Chasing Butterflies

by Amir Abrams

Genres: Young Adult; YA Romance; YA Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Every kid dreams of happily-ever-after. . .until her world is turned upside down. . . At sixteen, gifted pianist and poet Nia Daniels has already known her share of heartache. But despite the pain of losing her mother and grandmother, she's managed to excel, thanks to her beloved father's love and support. He's held her through every tragedy, and cheered her on through every performance. Nia can't imagine what she'd do without him--until an illness suddenly takes him, and she has no choice. And Nia's in for one more shocking blow. The man who'd always been her rock, her constant, wasn't her biological dad. Orphaned and confused, Nia is desperate for answers. But what she finds will uproot her from the life she's always known in California and bring her to the east coast--to Omar. He's a man who's spent most of his life--and all of Nia's--behind bars. He's her biological father. An ex-gang member. Living in the hood. And he's determined to do whatever it takes to win the love of his only daughter and make up for his mistakes. If only she'll let him...

Release date: September 27, 2016

Publisher: Kensington

Print pages: 356

Sample

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.

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.

“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.

“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.”

“Hahahaha. You’re comical, Crystal.”

“I’m serious, Nia. But, annnnyway. Let’s get back to you. I asked you how last night was, and you still have yet to give me details.”

“Well, that’s because your mouth has been going nonstop since we’ve been on the phone. You haven’t stopped talking long enough for me to get a word in.”

She sucks her teeth. “That’s beside the point, Nia. I need details. Starting with the cutie alerts. Were there any cute boys there? I’m dying over here.”

I swear I love her.

But the older she gets, the more boy crazy she gets.

When we were like ten, Nana would say every time Crystal came over, “Somebody better watch that one. She’s gonna be hotter than a firecracker.”

I used to beg Nana to not say that. But she’d say it every time. Truthfully, I don’t think Crystal’s going all the way with boys, yet. Well, wait. I know she isn’t. Well, I hope not.

She would have told me.

Wouldn’t she?

I mean. We tell each other everything.

Crystal and I have been friends since kindergarten.

Thick as thieves.

The dynamic duo.

That’s what we are.

We’ve shared every milestone together.

Shed tears together.

Laughed together.

And explored the world together.

Like sisters, we share a very special bond.

She’s traveled with me on vacation with Daddy. And I’ve gone places with her and her parents as well. Two summers ago I spent a month in Paris with her and her parents.

It was amazing!

And this summer, she’ll be going to Vienna, Austria, and Hamburg, Germany, with Daddy and me.

Why those places?

Because Daddy let me choose where I wanted to vacation this year. And I chose those countries because I love, love Europe and they are both musical capitals—considered home to classical music, and I want to experience everything each country has to offer from classical concerts and opera houses to the ballet.

I love the arts.

And so does Daddy.

Unlike most kids my age, I’ve been listening to classical music for as long as I can remember. Thanks to Daddy.

And, when my mom was alive, the sounds of Motown could also be heard playing through the house on any given day.

She’d sing to me.

And when I was old enough to learn the songs, I’d sing along.

Then when Nana moved in to help Daddy raise me, she’d play nothing but jazz. The sounds of Nina Simone and Billie Holiday and Etta James caressed my ears religiously.

So music has been all around me.

Good music, that is.

Music that makes the spirit come alive.

Umm, I guess you can say I kind of have an old soul.

I don’t think like most kids my age.

Nor do I see the world like most of them, either.

I do not think I am better than them. I’ve simply been exposed to more cultural experiences than most that have broadened my perspective on life and the world around me.

Still, I am the first to admit my own truths.

That I am spoiled.

That I am well traveled.

That I am very much sheltered from the harsh realities of many kids my age.

The disenfranchised.

The impoverished.

The misunderstood.

The underserved.

The trapped.

The less fortunate.

And no matter how many times I volunteer at shelters and soup kitchens, there’s still a disconnect. No matter how many bags of clothes or toys I donate to homeless centers, I am still standing on the outside looking in. No matter how much empathy I have, or compassion I feel, I can and will never truly understand their struggle until I’ve slipped into their shoes and walked in their footsteps.

Shoes I’m too ill prepared to step into.

I know that.

And I also know how blessed I am. How very grateful I am.

“I soooo wish I could have been there,” Crystal says, slicing into my thoughts before I can answer her question. She does that sometimes.

Okay. Most times.

“It was incredible,” I am finally able to say. My smile widens as flashes of last night replay in my head. Daddy was so moved by my poem to him that he was practically in tears by the time I returned to my seat, although he smiled the rest of the night—and beamed with pride—every time someone came to our table to wish him happy birthday, or tell me how much they enjoyed the piece.

I tell Crystal all about it.

“Ooh, it sounds so beautiful,” she says excitedly. “Did you do that piece on fatherhood?”

My forehead creases. Was she not listening to a word I said? I could swear I told her I wrote a birthday poem specifically for Daddy last night.

I blink.

“Umm, why are you Facebook stalking, instead of listening to me?” I say, feigning annoyance.

“See. There you go assuming. I’m not even on Facebook. Now apologize.”

“Then stop Twitter stalking.”

She laughs. “Oops, busted. I’m sorry. Wait. Didn’t you zone out on me just a few moments ago? You were probably on social media yourself, which is how you probably knew I was.”

I laugh. “Nope, I wasn’t. Try again.”

“Mmhmm. Anyway. Go ’head tell me again.”

“Nope. It’s obvious I’m not that important to you. Twitter is.”

“Ohhh, Nia-pooh,” she whines, “don’t be like that. You know you’re my bestie for life.”

I suck my teeth. “I can’t tell. So you might as well tell me who tweeted what.”

“Oooh, I thought you’d never ask . . .”

“Ohmygod, I still can’t believe what you told me last night,” I stage whisper to Crystal as she swings open the glass door, and we step through the school’s entrance. She’d told me last night that some boy she’s following on Twitter tweeted that Naomi Pitts, one of the varsity cheerleaders here, gave him and two of his friends an STD.

Chlamydia.

Yuck!

In Twitter news, from what Crystal told me, the three friends shared in a game of naughty tag-team, passing a very naked Naomi around like a football.

I know, scandalous, right?

No, more like gross.

“I know, right,” Crystal says, frowning. “She’s so, so nasty for—”

“Who’s nasty?” Cameron cuts in, sliding in between Crystal and me, startling both of us. Cameron is one of my best male friends here at Colgate High, the private high school we attend. And he’s, um, well—for a lack of a better description, he’s the thorn in Crystal’s ultra-toned side.

She punches him in the arm. “Dang, boy. Stop doing that.”

He feigns ignorance. “Doing what?”

She punches him again. “Scaring us with that ugly face.”

Cameron laughs, rubbing his arm. “That tickled.”

She hits him again, this time a little harder, in the shoulder.

He brushes it off. “You hit like a girl.”

Crystal sucks her teeth. “I am a girl, stupid.” She pushes him. “Now get out the way.”

He glances over at me. “Nia’s a girl, too, but she hits like a guy.”

Crystal huffs. “Well, I’d hit like a boy, too, if I knew how to fight like one.”

“Umm, hello?” I say, waving a finger to stop them. “The two of you, leave me out of your little sparring match. It’s way too early to play referee.”

“Yeah, Crystal,” Cameron says, pinching her cheek, “play nice.”

“Oww, boy! I can’t stand you.”

Cameron grins. “Okay. You should work on your lying.”

“And you should work on your face,” Crystal shoots back.

I roll my eyes.

She knows his face is just fine.

Cameron dismisses her. “Sooo, who wants to tell me who’s being nasty? I like nasty talk.”

Crystal huffs. “Boy, stay your nasty butt out of adult conversations. This has nothing to do with you.”

I shake my head, maneuvering through the crowded hallway. I don’t know why Crystal just won’t admit that she has a thing for him. Cameron is a really, really nice guy. And he’s cute, too.

No, really super cute.

He has these light brown, slanted eyes—courtesy of his Japanese mom—and thick curly hair. He looks exotic thanks to his mixed heritage. His dad is black—excuse me, I mean African-American. Both of his parents are in medicine.

His mom is the head of neurosurgery at UCLA Medical Center.

And his dad is an OB/GYN doctor at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.

So, as my nana would say, Cameron comes from “good stock.”

And at almost six feet, he’s not only athletic, but he has a quirky sense of humor and he’s really easy to talk to, which makes the girls at school like him even more—including Crystal.

But she’s too stubborn to admit it.

He laughs. “I’m a grown man, little girl. Respect your elders before I put you over my knee and spank you.” He snaps his finger. “Oh, wait. You might like it.”

Crystal gags and fakes choking. “Ugh, ugh. Eww, gross. You’re such a pig.”

Cameron chuckles. “The only thing gross is your breath.” He waves a hand over his nose then pulls his Morehouse T-shirt up over his nose, exposing a sliver of his flat, hard stomach.

Even I notice little things like that.

I mean, c’mon. He might be my best friend, but he’s still nice to look at.

Eye candy, that’s what they call it.

Right?

“So what—or should I say, who—were you two gossiping about?” He keeps his mouth and nose covered for effect. “You need to brush your tongue,” he says to Crystal.

She sucks her teeth, ignoring him.

“Nothing,” I say, still reeling from the thought of one of the school’s m. . .