The Fall of Butterflies (12 page)

S
o I guess if you live in New York in the most perfect place ever with the coolest stuff ever, the first thing you're supposed to do is leave. I mean, seriously. Why would we want to stick around a giant, empty, superfantastic space in the middle of this whirling dervish of a town? We couldn't be bothered. How gauche! No one actually stays anywhere superamazing. I mean, why would we want to do that when we could get into a cab and go to Brooklyn to a packed, greasy space filled with weirdos and smoke and something that looks like smoke but kind of smells and tastes like cotton candy and projections everywhere and a zillion people dancing to some kind of throbbing, repetitive mating call?

In case you can't guess, I'm not happy to be here.

There are a couple of reasons for that.

Whatever this drug is supposed to do, it's not really doing anything but making me feel like I'm about to throw up, and then I'm okay, then I'm about to throw up, then I'm okay. Remy says it hasn't kicked in yet. Maybe she's right. Not sure. But if I am gonna be feeling like this, the last place I want to be is around a bunch of people who you have to wonder what they are doing with their lives to be here in the first place.

And then there's Milo. Something odd and tantalizing just happened with Milo. On our way into this godforsaken place . . . there was an incident. You see, there was a girl. And not just any girl. Like, a supermodel-looking girl. With long dirty-blond hair and a gap between her teeth. But a foxy gap. Like, she's the kind of girl that makes a gap between your teeth look glamorous.

Now, normally, this is the kind of girl you would see all sorts of guys rushing over to, but that's not what happens. No, no. Remy and I both step back and watch as this girl bum-rushes Milo, plants two palms on his chest, and literally pushes him back with brute strength.

“WTF?!”

Milo looks vaguely amused but a bit nervous.

“WTF?! WTF?! WTF?!” Just those letters over and over. And now she is just pushing him backward and he is getting
pushed. And people are starting to look over. Remy and I exchange the international look for OMG.WTF.com

“Hi . . .” Milo trails off, his cheeks flushed.

“Hi? That's all you have to say to me? HI?!”

“Um . . .”

“Yeah, whatever,
HI
. You know what . . . fuck you!”

And gap-toothed-yet-beautiful storms off.

Now there is just a circle of people staring at Milo, who looks around sheepishly.

“Sorry . . . that was my dentist.”

A few chuckles, a few eye rolls, and everyone gets back to the party.

So, as you can see, Milo is becoming more and more mysterious by the minute. I mean, I thought it was pretty clear that he was the most excellent swoon-worthy person of all time, but maybe he isn't after all. Maybe he's a jerk? I mean, that dentist comment wasn't the nicest. Also, I thought it was pretty clear that I was supposed to be in love with him and all, but that's not what's happening, either. And he is presently transforming into some kind of weird turtle who is quiet, withdrawn, and only answering questions with one-word sentences.

Guess that dentist really had an effect.

If you don't believe me, even Remy is noticing. It's like he can't even look at us.

Maybe I shouldn't have admitted I'm from Iowa. He probably just thinks I'm some dumb hillbilly. I mean, the art on my dad's walls is not on loan but was straight-up bought from maybe a garage sale or the ROSS Dress for Less, and there's a kitchen witch involved and also something depicting a cat sleeping in a meadow outside a barn at sunset. There are no giant paintings of Campbell's tomato soup, but there actually is Campbell's tomato soup. If you open the top cupboard to the left, you'll find it.

So there's that.

That might explain the fact that my mysterious future imaginary husband Milo might as well be in Timbuktu right now, let alone standing right next to me in the middle of this sweaty party or bacchanalian festivity or whatever this is. I am noticing that some of these people are probably too old to be doing this. I mean, like . . . I'm not sure what the cutoff point is for gyrating in sparkly clothes, but I can tell you some of these people are really pushing it.

If you think this is Remy's cue to look over at me and say, “C'mon, isn't this fun?!” and then start dancing crazily with that spangly stranger over there in short shorts, then guess what? Wrongo.

Remy looks just as annoyed as me. She's yelling into Milo's ear over the music and he's shrinking and looking around a bit, at a girl wearing what can only best be described as a
zebra sequin bathing suit minus the stomach part but with a silver circle attaching the top to a skirt. It's very confusing. And the girl herself looks confused by it. Or maybe she's just wondering where the rest of the zebra went.

Milo nods at Remy, and suddenly I am whisked out as if on a kind of people–conveyor belt back into the brisk Brooklyn air.

“God, that was horrible.”

I think it's the first time I've ever heard Remy say anything negative.

“I know. So B and T.”

“B and T?”

“Bridge and tunnel.”

“Like, the people that have to take a bridge and/or tunnel to get here,” Milo fills in.

“Wait . . . didn't WE have to take a bridge to get here . . . to Brooklyn?”

“NO!”

But definitely yes.

Still, they both say it. I think this is the most emphatic they've been all night. Possibly ever.

Here's the good news.

Our Ecstasy is kicking in.

Here's the bad news.

Now Milo is puking in the gutter.

D
on't think I don't know what you're thinking. You're thinking that Ecstasy is fun and doesn't make you puke. But trust me. It does. Or trust Milo. He'll tell you.

But that's over now. All of it. The puking. The nausea. The general grodiness. And what seems to have replaced it is the part that everybody goes through that first horrible part for.

Oh, I forgot to tell you what happened. Milo puked, Remy hailed an Uber, and next thing you know we were back in Manhattan, but this time in a place I didn't know existed. Remy's place. Or Remy's family's place. In Manhattan. Where no one is. Because they are all somewhere called Amasandwich or Amahamburger or something. But
whatever the place is, it's not here, and that means they are not here, which is a good thing because Milo is still looking a little green around the gills. In a cute way. Like if Jared Leto were a space alien. Which doesn't seem quite outside the realm of possibility.

Basically, what happens is you walk into this French-blue room with white molding everywhere, even up two feet off the ground. So the French blue just kind of looks like these panels, on the top part of the wall. And there're paintings on them. Discreet ones. Nothing like at Milo's place. Nothing gigantic and modern. No, no. This is shy, coquettish. The floor is wood, but an elaborate wood design with little squares and shapes in it. And there's a cherrywood table in the middle with flowers on it. Also, sconces are involved.

That's just the first room.

The second room, the room with the fireplace that Milo is tinkering with in an effort to either make a fire or burn down the building, has a lot of Chinese-looking panels all around it, but there is also molding and there's a warm glow coming from somewhere and a grand piano in the corner in case you decided to take up the piano. Really, what's odd about this room is that you could actually have a ball in it. Not that you could have fun in it. No, no. You could actually have an actual ball in this space. Like with waltzing and swirling poofy skirts and everything. There are seriously
three different seating areas, and that's not even counting the sort of off-to-the-side seating areas, which seem to consist of two chairs and a little table obviously meant to be used whilst conspiring against the queen.

What I love about Remy is that if you saw her on the street you would never, ever know this. She would never tell you. She might look like she grew up in a laundry machine on tumble dry, but you'd never guess she came from this place. It's not this place that makes Remy who she is. It's the fact that she doesn't seem to notice.

The main event seating area is in front of the fireplace, where Milo is busy at attempted arson and can be seen in the giant mirror behind, which was probably taken from Napoleon some time ago. If you're wondering where Remy is, she's rolling on the floor. That's not an expression. Well, it is, actually. But that's not what I mean here. Remy is literally rolling around on the floor, not too far away from the fireplace in question.

If you're wondering where I am, I am on the floor beside Remy and I, too, seem to be rolling around.

What am I doing here? I don't know, but it appears to be all we can muster at the moment.

So, this really turns out to be a very gendered evening. The two girls are rolling around in front of the fireplace whilst the boy is busy building the fire to provide warmth
and, also, an activity for himself. Boys are weird. I never would in a million years be trying to build a fire right now. Or tinkering with flammables in any manner.

But there he is. And I must say, for someone who was just puking his face off an hour ago, he's doing swimmingly.

I'm doing swimmingly, too, for that matter, in that I feel like I'm swimming. In this room. In this warmly lit, vaguely playful yet delicate Chinese-paneled room.

I just want you to know. There's marzipan in little shapes of fruit in all of the different little ethnic bowls hanging around. Like a strawberry, a minibanana, a minipear, and even a minipumpkin. The minipumpkin is not an actual fruit. That would be ridiculous. They are all pretending to be fruit but inside they are delicious marzipan. I make a mental note to eat them when I am hungry again. Which should be in about two days. Maybe I should take them with me, if we leave earlier than that, but hopefully we won't leave—earlier or ever.

I would like you to know that my plan has worked. Everything feels great. And I'm in love. With everything. I'm in love with the floors and the marzipan and the fireplace and the Chinese wallpaper and Milo striking matches and Remy rolling around next to me like a demented potato.

Also, Local Natives is playing. So that, too, is making love out of nothing at all.

Remy is looking at me. Now she smiles. She whispers into my ear, “Do you wanna know something funny?”

Local Natives is whispering into my other ear, all about airplanes. They are repeating “I want you back back back.”

Remy whispers again, “You're the only person from that dumb school I ever brought here.”

I look at her like she's lost her marbles.

She nods. “Yup.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Milo! Milo . . . answer this question. Seriously. Have I ever once brought anyone back here from school, from Pembroke?”

Milo looks down at me from next to the mantel, through the mirror.

“Nope.”

And this is just getting weird. I don't say the thing I want to say, which is, “Why me?” Like, seriously, why on earth, considering that everyone at that school,
everyone
is falling all over themselves to hang out with the one person who is considered the mostest of the most, the allest of the all . . . why does that worshipped person simply decide to reach over and choose me,
ME
? The biggest hick in the entire school and probably on the entire Eastern Seaboard?

I don't ask that question, but she doesn't seem to mind.

And Milo doesn't seem to mind.

Nobody seems to mind anything.

Everyone is just acting like this is what is meant to be and there's nothing weird about it at all. No sir.

Everyone is just acting like I'm supposed to be here. And I am acting that way, too. Now. Of course I am. I'm not an idiot. I'm not gonna go around this ridiculously beautiful and elaborate but somehow ethereal place with my jaw dropped down, slurping all over the Persian rugs and the parquet floors.

But I can't help wondering what my dad would say. If he saw me. I guess he'd probably tell me to lay off the drugs. Actually, what am I talking about? He'd ground me. Definitely. He'd definitely ground me for life.

But my dad is not here right now, my pretty.

And I'm not in Iowa anymore.

And wasn't that the point of sending me here in the first place? To be with the right kind of people? To do the things they do?

“I have an idea.”

It's not Remy, it's Milo. Milo is sitting next to me, and I'm trying not to notice that you could cast him as the cutest person on earth right now.

“Why don't you stay there. Stay as still as you can . . . and tell me if you like this.”

I look for Remy. No sign. Guess she's in the enormous
powder room with fancy soaps in the shape of seashells.

But there I am, lying on the floor next to the fireplace, and there is Milo. And what he's doing is, he's touching my skin. Just on my arm. Nothing pervy. He's just touching my skin. Trailing his fingers up my arm, and down my arm. And now my ankles. On the sides of my knees. On the sides of my thighs. And up again. To my arms.

All very PG.

Right?

Except that's not what it feels like.

It doesn't feel PG.

It feels like someone is setting my skin on fire. And that someone is Milo.

And this feels like a secret.

W
e don't even look at each other on the train ride back to Pembroke. Remy and I. There's nothing wrong, technically. Nothing you could point your finger at and say, “There! That's it. That's why I'm so depressed!” In fact, we were happy as can be, flying high, not twelve hours ago. We were on top of the world. And now? It's like all that just turned inside out on itself and now our heads are killing us, our stomachs are turning, and we both look like we have two black eyes from lack of sleep. Poisoned. We are poisoned.

And it was fun.

Look, it was. I'm not gonna lie to you.

But now, looking out the window of the train with my head pounding and this desperate feeling of certain
catastrophe . . . ugh. Again. Here we are again. Not worth it. Seriously not worth it.

“I think I'm fucking up.”

“What?” Remy turns to look at me.

“I just don't think I should do this. I think I'm gonna regret it. I already do regret it in a way.”

“What? You mean, like, ever? You're never, ever gonna do it again?”

“I don't know. I mean, look at us.”

“Yeah.”

“It's like we're a couple of scarecrows.”

“Yeah.”

It's not exactly an agreement. Remy is not committing either way.

“Anyway, it doesn't matter. We have that midterm in two days. We gotta get it together.”

“Oh, I forgot about that.”

“I'm serious, Remy. We shouldn't mess that up.”

I don't say the real thing I'm thinking. Which is that I'm on academic scholarship and if I get kicked out, that's it for me. The whole life is gone . . . never to return again.

Just straight to the trailer park.

Back to What Cheer.

No more Remy.

Do not pass go.

That's the difference. Remy can fuck around all she wants, but that glowy fireplace will always be waiting for her. Not me. I gotta fight for it.

It is strange, wanting to fight for something. When was the last time I wanted to fight for anything?

The last time I can remember actually fighting was at the roller-skating rink when I was ten. It's a long story, okay? But let's just say fighting on roller skates is no small feat. I would like to say I retained my dignity, but that would be a stretch.

“What did you think of that crazy girl, anyway?”

This is Remy changing the subject.

“Which one?”

“Um, the one at the club. With the gap tooth and the stiletto boots, who kept pushing Milo and saying, ‘WTF, WTF'?”

I shrug.

But maybe he tried touching
her
in the dark, too.

And maybe she let him.

And maybe she never heard from him again.

I haven't told Remy about the Milo incident. I don't know why. I have this feeling that somehow he belongs to her. Even though over and over she says they're just friends. Somehow he belongs to her. But if I'm honest, I don't want him to.

I want him to belong to me.

“Oh, yeah. I dunno. Do you think he, like, dumped her or something?”

“Mm. I don't think so. Milo is kind of a bunny rabbit. Doesn't sound like something he'd do . . .”

She trails off, staring out the window. Then, she smiles at me, sneaky.

“By the way . . . what did
you
think of Milo?”

I'm not gonna tell her.

“Well, he seems pretty cool. When he's not puking in the gutter. And getting yelled at by supermodels.”

And I don't know why I said that. I'm just trying to keep him to me. To keep the possibility of him to me. Safe. Untainted.

“Plus, I don't think he likes me very much.”

“Why not?”

“I dunno. He's kind of . . . quiet.”

“Well, Milo is not the kind of guy to just jump on top of you after some cheesy line.”

She's got that right. He's more the kind of guy to sidle up to you while you're on Ecstasy and gently touch your arm for ten seconds.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Well, he did imply that you were pretty.”

“Imply?”

“Yeah, like when we met. He implied that you were
attractive—that Iowa comment? I'm too drained to remember it exactly.”

“Well, you both kind of said the same thing. Do they teach you that line in day care or something?”

“What line?”

“That Iowa must be where all the attractive people are. If I'm from there or something.”

She shrugs.

“Well, maybe we both actually thought it, ever think of that?”

I shrug. It's like a shrugging contest over here.

“Honestly, I don't know what you're used to back on the farm, but all the guys I know are totally weird and shy and incapable of trying any lines or making any hot moves or whatever.”

“Really?” I give an involuntary shiver, thinking of Milo's hand going slowly over my skin in the dark.

“Um. Yeah. Totally hopeless. If they like you then usually they just ignore you. Or say mean things. I think that's called flirting.”

Okay, this is the last time I'm gonna ask this question. But I have to know.

“Are you sure you guys aren't in love or something? Like some unrequited thing? Because it sure seems that way. I mean—”

“
Tsh
. No. No way. Milo's not my type.”

If that's true, then why do I feel like I'm stealing her boyfriend?

We smile weakly, spent and sick, heads pounding.

“Next time we should drink more water, I think.”

The train pulls into Pembroke station. Now everyone's getting up, gathering their things, collecting, looking around.

“Next time?” I ask.

Remy looks at me. Caught.

“I mean, next time
if we decide to do it
. That's all.”

We sidle out beside a lady with an orange-and-black umbrella. “Princeton Tigers” on the handle. I look at the lady. She's about my mom's age. Skinny with wispy auburn hair. She smiles politely at Remy and me.

“Pembroke, I assume?”

She talks in that way you only talk if you're from here. It's not snooty or anything like that. It's just a tiny bit nasal, vaguely amused, and the mouth doesn't move that much. Like everybody's a ventriloquist.

“Yes, guilty,” Remy replies, in kind.

This is a language they all speak. A language that's always clever, always in on it, and never trying too hard. A language of the unimpressed.

But that's not what I'm thinking about right now. What I'm thinking about, as we get off the train, into the overcast
late-afternoon sky, is Remy and Milo and
next time
.

And as we walk through the crowd and off the platform, I swear, that
next time
is following us down the stairs, down the sidewalk, and all the way back to Pembroke.