"Look 'Lee, I have a moustache!" called a skinny boy wearing a checkered shirt and overalls. He grinned, and pointed to his face, where a green caterpillar crawled on his upper lip. Another boy, with the same clothes and meaty nose, looked up from the science textbook he was reading.
"Put that back, or you'll be in for a nasty surprise," said the reading boy.
"What do you mean-eww, what's that smell!" A foul odor erupted from under the joking boy's nose. He pulled off the caterpillar to see that it was waving around two orangish appendages that wafted a stink into the air. The soft body squirmed as it tried to escape the grasping fingers.
"Now you've done it. You've triggered the caterpillar's natural defense mechanisms," said the more-learned boy. He shuffled further away from the caterpillar and stuck his nose back in his book.
"I'm sorry I scared you." The first boy gently set the caterpillar back on the leaf where he had found it. After a few moments of stillness, the caterpillar crawled to the edge and started nibbling away. "I hope we can still be friends," continued the boy. "I'm Stanford, but people call me Ford when they're being polite. That bookworm over there is my brother Stanley. And you need a name too. I'll call you … Frank." Stanford sat down, clutching his legs in his arms. He looked at the happy, screaming children in the yard playing Red Rover and Four Square.
"I dunno what's worse," said Stanford to the caterpillar, "not being picked for a team, or having to run around while other people try to hit you with a ball. At least they leave me alone here." Stanford huddled in his little green cave under a bush in the corner of the school yard. "But I can't avoid them inside the school. I just know I flubbed the spelling test. Teach is gonna make me sit under the dunce cap again. Maybe I should just bring my own. At least I won't get lice that way." Stanford felt a tickling sensation as the caterpillar crawled onto his arm.
"Aww, you're a better listener than my brother." He glared at Stanley as the reading boy turned another page in his book.
At that, the teacher called the end of recess. Stanford gently redirected the caterpillar back onto the bush with a leaf, then crawled out his hiding spot. Maybe recess wasn't so bad after all.
"Hey Frank, I got you a gift." Stanford pulled out a cabbage leaf he'd saved from yesterday's dinner and held it in front of the caterpillar. The caterpillar abandoned the browning leaf it had been trying to eat, and eagerly chewed the cabbage instead. As it ate, Stanford lay on his stomach and rambled on. "We were learning about The War today. I wish I was old enough to show those Krauts what-for. If they'd even take me." Stanford looked disparagingly at his reed-thin arms.
At that moment, a ball fell into the bush and almost squished the caterpillar. "Hey, watch it!" yelled Stanford, popping his head out of the leaves.
"You watch yourself, dweeb," said a dirty-faced boy with unruly hair. Stanford cursed his rotten luck at attracting the attention of Alfonse Niccals, the roughest, toughest, meanest kid in the school. He was followed by his gang of ne'er-do-wells: Billy the Bruiser; Crunch, who was always snapping Stanford's pencils; Tiny, the tallest kid in the class; and Munch, the paste-eater.
"Just leave me alone, guys," Stanford said, sinking back into the bush.
"No way, not after you took our ball," jeered Al. Stanford bent down to get the ball, only to be grabbed by the collar and pulled out of his hiding space. "I think we found a better ball, right guys?" The thuggish crowd grunted in agreement. Stanford turned his head away to avoid Al's evil eye and rank breath.
"Aaah! A snake!" Munch pointed to a triangular green head with eye spots that was sticking out of the bush. An orange tongue flicked in and out.
"You knucklehead, that's just a worm." Al grabbed the caterpillar and held it in front of Munch's face. "Not so scary now, huh?" The caterpillar's orange feelers pushed out and hit Al's nose, filling it with a wave of stench.
"Yuck! I'll show you!" Al threw the caterpillar on the ground, raising his foot to squash it into the dirt.
"No!" cried Stanford. He did the only thing he could think of to save his friend. In a swift motion, Stanford grabbed the caterpillar and shoved it in his mouth.
Everyone stared at Stanford for a heartbeat. Stanford's face puckered as he tried to hold a pocket open in his mouth for the thrashing caterpillar. From a shocked expression, Al's face contorted to derision.
"Worm-eater!" The rest of the gang chanted along with Al, laughing and shoving Stanford around. His brother was hiding behind his book on the other side of the playground, saw Stanford with a bitter taste in his mouth. The bullies continued until the teacher called an end to recess. Stanford huddled on the ground until he was sure the gang had all left. Then he opened his mouth and spat out the caterpillar. Stanford looked anxiously at the damp bug, worried he'd crushed it despite all his efforts. After a few moments, the caterpillar rose up and grasped for a branch.
"You're alright, you're gonna be okay." Stanford wiped a patch of dirt under his eye. "It's rough, being a kid so soft and squishy. But you just gotta hold out until you turn into a butterfly. Then you can fly far, far away from here."
One cold day that smelled of winter, Stanford searched for his little buddy on the bush but couldn't see Frank at all. The green caterpillar should have been easy to find on the leafless bush, but there was no patch of green, no squirmy body that greeted Stanford. Stanford rifled through the branches, ignoring the way they scratched his skin as he stuck his head into the bush's depths. Finally, he spotted a lump of brown that was sticking out of the bush's trunk. Stanford poked the lump to feel the smooth shell of a cocoon that would shelter the pupa as it underwent its transformation into a butterfly.
Winter came and passed. Every day, Stanford went to check up on the cocoon, and whispered to it as it slumbered through the cold days.
"Al's been leaving me alone. He's busy chasing the skirts of the neighbor girl, Paula."
"Good news! I got a B in arithmetic! And Al got an F, so he's the dunce now. Stanley got an A+ though, and dad was so happy, he took him out for ice cream. I guess there's no way I'll ever catch up."
"Dad signed me up for boxing lessons. I hate it. I wish I could just sleep all day, like you."
Finally, when all the snow on the ground had melted, Stanford saw the chrysalis twitch. Black and yellow wings beat faintly under the cocoon's walls. Stanford cradled the cocoon in his hands, warming it with his breath. A miracle of nature, right in front of his eyes.
Achingly slowly, the cocoon split. One antenna curled out of the shell, then another. The butterfly rocked in and out of the chrysalis walls, trying to escape its prison. It struggled to grab onto a surface with its newly-formed feet. Stanford glanced anxiously at the school. The teacher would be calling the end of recess soon, and Stanford didn't want to miss his friend's first flight.
Oh so carefully, Stanford pinched the cocoon's skin between his fingers and tore it open, as gently as he could. The delicate membrane split and the butterfly fell out, onto the muddy earth. In panic, Stanford scooped the butterfly into his hands. The butterfly righted itself and managed a few shaky steps. Stanford breathed a sigh.
With butterfly in hand, Stanford bounded over to where his brother sat, reading as usual. "It hatched! I have a butterfly now!" Stanford plopped his hands in front of his brother's book and opened his hands, revealing the butterfly.
"Why are its wings all crumpled up like that?" Stanley asked. Instead of being flat and ready for flight, the yellow and black wings were crumpled up like an umbrella.
"I don't know," said Stanford. "I'm sure they'll straighten out eventually. He's just taking his sweet time."
"Did you open the chrysalis before it was ready?"
"Uhh…"
"You dummy, don't you know anything? You have to let it leave on its own. Otherwise, the wings won't dry properly, and you'll have a retarded freak."
"No, it's not true! It'll be okay!" Tears welled at the corner of Stanford's eyes as he saw how the butterfly struggled to walk while burdened by useless wings, toppling over on the uneven surface of his hands.
"You should have just read the nature books I borrowed for you. Here," Stanley flipped to a page in the book he was reading. "Your butterfly must be an Eastern Tiger Swallowtail, it has the same colors, and the larval form-"
"Shut up!" Stanford ripped the book out of Stanley's hands and dumped it onto the muddy ground. "None of this would have happened if you just talked to me instead of burying your head in that stupid book!" Stanford cradled the deformed butterfly in his hands and ran to the schoolhouse.
Stanford managed to keep the butterfly safe inside his desk until the end of the school day. He gingerly carried it home, and vowed that he'd take care of it so well, it wouldn't even miss not being able to fly. For a house, he fixed up a shoebox with a stick for perching, a pool of sugar water, and even a blanket in case it got cold. Once a day, he put it in a jar and carried it around the yard so it could get some fresh air.
A week later, Stanford opened the shoebox to refresh the butterfly's water, only to find it lying still on the bottom. No gentle nudges with a pencil could wake it up. With a trembling hand, Stanford picked up the crumpled body of the butterfly. He held the black body close to his face. Those bright months of laughter and friendship, that shining potential, wasted. All from his mistake. He'd raised a butterfly that would never fall in love, or drink from a flower, or fly into the horizon. If that was what caring had bought him, then why care at all?
Stanford clapped his hands together, crushing the butterfly in his hands. He opened his palms to reveal that the tender body had been ground into a black paste against his callouses. Goodbye and good riddance. Stanford wiped his hands against his pants, and fetched his boxing gloves. Today would be a victory for tough love.
A/N: I'm pretty sure I borrowed the idea of the crumple-winged butterfly from another story, but hell if I can remember where. I realize that because of "Not What He Seems", the names of the Stans are probably switched, but I'm still going to use the convention Grunkle Stan - Stanford and Author Stan - Stanley until the show makes it clear what to call who.
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