Free Chance and the Butterfly by Maggie De Vries

father was picking him up at noon.
    When Mrs. Johnson, his LA teacher, pulled out a story to read to her small Friday-afternoon group, Chance used Ralph’s line. “We’ve heard that one a million times,” he grumbled. Mrs. Johnson read it anyway, but she stopped four times to ask Chance to keep his hands and feet to himself.
    Afterward she gave them paper and pencils and asked them to draw a picture and write a word or two about the story. Chance grabbed the first pencil and deliberately snapped the tip off, ripping a hole in his paper and making a mark on the table. Mrs. Johnson gave him a new pencil and a fresh sheet of paper. Chance did it again.
    â€œYou’d better go back to class,” Mrs. Johnson said, in a calm, even voice.
    â€œI can’t go back. They’re not there,” Chance shot back.
    So he spent the last twenty minutes of Learning Assistance sitting at the other table with no pencils or paper, or anything else for that matter, within reach.
    Back in class, the kids seemed like volcanoes. Excitement erupted from them like molten lava. Chance did his best to ignore them, but he was their audience of one. They refused to leave him alone.
    â€œYou should have seen them, Chance,” Ralph shouted across the room.
    â€œYeah,” said Martha, just loud enough for him to hear. “You really should have come instead of staying behind sulking like a baby.”
    The shove he gave her then felt very controlled to Chance. He mouthed “Shut up!” at her at the same time, feeling the words on his teeth. Martha did not shut up, nor was Ms. Samson impressed with his self-control. Chance was kept after school once again. But Mrs. Laurence was not called in. To his great relief, he was not suspended.
    â€œCan you see her wings yet?” Mark asked after school. He hadn’t been allowed in the classroom because Chance was in trouble.
    â€œShut up!” Chance yelled back. “Can’t you just shut up?” He felt the words deeper this time, in his chest.
    Mark shrugged his shoulders. “Walk by yourself then,” he said bluntly and took off for the park.

    Then it was the weekend.
    When Chance got out of bed on Saturday morning and pulled back the dark curtain, light streamed into the room. The trees were swaying violently in the wind, but the sky was brilliant blue. Chance hoped that the butterflies weren’t having trouble in that wind.
    And now it was Saturday—windy, bright, fresh Saturday. Matilda was locked up in the school and inside her own unchanging skin. Mark was mad at him again. And Angie and Doug were planning to drag him and Mark and Louise to some faraway park at the beach for the day. He had almost been pleased when they mentioned it. After all, he had hardly ever been to the beach.
    Chance got himself dressed in runners, jeans and a sweatshirt. Then he slumped on his unmade bed, feet sticking out over the floor, and let his head clunk back against the wall. He could hear footsteps and muffled talk; Louise cried once for a minute or two. He could smell cooking. Probably pancakes and bacon, he thought. He loved pancakes and bacon. But not today. He lifted his head from the wall and let it clunk back once more.
    Without a single word or knock of warning, his door opened.
    â€œGet a move on, el creepo. My mom wants you down for breakfast, now.”
    Chance let the words, especially the my mom , glance off. He didn’t even blink until Mark was gone. Then he wiggled forward until his feet met the floor, heaved himself to his feet and began the long, slow journey to the kitchen table.

    It was a good thing that Louise’s car seat was in the middle, between Mark and Chance. Angie and Doug tried to make conversation at first, but soon Angie gave up and put the radio on. Chance kept his face glued to the window the whole way, almost an hour, to the beach.
    The last few blocks went slowly. Every light was red, and the whole city