The butterflies started showing up the night before I left for Geek Camp. The first one came as a surprise: an otherworldly blue messenger, lifting and settling its wings on the windshield of the wheezy Chrysler LeBaron I had inherited from my grandmother just months before. Carol was riding shotgun, and when I whacked her knee and pointed, she just slid her sunglasses down her nose, peered at the butterfly like it might be contagious, and said, “They’re everywhere, Glo. A plague of them.” After that, just like when you learn a new word and suddenly it’s all over the place, I started seeing the blue butterflies everywhere I looked.
Mia hadn’t realized how much she missed the mountains. The countryside rolling past her car window was greener than anything in Boston. She loved the moose-crossing signs and the little villages that felt so sleepy and peaceful. June was in-between season in New England, but in another week, the roads would be humming with campers and fancy cars full of New York City people who stopped to take selfies with cows. For now, Mia loved watching the quiet landscapes drift by. Packing the moving truck the day after school ended had been a hassle, but she really was glad to be moving back to Vermont.