Chasing Butterflies Read online

  Also by Amir Abrams

  Crazy Love

  Caught Up

  McPherson High series

  The Girl of His Dreams

  Diva Rules

  Hollywood High series (with Ni-Ni Simone)

  Hollywood High

  Get Ready for War

  Put Your Diamonds Up

  Lights, Love & Lip Gloss

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corp.

  Chasing Butterflies

  AMIR ABRAMS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Also by Amir Abrams

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  A READING GROUP GUIDE

  Discussion Questions

  To the extent that the image or images on the cover of this book depict a person or persons, such person or persons are merely models, and are not intended to portray any character or characters featured in the book.

  DAFINA BOOKS are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2016 by Amir Abrams

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Dafina and the Dafina logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  ISBN: 978-0-7582-9482-1

  eISBN-13: 978-0-7582-9483-8

  eISBN-10: 0-7582-9483-2

  First Kensington Electronic Edition: October 2016

  This book is dedicated to Triqqa Dee and his daughter, Jade.

  There’s nothing more powerful than a father’s love.

  May you continue to be the light in her life, and the wind

  beneath her growing wings.

  1

  The Umoja—pronounced oo-MOE-jah—(meaning unity) Poetry Lounge in L.A. swells with lively chatter and fiery energy. There are drums and congas and tambourines and hips swinging.

  We’ve taken the twenty-five-minute drive from Long Beach—where I live—to be here tonight. It’s a Thursday evening, and open mic night.

  I’m at my table scrambling to finish my piece. It’s a last-minute surprise for Daddy, who’s sitting at the table with me.

  And I’m anxious, really, really anxious.

  This time.

  As if it’s my first time taking the stage.

  My nerves are fluttering up around me.

  Why?

  Because I’ve decided at the very last moment—less than ten, no . . . eight minutes before open mic starts—to change my piece. And now I’m frantic.

  Most of the people here are spoken word artists, like myself, but much older; college-age and older, but an eclectic bunch nonetheless.

  I’m one of the youngest.

  An eleventh grader.

  But I’ve earned the respect of the more seasoned poets. The poets with tattered notebooks filled with much more life experience and depth than I can possibly have at sixteen.

  Still, I hold my own among them.

  Being on stage is the only time I feel...

  Liberated.

  They embrace my innocence.

  Embrace my openness about the world around me.

  And allow me license to just be.

  Me.

  Free.

  That’s what I love most about poetry. The creative freedom. The freedom to weave words together. Colorful expression. A kaleidoscope of emotions, imagination, passion, hopes, and dreams. We are surrounded by similes and metaphors.

  We listen.

  We hear.

  And tonight will be no different, no matter how anxious I am becoming. There’s an uncontrollable energy that lifts me, and sweeps around the room. The feeling is indescribable. All I can tell you is I feel it slowly pulsing through my veins.

  Like with all the other open mics, there are no judgments, no stones cast.

  Well . . . not unless you are just unbelievably whacked, that is.

  I am not.

  Whacked, that is.

  Well, okay... at least I don’t think I am. So I know I should have no reason to be worried tonight.

  But I am.

  See. Tonight is special. I mean. It has to be special. It’s Daddy’s birthday. I brought him here for dinner. And then, I had this bright idea to surprise him with a poem. My dedication to him, my way of thanking him for being the most wonderfully incredible father a girl could ever ask for.

  I am an only child. And Daddy is my only parent.

  See. My mom was killed in a car accident when I was six. So for the last ten years, Daddy has been singlehandedly raising me on his own. Well, wait. Okay. He did have help caring for me the first five years after my mom’s death. Nana. My maternal grandmother, she stepped in and helped Daddy provide some normalcy in my life.

  But then . . . she died, too, from cancer.

  I was eleven.

  So you see, Daddy is all I have.

  It’s him, and me.

  And, no, this isn’t a sob story.

  It’s my reality.

  My truth.

  I’ve endured heartache and loss; more than I’ve ever hoped for. But I know love, too. Real love.

  Daddy’s love.

  And, for me, there is no love higher than his. He has helped me to endure. Still, I can’t lie. I lost pieces of me when my mom was killed. And even more pieces of me when my nana passed. But, over time, Daddy salvaged me. Helped put me back together. Loved me whole again. His unconditional love has been my soothing balm. It heals me. It protects me. It gives me promise.

  That there’s nothing I can’t get through.

  And I love him for that.

  I know there are no coincidences. Everything that happens to us in our lifetime happens for a reason. And sometimes that reason is much bigger than us. We can’t see it. We can’t always understand it. Still, it happens because that’s the order of destiny.

  Daddy taught me that.

  That we live, we love, we—

  Daddy must sense my trepidation. He reaches for my hand and gently squeezes it. I look at him and smile. No words are needed. His touch is all I need. But he gives me more. He always does. “You’ve got this, sweetheart. This is your world.”

  I smile wider.

  Instantly, I calm enough to focus and write a few more verses.

&
nbsp; Maybe I should just speak from the soul.

  Let words flow from my lips in synch to what I feel in my beating heart.

  I quickly glance around the dimly lit room. Candles flicker on the tables.

  Suddenly, I am feeling nervous again.

  I try to calm myself, to no avail.

  I try to—

  “Peace and blessings, my beautiful people,” I hear the emcee say. I look over toward the stage. She’s a beautiful brown-skinned woman, the color of milk chocolate, wearing a fire-engine-red halter-jumpsuit that complements her curves and her complexion.

  Her skin shimmers under the glow of the light.

  She stands at the mic, confident.

  Proud.

  Graceful.

  Her presence is electric.

  “Peace and blessings,” the crowd says in unison.

  “Y’all ready to get lifted?”

  The crowd raises their arms, fingers snap.

  “I am Sheba, your host tonight. And trust me. Tonight you are in for a real treat. We have a lineup of some of the west coast’s finest spoken word artists slated to take the stage and stimulate your mental. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the prose. First up to take the stage is Nia . . .”

  I am taken by surprise when the emcee introduces me.

  Oh no.

  That can’t be—

  I think I am hearing things, but then she announces my name again.

  Nia Daniels.

  I hoped to be somewhere in the middle. Not first.

  Never first.

  Daddy must sense my hesitation. “Go do your thing, Butterfly,” he says beaming. I smile back nervously, then lean over and kiss him on the cheek. Daddy has been calling me Butterfly since I was three years old. He says it was because I would get excited every time I saw one in our yard, and that I reminded him of one because I was light on my feet and always flitting about as a child, never settling on one thing for any length of time before moving onto something else, like a butterfly.

  I push up from my chair, grab my book, and head toward the front of the lounge. I slowly take to the stage, the glare from the lights blinding me.

  I blink. Blink again.

  My nerves are getting the best of me.

  I am literally trembling.

  My piece isn’t finished.

  I’m never unprepared.

  Never.

  But tonight . . . tonight I’m feeling mentally disheveled.

  I stand at the microphone, head bowed, hands clasped, trying to collect myself, trying to gather up my anxiety.

  I clear my throat.

  Take a deep breath.

  “Hi, everyone. Tonight I’m sharing a piece I’ve written for the most special person in my life. My rock. My anchor. My world. My one constant. Since birth, he’s been everything to me.” I glance over at Daddy. He leans in, his attention fixed on me. “And, tonight, I want to share with all of you a piece of who he is, who he has been, to me.” I glance over at Daddy again. “Daddy, this one’s for you.”

  He smiles.

  I look out into the crowd. “Y’all please bear with me. I didn’t get a chance to finish it, so I . . .”

  Someone says, “Take your time, little sister.”

  “That’s all right,” someone else says. “We got you.”

  I smile.

  Glance over at Daddy one more time. Then grab the mic, and close my eyes.

  Mother

  Father

  Protector

  Provider

  Best friend

  Wrapped into

  one

  beautiful gift.

  You are . . .

  Pancakes

  smothered

  in warm maple syrup,

  eggs scrambled hard,

  grits with lots of cheese.

  You are . . .

  Sugar cookies

  and

  ice cream cones,

  lemon pound cake

  and

  painted toes . . .

  tree houses

  jump rope

  hopscotch

  hide ’n’ seek

  and Barbie dolls.

  You are . . .

  Easy-Bake Ovens

  crayons

  and

  Play-Doh;

  Rollerblades

  carousels

  and

  no-hand

  roller coaster rides.

  You are . . .

  Saturday morning

  cartoons

  and

  hot fudge sundaes.

  Sandcastles

  and seashells;

  rushing waterfalls

  and Venice Beach.

  You are . . .

  Gershwin piano keys

  Bach French Suite

  No. 1

  in D-minor;

  toothy grins

  crooked parts

  lopsided ponytails

  and

  colored barrettes;

  that’s what you are to me.

  Bedtime prayers

  and

  nursery rhymes;

  candy-coated rainbows

  sweet dreams

  and lullabies;

  shiny trinkets

  and glass slippers.

  Pixie dust

  and

  scraped knees

  drenched

  in kisses;

  gentle

  warming

  so full of love;

  that’s what you are.

  Tea parties

  And dress up.

  My inspiration

  My hero

  No

  No

  My super hero

  Always there

  to save the day...

  sunshine in the rain.

  The gentle breeze

  beneath my

  fluttering wings...

  Morning hugs

  and tummy tickles;

  vanilla skies

  and butterfly kisses . . .

  That’s what you are.

  Mother

  Father

  Protector

  Provider

  Best friend

  wrapped into

  one

  beautiful gift

  That’s what you are.

  “And I’m the luckiest girl in the world,” I say, so full of joy. “Happy birthday, Daddy. I love you.”

  The room erupts with applause. Then everyone joins me in singing “Happy Birthday” to the world’s greatest dad.

  With my heart full and my soul fed, I step away from the mic and glance over at Daddy. The look on his face says it all.

  He is so very touched.

  And I am loved.

  2

  “So how was last night?” my best friend, Crystal, asks in her hoarse, raspy voice. If you didn’t know Crystal, you’d swear she’d gotten her voice from drinking jugs of moonshine and smoking packs of cigarettes a day since birth.

  However, she doesn’t drink or smoke.

  But she sort of looks and sounds like the late singer Amy Winehouse. Bless her heart. But don’t tell Crystal I told you that. She’ll beg to differ. Ask her, and she’ll tell you she’s Etta James all the way. But everyone, anyone, who knows anything about Amy Winehouse also sees the uncanny resemblance.

  And they hear the similarities.

  Crystal even has a mole over her lip like her. She’s just a browner, thicker—not much thicker though—version of Amy sans the grungy beehive hairdo, and the smoking, drinking, and drugging.

  Crystal cringes every time someone tells her how much she resembles her, but then she’ll break out in song, singing, “I say . . . no, no, no . . .”

  All I can do is laugh.

  Because she really does sound so much like her.

  It’s eerie.

  Rest in peace, Amy . . .

  “Ummm, hellllllo?” I can hear her snapping her fingers. “Earth to Nia. Are you there?”

  I chuckle. “I’m here.�
�

  “Oh, good. Welcome back,” she says sarcastically. “I thought you might have been kidnapped or something.”

  I playfully roll my eyes. “You’re so theatrical.”

  “Uh-huh. What. Ever.”

  I laugh again. “Soooo, why weren’t you in school today?”

  She blows out a long, exaggerated breath. “Please, don’t get me started. My mom had this bright idea that I should spend the day riding with her to San Diego to drop things off to my brother . . .”

  Crystal has three brothers, and is the only girl. She’s also the baby in her family. Need I say more? Nope. The youngest of her brothers, Christian, is a junior at San Diego State. Her brother CJ recently finished law school and lives in Miami. And her brother Cordell is in the marines.

  She always says she wishes she were the only child.

  And I’d give anything to have older brothers.

  She huffs. “. . . I mean, like really? She needs a new hobby besides ruining my life. Like I have nothing else better to do than miss a day from school, while she prattles on—the whole drive—about how awful her cuticles look, and how she needs her edges touched up, and how much weight she thinks she needs to lose. For Christ’s sake, she only weighs a hundred and thirty-seven pounds, and she’s stressing over having gained seven pounds! I can’t with her sometimes. She’s going to be the reason I OD on Kit-Kats and gummy bears.”

  I laugh at that. “Crystal, you’re hilarious. You know that, right?”

  “No. But I know my mom is determined to drive me crazy with her fresh-fruits-and-vegetables speeches. It’s overkill, Nia. Geesh! I get it. She wants to see me starve to death.”

  I can’t stop laughing at Crystal’s overexaggeration of her mom. I mean, Mrs. Thomas is really, really cool. But she is kind of obsessive when it comes to her weight, healthy eating, and always looking her best. Mrs. Thomas is always in the gym, or doing yoga, or taking Pilates classes. And she always tries to drag Crystal along. But Crystal’s so not interested. But I have to give it to Mrs. Thomas. She looks sooo good for her age. When people see Crystal and her mother together they automatically think that she’s Crystal’s older sister.

  Crystal hates that.

  But I think it’s cool.

  “. . . Nia, girl, my mom acted like that little road trip couldn’t wait until Saturday. I asked her why she couldn’t go by herself, and she just stared at me, then narrowed her eyes. No explanation. Nothing. Just glared at me. Like who does that?” I can see her shaking her head and rolling her eyes in my mind’s eye. “I swear, she’s going to drive me to drink dark sodas just for the sugar high.”