Young Writers Society

Like a Butterfly Spring
Chapter 1: It Hurts to Remember 
  
Ever since the biking accident that took my older sister, Juli, I've 
been scared. That was last summer, but I still remember everything so 
clearly: the speeding car, the hot black road, her on the glittering 
blue bicycle, the horrified screams. And then there was an awful stunned 
silence that hung thick in the afternoon air as my remaining family 
stared at my ten year-old sister who was lying across from us in the
 middle of the street. She seemed only peacefully asleep then, not dead. 

Being nine and all, and despite what had just happened, I hopped off my 
pink Barbie scooter then landed on the wide sidewalk, already in a sprint 
to the frail body sleeping in the road. A thousand thoughts swirled in my
 head as I gazed down into Juli's navy eyes. I couldn't accept the fact I 
had just lost my only sibling, my best friend, just like that. But then 
reality swept over me, pushing its heavy weights down on my little shoulders.
 Juli was gone forever, and there was nothing I could possibly do. It was 
the worst feeling anyone could ever feel.   

Tears had streamed down my rosy cheeks, each drop racing down its track 
before slipping off my chin and into my sister's thick brown hair. I 
wailed in agony, as if I had been the one hit by the car. I hugged Juli 
close to me, my curly blond hair bouncing around my chubby face. 
I remember my father scooping me up in a tender, fatherly way and taking 
me away from the scene.

"Dakota, I love you," was all that he whispered softly in my ear,
heartbreak cracking his voice.

Fear gripped every inch of my body that day, and ever since then I've 
been afraid. I'm scared that if I use a knife to cut my steak at cook-outs,
 I'll end up hurting myself instead. That's why I always use a plastic fork 
to do the job. Or if I go outside when it's showering like it has been this 
spring, and don't wear my purple polka dotted raincoat and scarf, I'll
 develop a cold. But then my mean doctor, Mr. Lawton, may not treat it and 
the cold turns into... pneumonia! After pneumonia, I might get lung cancer 
or something! Then what would I do? There are so many dangers to life I didn't
 even realize were dangerous until the accident.

Other people in our small town think it's silly for a ten year-old girl to 
fret about the topics I tend to worry about. But they didn't watch their 
sister die, like I did.

That's why when I checked out the Worst Case Scenario Information Book last
 week from the community library, I didn't tell Mommy and Daddy. 

It piles loads of new information up in my brain, like the mound of laundry 
that seems to keep growing larger in the corner of my bedroom. It feels a 
little misplaced beside my crisp white dresser in my other-wise tidy room.
 
I do not want to touch those dirty clothes, because they may have deadly 
germs covering their wrinkled selves. I have to spray my strawberry scented 
Febreeze over the pile sometimes, to keep that side of the room as fresh as 
the other. I used to squirt the Autumn Harvest Febreeze around the house, 
but on the back of this can the experts say it may cause allergic reactions.
 Not wanting to take a chance, I quickly disposed of it by giving it to a 
stinky kid in my art class. I figured he could use it.    
I hide the heavy Worst Case Scenario book in one of my pillow cases on my 
twin bed, so that way I can use it at night. I mean, with a charged flashlight 
of course, because I don't want any eye strain when I grow as old as my Gran-Gran. 

Right now, I glance at the puppy shaped clock on my white nightstand, squinting 
as bright strips of sunlight stream through my bedroom shades. The spring sunshine 
lays itself around me while I sit at my long desk, its rays almost like a warm
 blanket that just came out of the dryer. At this particular moment I can't 
focus on my weekend math homework, so I gently set down my sharpened pencil and 
smooth out the lined piece of paper. I take great care to not get any stinging 
paper cuts, though because those can easily get infected, I hear.
Scooting further up in my light pink swivel desk chair, I reach toward my turquoise 
house phone. I call to Mommy, still clutching the phone, who's probably vigorously 
scrubbing dishes down in the kitchen. "Mommy, I'm calling Kaitlyn Reese!" 

"Go right ahead, Dakota," was the response. "I'm glad you have a friend like her
 to talk to. Don't be on the phone too long-" Her words after that are drowned 
out by the loud rumble of the food disposal downstairs, which confirms my guess 
that she's cleaning house.  

I search my airy bedroom from my chair for the notebook with a list of phone numbers 
of my friends scribbled in its pages. It's easy to spot the flower patterned book 
on my carefully made bed. I slip out of the swivel chair before rolling it back 
into its place touching my desk, and pad over to my twin bed. Snatching the book,
 I flip the worn pages until I find a page labeled "Best Friends" written in my 
flowing, dark handwriting. I carry the small, flowery notebook back to the alcove 
where my long desk is located in, then place the open page on the surface. My 
fingers fly around my shiny phone, dialing Kaitlyn's number. When I receive the 
Reese's automated answering machine, I grunt inwardly because I strongly dislike
 the boring robotic voice on the other end, ordering you to leave a message. I 
leave one anyways, though. 

"Hi, Kaitlyn! This is Dakota Chase. I was wondering if you'd like to play with me 
today? It's about 11:00 o'clock right now, so..." I trail off because I don't 
exactly know what to say next. "Just call me back when you can! Bye!" I hurry 
the last two sentences before frantically hanging up the phone.

Still standing, I shift my weight from one foot to another and chew my lip, deep 
in thought. I do that sometimes. I'll just randomly stare at something with 
hundreds of things swimming in my brain. After much deliberation, I finally 
decide to walk to Kaitlyn's house myself. To be quite honest, I need a good 
friend to speak to. I snatch a black jacket hanging on a hook near my desk 
before sliding into the fuzzy warmth of it, then reach for my green and pink plaid
 messenger bag. I sling it over my shoulder and unsnap it, then retrieve the Worst 
Case Scenario book from my pillow case. Shoving the thick red library book into 
the empty bag, I close it back with ease, now ready to go out.

I stand by my twin bed, gazing out of my door and into the hallway. Across from 
me in my line of vision is a dusty rectangular picture frame hanging on the pale
 yellow walls with our family photo inside of it. It's a photograph with Juli in it. 
This is a real family, not one torn apart by a loss, I note. That was us, the Chases,
 before the previous summer.
I grip the strap to the messenger bag on my shoulder so tight that my knuckles turn 
white. Staring at that picture reopens a wound I almost wanted to forget about last
 year, but knew I never could. I will still have those fresh, great memories my 
sister and I shared. But sometimes recalling the happiest of times you experienced
 with someone you lost hurts the most.

Now I study the grain patterns in the rich wood floorboards below me for a very
long time, not once moving, just remembering. I try to force a smile, but one never 
comes.