The Fall of Butterflies (14 page)

R
emy is running lines now. From
Hamlet
. She told me she's making it her mission to become the English teacher's Lolita. Which makes no sense because she's trying out for Ophelia. Also, I'm not used to Remy getting spastic about anything. Especially some off-limits creep. But that seems to be what's happening, and, honestly, it's having an effect.

She's carrying a worn copy of
Hamlet
around like she's some kind of character in a Salinger novel. And not only does she swoon at him all the time, which is embarrassing, but when he's not there, she talks about him. Incessantly. Like, we'll be having a conversation about pickles and the next thing you know it's on and on about Humbert Humbert.

Sort of like this:

Me: “I like pickles.”

Remy: “I like Humbert Humbert.”

Or, the other day:

Me: “I think it's gonna rain. I'm gonna wear my rain boots.”

Remy: “I think you're right. I wonder if Humbert will drive me home in the rain.”

And on and on and on. Name one thing. Anything. And Remy can bring it back to Humbert. It's absurd.

There's another thing, too. She stole all these pill bottles from her aunt. Without telling me.

Yup. Last week she skipped out again for a few days. I didn't worry. I'm kind of getting used to it. She came back with the same “I decided to stick around at home for a while” excuse and then she disappeared into the closet, aka maid's quarters. Where she disappears a lot.

What happens in the maid's quarters stays in the maid's quarters, right?

But it's getting kind of out of hand.

And the fact that she's keeping it secret? Or trying to?

That's not a good sign.

Am I supposed to say something? Is that the idea? Or am I supposed to ignore it, just shrug and say “whatever” and keep a smile on my face?

And it's all happening so fast I kind of can't keep track of it. Like on Monday.

Get this.

Monday after class, I get back to our room. I hear Remy's voice from behind the door. She's talking on the phone, and from what I can gather, it's to her mother. The one side of the conversation I can hear goes something like this—

“So there's this new drama teacher, and—yes, Mom, drama . . . What? No, I'm not
going on about that whole thing again
. It's just a school play . . . fine. So, I'm trying to tell you that I got a part . . . Yes, I auditioned. Aren't you proud of—so what if I
did
let myself get carried away with it? Oh, yes. The family name. You know the Kennedy son did theater, right? Well, maybe he wouldn't have been flying that airplane if he'd been starring in a play that weekend. Mom. I'm just telling you that—”

I feel guilty listening to even that much, so I turn around and make myself scarce, reading in the study room while Remy deals with whatever
that
is.

When it feels like enough time has passed, I head upstairs. No more dialogue. Nope. Just a few slams and crashes. I open the door and WTF. OMG. Gasp. Everything Remy owns or has ever owned is all over the place, like the place was ransacked by a burglar on a cop show, and she's rifling
through it all like it's the end of the world. And talking to herself.

Like a crazy person. Or some kind of stressed-out rat, rummaging through her cage.

So I ask her what she's looking for and she totally ignores me. She's actually, honestly, kind of a bitch about it. Sort of like flippant. Then, she finds whatever the thing is, goes back into the ol' telltale maid's quarters, then comes right back in like nothing happened.

She breathes a sigh of relief and apologizes.

I just stare at her.

“Sorry. I was just kind of freaking out.”

“Yeah, um, okay.”

“It's just . . . my parents. They're being so fucking mean to me. About this play. They're like—they called it embarrassing. They want me to quit.”

I feign ignorance. “Really?”

“Yup. They think it's, like,
beneath
me. Or them. Or whatever.”

Then she goes to the bathroom and I watch her down the hall. And now, in the maid's quarters, I start rummaging around. Here. No. Maybe here. No. Okay, how about over here.

And then I find it.

Something I have never seen before.

Okay, I've heard of this drug. I have. Everyone basically says it's the greatest thing ever. Like, it makes you feel like you're the greatest thing on earth and everything is just peachy. Better than peachy. Perfect. And it makes you feel like the world is perfect. Like everything is as it should be. Which is kind of like a Buddhist thing. Except in a pill. A Buddhist pill.

But this is also a drug they give pregnant ladies to recover. From giving birth.

So, yeah, not exactly no big deal.

And this is the drug she's hiding in the maid's quarters.

I guess this is a new level of pill-popping. One that makes Remy bitchy and spastic and rummaging and kind of mean. And isn't that kind of the opposite of Buddhism?

I hear Remy down the hall and go back to a completely abnormal “normal” position.

We're supposed to walk over to this stupid
Hamlet
rehearsal, but to be honest, I really don't want to go anymore. At least
Grease
would have been fun. And there would have been singing involved. And now it's all about talking to skulls and jumping into graves and freaking out on your mom.

Remy will, of course, end up as Ophelia. If I'm lucky I'll get to be Gertrude. You know, the mom who marries her brother's killer and then pretends everything's okay, no,
really, don't worry about it. I think in modern times Gertrude would wake up, put on her Juicy jogging suit, blend herself a nice vodka milk shake, and move to the OC. But not Ophelia. Ophelia would never move to the OC. Ophelia is the one who gets to be beautiful and crazy and jilted by Hamlet until she crawls up a willow tree, falls into the river, and drowns, and then Hamlet loves her again.

Sidebar: Why do guys always fall in love with girls
after
they kill themselves? Wouldn't it work a lot better to fall in love with a girl
before
she kills herself? And then maybe she wouldn't even have to kill herself? It always seems like guys fall in love with girls who a) don't notice them or b) are dead.

It honestly seems like a guy would never like a girl just standing in front of him, being in love with him, no matter who she was. Even Angelina Jolie.

But Remy is not behaving like Angelina Jolie. No, no slightly aloof, regal glances here. She is, instead, falling all over herself for Humbert.

So far he's kept things professional. Oh, sure, he'll give her acting direction and talk about iambic pentameter. But he's not whispering sweet nothings into her ear or anything slurpy. I just hope he can keep his weiner on straight in the face of whatever Remy has planned.

Exhibit A: Remy comes back in the room and now it's all rainbows and buttercups. Now she's happy as a clam and
getting dressed for rehearsal like it's her own personal date with Humbert Humbert.

“You know he can't like you, right?”

“Who?”

“Humbert Humbert. He's not allowed to like you. Even if he does. Or did. He can't act on it or anything. He'd lose his job.”

Remy looks at me through the mirror, she's holding up a cool Bohemian-print dress that might as well be a shirt. It's the kind of thing that looks like you forgot your pants. It makes me involuntarily gulp.

“I know. I just want him to notice me, kinda.”

“Um, if you wear that pants-optional outfit, I'm sure he'll notice you. As will everyone else.”

“C'mon, don't you think he's cute? A little?”

“I think he's old a little.”

I could ask her right now. I could ask her about the pills and the maid's quarters and the whole elaborate charade.

But somehow I don't.

Somehow I'm afraid that if I do, I'll break this thing we have. This thing I don't totally understand the existence of in the first place.

“Can I ask you something, Willa?”

“Maybe.”

“How come you never talk about your mom?”

“My mom? Why are you asking?”

“Because she's famous. Famous for being logical. Which sometimes you are.”

“I'm not anything like her, actually. And besides, economists aren't famous.”

“Okay,
world-renowned
.”

“Better.”

“So . . . ?”

“Honestly, I haven't seen her in, like, ten years. I haven't talked to her on the phone for about two years, and I kind of like it better that way. I used to really care about what she thought, like it bothered me, like I had to be perfect. Then my dad brought me to a headshrinker, and the shrink said I didn't have to care anymore. He said I could just write her off. Even though she's my mom.”

“Really?”

“Yup, really. I couldn't believe it. It was like, ‘I can do that? I don't have to care what she thinks? Wow!' And then I felt better. A lot better, actually. That headshrinker kind of saved my life. I really liked him. He kind of looked like John Denver. Like he had blond hair and this sweet smile and a big pie face. You sort of expected him to start singing any minute.”

“I wish I'd had that.”

“What?”

“A shrink that looked like John Denver.”

She puts on the non-leg-covering vestige.

“See? It's not so bad.”

“People are starving for pants in India. And you, you throw away your pants like garbage.”

“Would you say they're pants-starving?” Remy smirks.

“I would say
you're
pants-starving. As in . . . you are dying for Humbert Humbert to get in your pants.”

She turns, assuring me.

“Don't worry,
mon amie
. I won't bring him to Paris with us.”

“Very funny. Wait. Were you thinking of bringing him to Paris?”

“Not really.”

She grabs her bag as if this is all so blissful and there is absolutely nothing that could possibly be wrong. We head out across the green. But don't think I don't notice that Remy ducks into the maid's quarters again on the way out. And grabs that bottle . . . pretending not to grab that bottle.

I guess she thinks she needs sustenance for her pants-free date with Mr. Old.

W
atching Remy make a fool of herself over Humbert Humbert is a little cringe-inducing. She is focused. She is swooning. She pays attention. She bats her fucking eyelashes, for God's sake.

And I would definitely think this was a total waste of time, breath, energy, and pants-optional outfits, but I do declare, by rehearsal week four . . . I think she is making progress.

Here is the evidence:

Remy is Ophelia. (She got the part, naturally.) She is practicing this speech where she realizes that Hamlet has lost his marbles and she is bummed out to see such a great guy gone
ape shit. “Oh, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown.”

(That's “overthrown,” bdubs.)

(“Bdubs” means “BTW,” bdubs.)

So, Remy is over there in another all-legs getup, getting all teary-eyed about bat-shit Hamlet, and I happen to take a glance at Humbert Humbert.

Well, let me tell you. The guy is in a state.

Depending on how you look at it, it's either a state of forlorn longing or a look like a toddler just got his cookie taken away or the way a puppy looks at a “No Dogs Allowed” sign in an old-fashioned cartoon. Whatever it is, there is want there. Not even want. Need.

Humbert Humbert is starting to lose it. Just the sight of him induces a kind of half gag I try to conceal.

Remy finishes her (actually kind of great) monologue and everyone sits there, spellbound. Transfixed. Befuddled. Forlorn.

It is as if, in this one moment, all of us plebeians just lose all the studying, and midterms, and papers, and failed diet plans, and we just sit there, for one moment, together in Ophelia's lost love, taking in the madness of her secret boyfriend prince.

I can't help but wonder if Remy's parents would think it was
beneath
her now. If they saw this. What she can do. If
they saw what she just did to this room.

And Remy looks at me. And I nod toward Humbert Humbert.

There he is. In all his sage, skinny glory. Riveted.

Oh, Remy!

You did it! You really, truly did it. You hooked the bait. Your reeled him in. You got him.

Truly remarkable.

I really never thought it would happen.

Never ever.

And this is where I wonder, why am I worried about her? I mean, for Christ's sake, she clearly has the world on a string. She's getting the ungettable teacher, and she's moving this entire auditorium to tears!

I should be worried about
me
.

Well, obviously, nothing bad can come of this. Right? I mean . . . it's just an underage girl in love with an English teacher at a school where her dad is on the board.

Please check if you will have chicken or fish at the wedding.

A
s you well know, I don't care about Milo at all. There are some people, not me of course, who would obviously be in love with him, but I would never be such a stupidface because I am truly above that sort of thing.

Even if he were the last guy on earth, I would tell him that we are just supposed to be friends, and that is that.

So, don't even think that just because he showed up at my dorm I even care.

Here's how it goes with Milo. Everyone on earth grunts and sweats under a weary life, and he just kind of sails through, not caring, not really trying, and knowing that it will all work out in the end. And why wouldn't it? He will someday, after he's been out and about in the world, be
placed lovingly and gently into a position of some repute, nothing too crazy, as there will be enough of a symbolic upward movement for all those involved to feel satisfied. He will be a junior junior something. And then a junior something. And then a something.

From what I can tell, he doesn't even really have to show up at Witherspoon Prep. I mean, he does. He shows up as much as he has to. Which is as little as possible. But just enough. Just like Remy. That's all he will ever have to do. Just enough.

I heard a rumor he went to Bio class once.
Once.
And he passed.

And that's all very well and good. I actually like Milo. Platonically, of course. But it does seem a bit unfair to all those other poor schmucks out there who kind of just toil and toil away, trying to get ahead. I mean, it does kinda seem unfair that all the moves are made before you are born. And then it's just settled.

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking, “No, no, no, you're wrong, what about the Great American Dream?” And I've heard of it. But here's the thing. I keep hearing about it. I hear about it all the time. But I ain't seeing it. Back in Iowa it'd be like a guy would lose his job, and that was that. It's like all the farms and all the factories and all the fisheries and all the widgets and all the gears in this
great engine got shipped out to China or Bangladesh or Timbuktu and now the American Dream is more of an export.

I'd love to be proven wrong, though. Maybe you can prove it to me.

But, honestly, Milo isn't a mean guy, or a greedy one, or a jerk. He's humble and shrugging and sort of doesn't say anything. Half the time his shoulders are curved in on themselves. Apologizing. What is he apologizing for? Maybe for having it so easy, I guess.

The fact that he's standing outside my dorm room is shocking, but I am not about to fall all over myself for him. No sir.

And I am definitely not thinking about that part where he touched me in the dark, no talking. Nope. Not doing that at all.

“Um . . . hi?”

“Hi.” He looks embarrassed. Caught.

“Um . . . Are you looking for Remy?”

Of course that's why he's here. He's probably extremely disappointed.

PS: If he's looking for Remy, good luck with that. I haven't seen her for three days and I'm a little annoyed—again. No texts. No notes. No messages. Nothing on the interbot. No phone calls. Nothing. Zero. Zip. I'd say I was worried, but there's really no need to ever worry about Remy, is there? It's
like if the world were turned upside down and we all ended up living in the postapocalyptic future-scape, Remy would show up on the back of some bad boy's motorcycle and wink, before riding off into the blazing horizon. The ragamuffin bands of dirt-faced children in makeshift postworld leather outfits would run out behind them, cheering them off into their next death race for gasoline. And then they'd win.

“Willa?”

“Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about the gas economy in the postapocalyptic future-scape.”

He looks at me, stone-faced. Crap. Big mouth strikes again. What is wrong with me?

“Well, how could you
not
think about it?” he asks. “Clearly, there's going to be trouble.”

Wait. Is he . . . playing along?

“Yes, I feel my future will be in fashioning deconstructed leather clothing. Very patchy.”

“Uh-huh. And where do you think you will find this leather?”

“I will make it. Out of roadkill. Skinned roadkill. Squirrels, mostly.”

“Did they teach you how to skin squirrels in Iowa?”

“No, just outsiders. City slickers. Anyone who hasn't taken
the oath
.”

Milo smiles. This is like a moment where there should be
sparkles everywhere around us. And little butterflies.

Singing, glittering butterflies.

“So, I guess I could tell Remy you came by or something. I haven't seen her for three days, actually. She's probably in Bali or somewhere superspectacular. On a whim.”

“Yes, Remy is prone to whimsy.”

“Would you say she's whimsical?”

“Yes, I would say so. But only off the record. Are you recording this?” His eyes twinkle—actually twinkle—with mischief. My knees nearly buckle. God, I'm a nerd.

Am I recording this, Milo Hesse? Oh, how I wish I were! I would record this and play it over and over again when I'm 103 years old sitting on my levitating easy chair eating Jell-O, staring at the projected wall of memories of the good old days, before the robot takeover.

“So, I'll tell her you dropped by . . . ?”

“Um, actually . . .”

This is awkward. We are both just standing there. Each of us with our own personal ellipsis.

“Um, Willa . . . ?”

The way he says my name. It's purposeful, yes. But there's something else to it. It's kind, like he's stroking my name on the cheek.

“I guess, um . . . well, I'm here to see you, actually.”

“Wait? What? Why?”

Okay, that came out wrong.

“Um . . . because I thought it might be sorta fun or cool or something, but if it's not a good time, I totally get it, and I will go away swiftly. With ease. And pizazz.”

“How will the pizazz be involved?”

“Perhaps a little soft shoe.”

“Is a soft-shoe tap, or is it a different thing?”

“I don't know. I only took one kind of dance.”

“What kind?”

“African.”

“Really?”

“Of course. I can do a helluva jumping dance. It's the coming-of-age for warriors. I basically jump the warrior spirit into them.”

“I'm gonna have to see that.”

“You're gonna have to ply me with a lot of alcohol before you see that.”

“I'm gonna have to ply you with alcohol to see that and then record it and put in on YouTube and blackmail you under threat of your family disowning you.”

“My family would be proud. Especially my mom. She would think it was very PC.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. The only thing she would like more than that is if, at the end of the dance, I came out of the closet.”

“Do you think there's any possibility of that occurring?”

Milo has an answer to that. He has an answer that involves him leaning in, before I know it, and kissing me until my feet are one foot off the ground, except they're not off the ground, I'm not exactly floating technically. It's more like I'm levitating. In my mind. With Milo's mouth on mine and his hands, both hands, on the sides of my ears, like he's clutching me to him, like he's been waiting to do this all along, dying to.

And then he stops and we just look at each other.

And he's flushed.

And I'm flushed.

This is the moment I should say something clever, but my mind seems to be wandering up, up, up, into Milo's deep-green eyes somewhere, spinning instead of brilliantly constructing witticisms.

“And now you are coming out of your room with me.”

“And now I am studying.”

“Nope. Me.”

“Studying.”

We are both trying to act like what just happened was normal.

“Okay, I'll make you a deal. I will allow you to study now, as you are sure to be a genius lady scientist one day who will solve global warming . . . if, and only if, you promise to frolic
with me on Saturday.”

“Possible.”

“A certainty?”

“Potentially.”

“Inevitable.”

But I know I am going with him. How could I not? Not after that kiss. Not after that magical conversation with butterflies singing everywhere. I'm not even sure if my feet are touching the ground yet. I think I might have just turned into a hummingbird and flown into a rainbow possibly. And then that rainbow turns into a unicorn.