I went to Harold's house on Friday. I knocked on the door and Harold answered it. "Oh, uh hi, Angela." He said, gesturing for me to come in.
I smiled, "Hey." I said, stepping through the door.
We stood in silence for a minute and Harold said, "So, um... D-do you want to go to my room?..... or something..."
Harold's Mom called something in Japanese from the kitchen and Harold started blushing furiously. "Mom!" He said, saying something back in Japanese.
"Uhhh...." I said stupidly, "Sure?"
Harold nodded, "Um, o-okay." He directed me to a small room at the end of the hall. It was kind of weird, you know, tanish walls, shelves full of crap that Harold didn't care enough about to put away or sort. It was pretty much the exact opposite of Chris's room; It was messy, cluttered, dully colored.... Did I mention you can't see the floor?
Harold turned to me, a grin breaking across his face, "So, wanna see my collection of torn-in-half-by-something-or-other butterflies?"
I blinked, confused. "Uh... Sure..." I ventured. Wow, this kid was weirder then I thought.
Harold pulled a huge glass case out from under his bed. It was full of butterflies; Halves... Halves of butterflies. He picked them up one-by-one, explaining exactly what it was that tore each butterfly in half. I nodded with mock approval, unable to believe that there was someone on this planet that had a collection of torn in half butterflies. Maybe Chris was right, maybe Harold did have a mental disorder.
Harold beamed at me stupidly, "So, what do you think?"
I nodded, smiling tightly. Didn't Harold know anything about girls? Well, he probably didn't, but isn't it kind of common sense that sophomore girls often don't take interest in a dead bug collection?
Harold showed me a variety of other weird things and I pretended to think they were interesting. After I while, I went home.
When I arrived home, Chris was waiting on the couch. "Hi, Angie! How'd it go?"
"I thought you went to that butterfly thing with Geoffry." I remarked.
Chris nodded, "Yeah, I did. It was pretty awesome. I just got home a half hour ago."
He sat me down on the couch and said enthusiastically, "So, what happened? Was he romantic?"
I snorted, thinking of Harold and his butterfly collection, "Harold? Romantic? I think something is wrong with your head. Did your boyfriend brainwash you?"
Chris looked disappointed, "So, nothing interesting happened?"
"You didn't ask me if anything interesting happened, you asked if anything romantic happened?"
Chris smirked at me, "Is there that big of a difference?"
I rolled my eyes, "Well, this was interesting and if you'd call it romantic, then go ahead, but you're crazy."
Chris nodded excitedly, scooting closer to me to hear my answer.
I grinned, "He showed me his collection of ripped up butterflies."
Chris gaped in horror. Oh yeah, he had just come back from a butterfly exhibit, making it worse. I laughed at his expression and he stuttered, "B-butterflies? All ripped up and dead? But, but..."
I laughed and stood up, patting Chris's shoulder as I went down the hall to my room, "Night, Chris."
"Night..." He said, staring at the T.V. (which was turned off at the moment).
Chris sat in the living room, thinking about butterflies, for the next twenty-six minutes.