Page 2 of Levi Bailey has Butterflies

“Class? It’s Saturday.” I look down at my gold, tiered maxi dress. Am I wearing a sign that says—lookout,childish girl coming through!“I’m not in high school,” I say—and I can’t keep the offense from my voice. I’m not sure why. Isn’t someone assuming you’re younger supposed to be a compliment when you’re past legal age?

But I’m twenty-three and I’d like to look twenty-three. But then… maybe he meant college.

I’d like to go to college. It’s number eight on my list.

“I don’t care,” he says, with a tilt of his head.

“Ma’am,” the kid behind the counter says.

Ma’am?Well, I don’t like that either. I shake it off and straighten my shoulders, tugging on the ends of my denim jacket. “Yes?”

“Your coffee.”

Ugh. He’s made me a new one.Fantastic.

“Oh!” I turn, thinking fast. This time I keep the cup secure in both hands—and out of my mouth. “Here,” I say, holding it out to the man behind me. “A peace offering.”

But he steps back, landing his heel on the toe of the man behind him. They shuffle and grunt—somehow speaking the same caveman language.

“Take it,” I tell him. “It’s the least I can do.”

He doesn’t move in for my gift, though. “I don’t like coffee.”

My worry wrinkles smooth and my smile brightens with his words. “Hey! Me neither!”

2

Levi

Ijusthadto walk to McDonald’s. I couldn’t drive like a normal person or ride my bike like I normally would.I walked.

And now I get to walk home wet and covered in coffee.

Wonderful.

I swing my arms at my sides, the cinnamon roll inside my paper bag swatting against my leg every three steps.

I’m going to have to change before work—and because Iwalkedto McDonalds, I’m going to belatefor work.

It’s a good thing my boss is one handsome, upstanding dude.

I pick up the pace—I hate being late. When I reach the front door of my childhood home—the one I never left, I take the front steps in one leap, three at a time, and push through the front door.

“Mom?” I hold up the paper bag with the giant-sized sweet roll inside. But I’m greeted by fifty pounds of blonde fur. “Hey, Max,” I say, scratching behind the ears of my year-old golden retriever. Max quickly finds the coffee on my shoe and begins to lick incessantly. That dog will eat anything.

“Oh, hey, honey,” my mother says. She says this as if she’s surprised to see me. As if I haven’t been bringing her a cinnamon roll every Saturday for the past three and a half years. She’s also in a jacket and yoga pants with a gym bag over her shoulder.

I straighten up, though my brows furrow. Coco would tell me to smile before I speak. But my sister’s advice doesn’t come naturally. I’ve been worrying for pretty much the entire twenty-nine years of my life. That doesn’t just disappear simply because she told me towill it away.

“Where are you going?”

“Yoga class. I’m meeting Coco.”

My very pregnant sister won’t stop working at her veterinary clinic until the baby is born, but this? “Coco is still doing yoga? Now you’re going?” My brain ticks off a dozen reasons why neither of them should be practicing the exercise.

“Yes. Cora’s doctor said she was fine to continue a regular exercise program throughout her entire pregnancy. She just has to take it easy.” Mom pats my cheek, then leans down to pet Max’s side. “She’ll be fine.”

Cora. My sister doesn’t go by her given name. She never has. But that doesn’t stop Mom from using it every now and then.

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