Her mother says it means beautiful. Cho has her doubts. She isn't vain, but the girl has spent hours in front of the mirror, picking herself apart. Cute, maybe even pretty. Her ethnicity lends her a certain sort of delicate grace.
Not beautiful. Never beautiful. Cho finally decides it's only wishful thinking on her mother's part.
Butterfly. That's the meaning of her name, her father claims. Growing up, Cho didn't think it fit either. Where are the wings? Where's the great transformation?
She hates her name, hates the expectations that simple, single syllable seems to hold. She isn't beautiful. She isn't a butterfly.
Perhaps she'll grow into it some day.
OoOoO
She isn't a natural on a broomstick. Her first attempt ends in tears and a dislocated shoulder. Each try brings fresh bruises and scrapes.
But she gets it. The transition is subtle. From awkward and clumsy to graceful and in control.
Cho flies without butterfly wings, soaring through the air. The wind whips her black hair about her face, messing it up, but she doesn't mind.
It feels right. Not quite natural, but maybe that will come. Perhaps all young butterflies feel that way when they're learning. They've spent so much time grounded to the earth that the new freedom, however perfect it may be, feels alien to them.
She executes trick after trick, spinning and turning, flipping and diving.
And, in that moment, Cho has never felt more alive. She finally agrees that maybe, just maybe, she has become the beautiful butterfly her parents believed she would.