Following Butterflies: A Novel

By Ellyahnna Christina Hall

Christinas body is changing shes growing into a woman. Shes just a girl that loves butterflies, clothes, shopping, and hanging out with her friends. Most of her day consists of finishing out her last year of high school, taking care of her little brother Gibby, painting and college searching. Christina is by most accounts a regular young woman, she just happens to be transgender.

As she gets closer to completing her final year of high school, Christina attempts to cope with a flood of emotions. Her once happy family seems to be struggling to hold together. Her father has hardly come home since losing his job and her mother doesnt seem to want to talk about her father at all. Christinas grandmother, whom she has always admired doesnt come to visit anymore. All while dealing with the emotional changes that come with a growing into a woman.

Plagued by feelings of possibly being the cause of her familys problems, Christina has become determined to protect her little brother Gibby as much as she can.

If things werent complicated enough, she finds herself falling for David- a new student to the school. She wants to tell him how she feels but doesnt know if he would be willing to date a transgender girl.

What she really wants is to be her parents loving daughter, her little brothers big sister, Davids girlfriend and to get into a good college. Christina is just a simple girl coming of age and like a butterfly she too must transform and spread her wings.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: May 9, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466970731

Book preview

Chapter One

As I enter the coffee shop, a flood of hazy light fills my eyes as I scan the room for Elizabeth. She is sitting at a table near the wall and waves for me to come over. I sit and talk to Elizabeth from across a table. Elizabeth orders two drinks and a small desert. It’s an eclectic looking shop with writing on the walls, scribbled with pen and white chalk. The light inside is dim and there is a vintage jukebox in the corner, near the restrooms.

Elizabeth has selected a series of grunge songs for us to listen to. I sway slightly back and forth as my favorite Nirvana song begins to play. Elizabeth, although having very little money, pays for our order. She and I exchange a smile and sit looking at each other. When the waitress brings our order to the table, I offer Elizabeth a piece of the small cake. She accepts, and I use a fork to cut the slice of double chocolate fudge in half. She smiles happily as she takes a bite. I look down as I take a bite of the moist chocolate too, but when I look up, Elizabeth isn’t there anymore.

It was a good dream. Now awake, I lay on my back looking up at the swirly patterns on the ceiling in my room. I try to climb back into my dream but it’s gone—just a memory. Elizabeth isn’t here and won’t be. She died a year ago… suicide.

When I met Elizabeth on a cold, February night, one of the first things that I found out about her was that it had been years since she had any contact with any of her relatives. She told me that her father had been killed when she was very young… something to do with drugs. It was a subject that she didn’t like to talk about.

I still have my Mom and Dad although our relationship has been a bit strained lately. I have my own room, safe and dry. Elizabeth’s mother kicked her out when she came out. So she drifted from place to place, walking the streets and sleeping wherever she could. Like so many items that end up along the sidewalk—valuable but somehow forgotten.

Umm.

My mind drifts from memories of Elizabeth to ones of my mom, from when I was a child. I am standing in the doorway—age five.

I watch my mom standing in front of the bathroom mirror smelling like a fresh garden. I watch her as she applies mascara and eye shadow. I’m amazed at how carefully and precisely she applies each line and each brush stroke. I have vivid memories of the makeup brush gliding across her beautiful, soft skin. Lastly she puts on the dark cherry lipstick. That was my favorite color lipstick. It looks like a perfect merger of purple and red.

When she notices me standing there, she turns to me, smiles and gives me a little pat on the head.

I want to look like her. Her clothes are soft and frilly. She loves to wear colorful blouses with a matching skirt of some kind. She kisses me once on the forehead before leaving for work. I go and stand in front of the mirror. All of this was before my little brother Gibby was born. I was the only child then.

Umm.

I am age seven. I notice my features in comparison to my mom’s features. I have cheeks like hers—thin and high. My lips are full—even fuller than her lips, but that’s about all. I would always take notice to my flat chest and wondered if I would develop breast too. I was slim from top to bottom and not curvy and elegant like my mom.

I want to be like her, I would always sigh. Something isn’t right.

Umm. Christina, are you awake?

Huh, I say shaking away from my memory.

Are you awake? Gibby asks again.

Yeah, I mumble.

Oh, okay, he says.

That’s all? I say, raising my head to look at him. You just wanted to know if I was awake?

Yeap, he answers energetically. He is standing in the doorway when I first look up, but then starts moving towards me. The carpet makes soft crushing sounds beneath his bare feet.

Are you getting up? he inquires while looking at me.

Soon, I say, pulling the cover over my head.

When is that? he asks.

Soon, I repeat.

Then I hear Gibby’s little feet running across the room and out the door. I know that he is going to watch TV. I close my eyes and quickly return to my memories.

I am there a little older, age eight. I grab some hair grease from the beauty stand and apply a large amount right in the center of my head. I teach myself to press, brush and straighten it until I get cute little flips and bangs. The middle is soaked with grease and ends of the rest are kind of burnt. My mom is not happy when she sees what I did.

I attentively watch my mother. I pay attention to every move she makes; mimicking her mannerisms the way she talks, sits, walks, laughs and stands. She and Dad would notice and look at me curiously, but say nothing.

Perhaps I will grow up to look like my mom, I think. I rub my hands down the front of my shirt trying to see my slim figure. I smile and pucker my lips at the mirror. As I’m looking in the mirror, I mumble, I need lip stick.

Christina, I hear Gibby say waking me from my memory once again. Then I feel the tips of his little fingers prodding at my side. I pull the cover from over my head, What is it Gibby?

The TV won’t come on, he exclaims.

I sit up, and rub my face once I manage to open my eyes. Gibby is standing there waiting.

Okay, I’ll be there in a minute, I say as Gibby turns running out of the room again. I get up and walk to the mirror.

Here I am age seventeen. My hair is pulled up into a curly ponytail that hangs shoulder length. My night shirt sticks out where my breasts have developed. I notice that my brows need to be arched again.

The house is quiet when I get down stairs. Mom is in the kitchen washing dishes and Gibby is standing by the TV in the adjacent living room. I go over and try to turn it on but it doesn’t work.

I’ve already tried that, Gibby mumbles.

I make a further inspection of the TV but can’t figure out way it won’t come on.

I don’t know what’s wrong with the TV, Gibby. Maybe Dad came home last night and did something to it. Go watch the smaller one upstairs.

Fine, he says discouraged. But it wasn’t Dad, he never comes home anymore.

I feel ill from Gibby’s comment but as Gibby heads back upstairs I wonder where Dad is. He doesn’t come home much lately. I straggle into the kitchen where Mom is standing by the counter.

Good morning Mom, I say.

Good morning, she utters without looking at me. I can tell she’s upset about something and I think that it is about Dad.

Where’s Dad? I inquire.

Don’t know, she says wearily. Don’t really care.

Her last words hurt me a bit. She turns and looks at me.

Sorry, she says. You didn’t need to hear that.

He hasn’t been home yet? I ask as if I didn’t know.

Nope, she sighs.

My Dad hasn’t been coming home much lately ever since he lost his job at the factory. The company that he worked for began to lay off employees. He made it past the first round of layoffs but the second round got him. This put a lot more pressure on my Mom to take care of things around the house and pay the bills. She has to take care of things around here and then go to work. Dad goes out each day to look for work but never finds any. So I do my best to help out by looking after Gibby.

I was about five when I started to notice that there was something different about me. But it wasn’t until recently that I noticed there was something different about my home. Home hasn’t always been different, at least not that I’ve noticed. I remember Mom and Dad use to get along most of the time and grandmother use to come around more often.

Those were the days of sitting around the fire place, laughing and telling jokes. Dad would always come home with some story about something silly that someone did at work. I looked forward to it. In those moments I felt like my father’s daughter.

My Grandmother is someone that I have always admired. She would take care of me when I was sick and talk to me when I was having problems. Whenever she was around everything seemed to be all right.

Despite how unusual we may have appeared to those around us, we still held a close bond with each other.

You hungry, Mom asks.

Yes, I say sadly.

Mom scoops some eggs out of the skillet and puts them on a plate next to some toast and a few slices of bacon. She puts the plate down on the table and sits in the chair across from me.

Eat up kid, she says before taking a sip of coffee. I just stare at the food that she has set in front of me. Mom puts the brown coffee mug on the table and looks at me.

What’s up with the long face? she asks.

I sigh, I… nothing.

You can talk to me Christina. You know that right?

Yes, Mom. I know, I say picking up the bacon and taking a bite off of it.

When I started high school I had a difficult time at first but it got a bit easier. I found some friends that didn’t mind hanging out with me. They were outsiders too… We’d meet up at lunch time and they’d all be smoking a cigarette and talking. Although I’ve never smoked, I’ve gotten use to the smell of it. I just stand around watching them. From time to time I add a comment or two, but not much more than that. That’s the way I’ve always been—more of a listener than a talker.

Every now and then one of my friends would ask me something about my transition and I would explain it to them. They always look amazed, each time I tell them.

That’s pretty cool I guess, one of the guys would say. My friend Rachael would make a comment like, Wow, that’s pretty extreme.

I met Rachael during my first day of high school. She was like me in the sense that she kept to herself and only associated with a small group. She’s my only female, so the only time I get to have girl talk is with her. My other two friends Mike and Justin could probably be described as the cool outcasts. They welcomed me into their circle. And every day during lunch we hang out between the library and the ROTC building.

This was also when I first got touched by a guy; it would usually be someone that didn’t hang around us and it was never in front of anyone. It was always a secret, coming mostly as a quick hug with a pat on the butt. If anyone came around the corner or something which ever guy it was would step away from me