Shooting Butterflies by Marika Cobbold Page B

said.
    â€˜Oh no, I’d never wear
them
,’ Grace, all of a twitter, assured him. His eyes were the bluest she’d ever seen on any human being.
    He looked puzzled at her reply, but was not at all fazed by the way she could not take her eyes off him; he was probably used to it. He said he did not recall seeing her before; was she from outof town? Grace told him she was from England and that she was staying with her aunt and uncle, the Singletons. Sure, he knew the Singletons, or rather his folks did. Grace said it seemed that everyone knew everyone else in Kendall, which, she added, was fine with her. It was cosy. ‘I used to live here, when I was a kid. Then my mother drove into a tree.’
    Jefferson, it was obvious, was the kind of person who gave you his full attention, taking in every gesture and listening as if each word spoken was new to him. His eyes, as bright as if they’d had a good rinse and polish in the morning, grew concerned. ‘Jesus, that must have been tough.’
    People said that kind of thing to Grace all the time. Usually she paid no more attention than she would to the tears people shed in front of a cinema screen; all second hand with no echo in their hearts. But Jefferson seemed, for that moment, as stricken as if it had happened to him. His shoulders hunched and there was real pain in his eyes, as if he was sharing her loss, not just watching it with interest.
    It was dinnertime and the police, bored by now, let the rest of them go without even taking their details. The girl in the punch-up must have decided against making a complaint and Grace realised she was disappointed; she wanted to stay talking now she had finally found him. ‘They aren’t doing their job properly,’ she complained as they lined up to leave. ‘I even punched someone. I don’t know why it hasn’t been reported. I should be charged.’
    Jefferson hushed her as they got up to go. ‘They’ll keep us here all night.’
    Suits me, Grace thought, but she knew enough to keep that to herself.
    â€˜Was it a cop you punched?’ Outside it was hot and humid as if the very streets were sweating.
    â€˜Sure,’ Grace said. ‘I wasn’t going to be pushed around.’
    â€˜That’s so cool; the way you’re prepared to really do something. Most of the girls I hang out with aren’t into issues. They say they are, sure, but they’re into other stuff, you can tell.’
    She felt bad lying, pretending to have been part of the demonstration when actually she was the enemy. She considered owning up – she had a thing about honesty. In fact Mrs Shieldhad taken her to see the school nurse because, in her view, you could take honesty too far, as Grace had – way too far – on several occasions.
    Grace had confided to the nurse that she believed bad things would happen to anyone who did not tell the truth. The school nurse had smiled a soothing smile and explained that, although telling the truth was
very, very good
and
very, very important
, it was not always appropriate. Grace had stopped listening and was counting the hairs on the mole on the nurse’s left cheek, only tuning back in when the session was drawing to a close. ‘Your mother –’
    â€˜Stepmother.’
    â€˜â€“ your stepmother told me that you believe that God will punish you if you tell a lie. Of course I’m not saying telling lies is a good thing … as such … just that you should remember that there are times for telling the truth and times when, well, when it’s wise to keep that truth to yourself; to think of it as your little secret.’ By now the nurse herself seemed a little confused. Looking at Grace who sat so still in her chair and with such an attentive expression on her face, the school nurse took a deep breath and tried again. ‘Let’s take an example. If someone had spent a lot of time and effort cooking you a