by a handful of girls, all with similar long, swirling hair. They held the plumpness, in both flesh and enthusiasm, that only young women are capable of producing. With flushed cheeks and exuberant confidence, their glow reminded me of the brochures for the university: A sanctuary filled with promise.
“Oh my God, you’re here! Hi! I’m Cassie!” the bubbly blonde squealed, applying a swipe of lip balm.
“Hi.” I put forth a practiced smile, but it paled in contrast to the natural collective confidence of the group. “Marin.”
The girls crowded the doorway and waved, shouting over each other.
“We’re going to stop in my room and grab the cooler bag!”
“I’m getting my sweatshirt!”
“See ya, Cass!”
Cassie laughed, exposing a perfect set of brilliant white teeth. “Okay! Be there in a few!” She turned back to the room. “It’s so nice to meet you, Marin! I’ve totally been wondering about you. Like, what would you look like? What stuff do you like to do? What music do you like? Oh my God, this is going to be a great year, isn’t it? Are you pledging a sorority? I’m Tri Sig, but I can’t move into the house until next year. My mom was one, and so—legacy, ha!” She waved her fingers and winked. “How about you? What classes do you have? Oh, maybe we have one together!”
She rattled off rapid-fire questions and comments, while all I could muster was a dumbfounded stare. I didn’t know how to respond. I didn’t know how to be the kind of girl that Cassie apparently was. Instantly, it became clear that the transition into my new life would not be as seamless as I’d hoped; I realized I’d always just followed the lead of others. No one had ever asked me my opinion—in truth, I’d never needed it. My opinion had been whatever I’d been told it was.
In the deafening silence that followed, I observed the slight dimming of Cassie’s sparkle—just enough for her body language to say, This is my roommate? Bummer.
Cassie smiled politely, grabbing a tube of sunscreen from her desk. “Do you need help with anything? Moving in the rest of your stuff or setting up?”
I shook my head and smiled as best I could. Anxious tears formed low in my throat. “No, I think I’ve got it.”
Cassie nodded slowly and moved toward the door. “Um, a few of my friends—those girls who were just here—we’re heading over to campus. Frisk Field. There’s a football game going on, Delta Chi vs. Alpha Phi. The frats have this competition before classes start every year and— ” She paused, then added, “Anyway, would you like to go?”
With all my heart, I did. I had planned to make this my year of change, the year to break out and discover a new life, experience a new journey. Find any sense of self. I had put everything on the line for the opportunity, but the day—the entire past year—ignited a battle between my heart and mind, and my mind, seized with apprehension, was not ready to join my heart.
“I think I’ll pass, but thanks.” As Cassie walked out the door, I summoned everything I had to add, “Next time?”
With her self-assured smile, Cassie nodded. “For sure.”
Two weeks later, cold rain pelted my face and penetrated my clothes. Cursing the weather, I began to run; then, realizing speed was futile, I settled for a glum shuffle across campus toward the library. In front of me, a notebook fell from an elderly professor’s tote bag. I scooped it out of a puddle and handed it to her.
“Small kindnesses.” She smiled at me. “Thank you.” I nodded, blinking the rain out of my eyes, and moved on.
The university’s new library wing was massive, its structure reminding me of a space station in a futuristic sci-fi movie, with its stilt-like legs and angular edifice. The arched windows and elaborate wood-paneled ceilings had the effect of a warm, weighted blanket. Once through the immense mahogany doors, I stood for a moment, allowing excess water to drip from my fingertips, willing myself not to shake like a dog after a bath. I fumbled with my umbrella as other students hurried past me through the entrance, finally leaving it with the others piled by the door. Rainwater collected around them, creating a small pond in the entryway through which I slid precariously.

The library was unusually packed. Arms overflowing, students bustled from rows of bookshelves to their laptops at long communal worktables. The first papers of the term were due soon, and most professors insisted the students rely on published books for research and citation, not just a quick Wiki search on the web. The ancient wooden tables were cluttered, overrun with mountains of reference books and scientific journals.
I scanned the room for an empty seat like a kindergartener on the first day of school, trying to find someone to sit with in the lunchroom. I paced back and forth along the vast center aisles, occasionally bumping people on the head or back with my bag, mumbling embarrassed apologies and quickly moving on, wishing for a miraculous invisibility shield to consume me.
Finally, I spied a small side table in the back corner, only half-occupied, and slid my backpack into the chair. A girl sat opposite me with her head down in a book. Her hair reminded me of an era gone by, a satin, platinum blonde that fell just below her ears, with pin-curl waves running throughout. The tiny table was obviously designed only for one, and I felt intrusive in the intimate space. I seemed doomed to intrude no matter where I was.
“Do you mind if I sit here?” I whispered to the head bowed over the library table.
The girl slowly raised her head, fixing her eyes on me. Taken aback, I inhaled sharply. The girl’s skin was flawless porcelain, her makeup so perfectly applied she seemed to wear none. What captivated me most were her eyes. Ice blue. Ethereal. At once piercing and frightening.
I shifted from one foot to the other in the uncomfortable silence as I eyed the chair again.
The blonde didn’t say a word, but with an almost imperceptible shrug of one shoulder, her gaze dropped back to her book.
Glancing down, I smoothed my wrinkled clothes, embarrassed, all-too-aware of how disheveled and utterly bedraggled I must appear. My hair hung in wet, stringy clumps, and I hadn’t opened my makeup bag in days. At best, I resembled a drowned rat in a frayed sweatshirt and jeans.
Quietly, I lowered myself into the chair, flipping open my laptop and notebook while stealing glances at the girl—no, the woman—seated across from me. She had an air of elegance and sophistication that could only come from predetermined birthright.
Pretending to pick something off the floor, I took inventory. The girl wore tailored, high-waisted polka dot pants and brown leather heels. Sitting up straight again, I noticed she wore a slim, expensive-looking gold watch, and a single gold ring set with an opal and a cluster of small diamonds.
I cleared my throat. “You must have come in early. Before the rain hit. I feel like I got stuck in a hurricane.” I laughed nervously at the lame excuse for my unruly appearance.
The blonde looked up again and, to my horror, did not smile. In fact, she showed no emotion. I couldn’t read her face could at all. Uncomfortable, I started talking again.
“We don’t get wind like this where I’m from. I’m not from here—Chicago, I mean. Or anywhere in Illinois. I’m from Kearney—that’s in Missouri. It’s small—Kearney, I mean, not Missouri—you probably haven’t heard of it. You’d think we’d have the same kind of weather, both being in the Midwest, but not really. I mean, like the rain. Well, we get rain, yes, but it just feels kind of different. I’m Marin. That’s my name.”
I was blabbering. Crashing and burning. The longer the girl stared, her face blank, the more rattled I became.
Just as I began to explain the variety of farm animals raised in Missouri, what they ate, and which ones I’d had experience with, a miraculous, tiny grin appeared at the corner of the girl’s mouth.