Butterfly Effect

No… This can’t be. This can’t be! Clock, I checked you twice before I went to bed last night. How could you betray me? We were only supposed to go forward one hour. One hour!

Not over a month!

My arms pinched sore, I stare at what my awake twenty/twenty vision and sober, neurotypical brain insist is true: I went to bed last night near the beginning of March and woke up at the end of April. The voice of some woman talk show host, the latest in a long line of inarguable proofs discovered on TV, the internet, and my dorm’s morning newsletter, drones on in the background of my life, overshadowed by racing thoughts and blood pounding in my ears.

No. No, this can’t be real.

I’m… I’m hallucinating, or...or something! I don’t even remember studying for my finals, much less what’s supposed to happen tonight!

I… I’m not ready! I had fifty-two days last night. Twelve hundred and forty-eight hours to put everything in place. Seventy-four thousand, eight hundred and eighty minutes to muster up my courage and make sure my plan's completely solid before the reckoning!

I… I—!

I slap myself.

Okay. Calm down. We’ve been through this before. It’s just another math problem, really—one more equation to add to the hundreds or thousands I’ve already solved. Go through all the steps correctly, and I’ll come to the right answer.

Yeah. I’ll get through this. Besides, I said I was gonna do it, and I’m nothing if not a man of my word.

...but not if one step goes wrong. Get this wrong, and I fail the test. Fail the test, and I…

I slap myself again.

Like the past few weeks, my morning routine flies by. After deciding to maybe later try figuring out what could've caused a temporal anomaly—provided I even survive tonight—I head outside, descend four flights of stairs, and hop into my truck.

Step one: Get my tux.

Oh, the rental place is out? No worries; I’ll find something at the Goodwill.

They’re out, too? That’s okay; I’ll just keep looking...

Everywhere’s out?!

…

You… You know what? It’s cool. Totally cool. Time to subtract one lame tux and be a nonconformist—that’s still in style nowadays, right? I think my good punk clothes from my senior year in high school still fit anyway…

Well...I’ve looked worse.

Step two: Buy a gift.

Multiple choice question: Flowers or candy?

Nice smell, plus pretty colors, minus going-to-wilt-and-die-soon-and-be-a-waste-of-money, plus artificial options, minus me looking really cheap and potentially insincere…

Sweetness, plus different delicious flavors, plus chocolate, fruit, or other options, minus high levels of fat and refined carbs, minus questionable artificial sweeteners and other chemicals, minus me maybe looking really inconsiderate...

Pity spreads through an attentive salesgirl’s smile as she suggests, “If you just can’t decide, why don’t you make them something? We’ve got some nice deals in our crafts section.”

Brilliant! Art is just another kind of math, too, right? And a personal gift isn’t going to be cheap, die in a few days, or potentially cause tooth decay, diabetes, or weight-gain! It’s perfect!

I blush as I hear the echoes of what makes the salesgirl laugh nervously and fidget like she wants to run.

Alternative step three: Make a gift from the heart using online instructions.

Unforeseen variable: Forgetting I don’t possess two very important parts of art—talent and a steady hand.

Even knowing I tried my best doesn’t stop my head from falling into my hands before the final messy monstrosity and its several maimed siblings lying on my coffee table. With a sigh, I break out the vacuum cleaner and some spray-and-wipe stuff to try and tidy up before my roommate gets back from class.

Note to self: Never, ever work with glitter again...

Alternative step four: Stare into the abyss and figure out just how I’m going to explain this "gift" to its intended recipient.

…

…

…

…maybe I should just get her a nice card or something.

Step five: Sit down with the aforementioned roommate, who’s also my best friend, and hopefully have him talk me out of my insanity despite the whole “man of my word” thing.

“Wow,” Damien remarks, taking a drag of his e-cig. “You’re in deep.”

The two of us stretch out in the bed of my truck, soaking up the warm spring sun. Clouds drift lazily overhead, and I wonder if any of them would be averse to taking me along.

Well, at least the vape haze is blowing away from me.

“Yeah,” I murmur. “What do you think? Should I go to the thing tonight, or just forget it?”

For a long moment, my roommate says nothing, twiddling his vape between his fingers. Then, he sets his e-cig aside, reaches up and removes his sunglasses, and begins cleaning them with his shirt.

“I think,” Damien ventures, “you should go.”

I hear the bells of doom ring. “But…”

Smoke slips through Damien’s nostrils. “Speaking as a humble psych major, you can’t account for every variability, bro. People are people, and sometimes they’ll just do what you don’t expect or don't want them to even if you get everything right on your end. Still,” he takes another drag, “you’ve grown up from the drama and are sincerely trying to do something nice about it, which is a good thing. Just be smart; prepare for the worst; and hope for the best.”

Suddenly, a butterfly with shimmering blue wings dances through the breeze and lands on my knee. My gaze descends from the clouds, and after a long, silent moment, I slowly reach out one trembling finger.

With care, the beautiful, delicate, and innocent little creature steps onto it.

“How?” I ask, my voice steady.

Also watching the butterfly, Damien says, “Well...”

Step six: March in step to the bells of doom and attend the pre-finals jamboree. Oh, and load up on Dutch courage while I’m at it.

Okay, so, I didn’t do that very inadvisable last part, but honestly, even before and after my punk phase, dances have never been my thing. The crowds, the lighting, the nauseating pop music playing at volumes that rattle my insides—I think I’d rather take an English exam I’ve never studied for. My clothes don’t make things much better, and I wish even the support from fellow nonconformists would fade to just let me be ignored.

Adapted step seven: Engage the target ideally when, where, and however she feels is most comfortable. Be friendly, polite, and prepare to adapt on the fly.

There, in the corner nearest the far exit, is “the target”—art major Claire Desrosiers—sitting with two other girls and with her back to me. They’re talking and laughing together, and she’s alternating between rocking back and forth in her seat and bouncing up and down. On the table in front of her, several napkins have been folded into origami animals without a single crease out of place, and her fingers are working on another creature at rapid speed even as she talks. As usual, she’s wearing something distinctly Asian—as are her two friends, it seems—though her outfit looks a bit lop-sided from all her movement.

Multiple choice question: Approach now, wait for her friends to leave, or catch her alone somewhere else?

If any of them leave.

To the bells of doom, I march forward.

In seconds, one or her friends sees me, and thus comes the first expected glare. She then takes in my attire and a, “Well, isn’t that appropriate,” sort of look fills her eyes. During that examination, the second one also looks my way, but to my surprise, she keeps her face carefully neutral.

At first, Claire doesn’t seem to notice, talking blissfully on while finishing an origami dog and starting on another napkin. However, the silence from her friends soon breaks through, and she turns.

Two beautiful blue eyes stare at me.

Step eight: SAY SOMETHING INTELLIGENT, YOU DIP!

“I...” My face burns at the croak, and the hand not holding the monstrosity behind my back fiddles with my shirt collar. “I, uh...”

I watch a flurry of emotions cross Claire’s face. Then, she turns away. There’s no rocking, bouncing, or laughter now; instead, she hunkers down in her seat and devotes all her attention to her napkins. Her fingers blitz, and in under a minute, three more animals are born with a fourth on its way.

“Well? What d’you want?” asks the friend who first noticed me, her eyes smoldering with anger.

Adapted step nine: There’s nothing for it. Just take the stupid plunge and get this disaster over with already.

“I-I’m sorry,” I say, bowing forward at the waist. “I’m really, truly sorry.”

Claire says nothing. She doesn’t even acknowledge if she’s heard me.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, stronger and louder this time. “I… I made fun of you, and I’m sorry. I was a huge jerk—”

“No kidding,” the first girl says.

“—trying to impress some of my friends, and it was stupid, and wrong, and I shouldn’t have done it.” My grip tightens around the gift behind my back. “I… I can’t ask you to forgive me, but, for what it’s worth...”

Alternative step ten: Say farewell to the last remaining shreds of my dignity.

Slowly, I set my piece of “art” among the napkin animals. It was supposed to be a butterfly, and I guess if you squint at it, it...vaguely resembles a butterfly? Maybe? If you also tilt your head just right?

Whatever it is, I want to put it out of its misery more than ever.

...why didn’t I just get a stupid card?

Around us, a few people who see the “butterfly” snicker while at least one girl lets out a dreamy sigh. Claire and her friends neither say nor do anything, though—not even to give the gift back or crush it or sweep it off the table. However, after my former victim raises her head to look at the thing, her folding slows.

“I-I...” I swallow. “I...made...this. For you, Claire. I did some research on Asian stuff and…and I thought...it...suited you. N-Not because what I made looks ugly, or, or anything! A-And I don't mean that sarcastically, o-or whatever the word is! I… I just… I’m not very good...”

Adapted step eleven: Disengage and retreat, you fool, RETREAT!

“A-Anyway,” I stammer, “I... Uh… I’msorryandIhopeyouladieshaveagoodnightbye!”

Adapted step twelve: Race home, go to bed, hope my life continues without any crippling embarrassment tomorrow, and cry a little inside before going to sleep...

Nine-and-a-half wonderfully blank hours later, I wake up in May. After listening to Damien snore one bunk over, I finally decide to face the day and start making us breakfast.

Someone knocks on the door as I’m in the middle of scrambling an egg. Calling out, “Give me a sec!” I turn down the heat of the stove-top and then head over to look through our dorm's peephole.

No one’s there, though I hear what sounds like wooden sandals clopping away before racing down the stairs.

I open the door. As I suspect, no one’s in the breezeway, but then, on a spark of intuition, I look down.

On the worn out straw welcome mat lies a blue origami butterfly about the size of my hand. Across its perfect wings are written the words, “I forgive you,” in flowing and flawless English and Chinese scripts.

Gently, I gather it up into my palm, and beneath the antenna, I see a smiling little insect face.

New equation: Try to make a new friend.

Step one...