Free Philippa Fisher and the Dream-Maker's Daughter by Liz Kessler Page A

waiting for?” I asked.
    “He wanted to see it turn into a butterfly. Nothing happened, so he took it home to keep an eye on it. After a few days, the chrysalis quivered! He saw a small opening appear.”
    “In the chrysalis?”
    “It was the size of a dot! But it got bigger. And then he saw something. The butterfly — trying to get out. It was pushing frantically against the surface, as though it was desperate to break free.”
    “What happened?”
    “Nothing. It couldn’t get out. After a bit, the butterfly stopped even trying. It seemed to have given up.” Robyn’s eyes widened as she went on. “So the boy had an idea how he could help. He got some scissors and cut the chrysalis open. And then he waited for the butterfly to spread its wings and fly away. But it didn’t. It didn’t go anywhere. It couldn’t fly at all. The next day at school, he told his teacher what had happened, hoping she could help. She told him that he’d done more harm than good.”
    “Why?”
    “Because the butterfly needed the struggle in order to build up the strength to fill its wings with power. That’s how it works. Without that struggle, the butterfly would never fly.”
    Robyn fell silent. I wanted to respond, show her I understood, but before I had the chance to say anything, Mom and Dad were back at the table with a tray full of desserts.
    “Cheesecake, butterscotch pudding, key lime pie, and a chocolate brownie!” Dad announced with a wide grin. “Who’s having what? Or shall I just cut each one into four?”
    “Minus your share of the cheesecake,” Mom said, pinching his cheek. “Seeing as you already sneaked it in the line.”
    “I don’t care what I have,” I said, wishing they’d stayed away longer. I wanted to keep talking to Robyn on our own. I wanted to talk about the boy and the butterfly. I wanted her to know that even though I understood what it meant, if there was a way I could take some of her sadness away without clipping her wings, I’d want to try.
    “You choose first,” I said, pushing the tray in front of Robyn. I knew it wouldn’t make anything any better, but it was all I had to offer.
    It wasn’t until we’d finished lunch and were on our way back through the forest that we got to talk again.
    “Sorry for going on and on earlier,” Robyn said. “I don’t know what came over me.”
    “Don’t apologize. I feel — I don’t know, I guess kind of honored that you shared it with me,” I said, “if that doesn’t sound too stupid.”
    Robyn smiled. “It doesn’t sound stupid at all. It sounds nice. Thank you.”
    We walked along in silence. It’s funny how many different kinds of silence there are. This was one that we were in together, sharing, with everyone else on the outside.
    “You know, I haven’t talked about my mom with anyone,” Robyn said after a while.
    “Haven’t you got a best friend?” I asked, half hoping she’d say yes, because I didn’t like to think of her being lonely, but half hoping she’d say no, because already I liked the idea of being special — even if it was selfish of me to think like that.
    Robyn shook her head. “Not really. There’s a group of us. We get along really well and hang out together. We go shopping, talk about music and movies and clothes.” She made a face.
    “What?”
    “I don’t know — just it’s not really me. Sometimes I feel like I’m acting a part that they want me to play. They think that’s who I am, so I go along with it. Do you know what I mean?”
    I nodded, feeling guilty that I’d thought all those things about her, too.
    “I kind of lost two best friends this year,” I said. “I could talk to both of them, in different ways. Now I just have friends that I hang out with, and I miss having someone I can share all my secrets with.”
    “It sucks, doesn’t it?”
    I thought for a moment. “I know it’s nothing like losing your mom, but I think I can understand a little bit about how it feels when