The Fall of Butterflies (9 page)

I
f you ever want to see a bunch of people look like idiots, go to an audition. Any alien from Andromeda Galaxy beamed down into this auditorium would assume he had just blasted his way into the funny farm. Trust me.

We were supposed to show up wearing loose-fitting clothing. To dance. To sing. To move around and pretend we're blissful. Or sad. Or waiting for a bus. The whole thing is kind of ridiculous. There are girls here doing vocal exercises. And boys. Teenage boys singing scales.

I mean, it's shameful.

What Remy doesn't know is that I have set myself a clear goal for this audition: to fail.

No sir, I have absolutely zero, nil, nein intentions of
wasting my time pounding the boards or whatever they call it and singing some song about losing my virginity to a hunky greaser in front of a bunch of strangers. I'd rather cover myself in blood and jump in a shark tank. So, whatever it takes, come hell or high water, I am burning this thing to the ground.

Remy, on the other hand, has her heart set on Sandy. She is focused. She is giddy. She is inspired. She is also the only person here who is somehow managing to pull off this look. This loose-fitting, laissez-faire drama look. I would categorize her look as early eighties meets après-ski. There is definitely something about the furry boots that is throwing the whole thing over to Switzerland. Whatever it is, she looks like she just stepped out of
ELLE
and everybody else looks like they just stepped out of Walmart. You gotta hand it to Remy. There is no clothing assignment she cannot ace. I mean, her sartorial flair is something to be admired.

“Okay, thespians! Gather round. Now, I want you to use this space creatively. Think outside the box. And please do not be inhibited. There are no right or wrong answers. For this is a place of . . . magic.”

I look at Remy like this is ridic. She gives me a stern look of dramatic seriousness.

“Now, I want you to find a place in the auditorium, it can be anywhere, somewhere that speaks to you, somewhere
that is calling you. And I want you to pretend to be an ice-cream cone.”

I roll my eyes so far into my head I almost sprain a socket. Remy tries not to crack a smile.

“A cool, refreshing ice-cream cone. Yes, yes, that's it. Very nice.”

Everyone is acting very globby and slow. Not me. No sir! I'm an orange sherbet ice-cream cone, and I have style and pizazz. Maybe the other ice-cream cones are slow, but I am choosing to embody the general zinginess of orange sherbet. Vanilla says, “I'm boring.” Chocolate says, “eat me now or die.” Rocky Road says, “I'm overcompensating for something.” But orange sherbet? Orange sherbet says, “I'm weird. I'm zany.”

And thusly I am dancing a very strange dance, which is making the rest of the would-be Rydell High Sandys and Rizzos cast a glance sideways, but not too much, lest it make me seem interesting . . . i.e., interesting enough for the role. And it is also making Remy unable to achieve any ice-cream cone personification because she is trying so hard not to laugh she is burying her face in the red velvet theater curtains, which is really just making her look like an ice-cream cone molesting a drape.

My dance is fast. And uncoordinated. And full of joie de vivre!

Remy is on the ground now, in a ball. She is a ball of melted ice cream. She is looking at me, peeking out from under her armpit, and her face is bright red.

Some of the other dancers have stopped.

Mostly they are just looking at me and grimacing.

The drama teacher is named Mrs. Jacobsen. She kind of looks like if Peppermint Patty grew up, gained sixty pounds, and put on a smart teal suit with a pencil skirt and matching jacket. There are glasses involved. They are tortoiseshell. She is also wearing a scarf. There are birds involved. Both on the scarf and I am fairly certain at home.

“Excuse me . . . Willa, is it?”

“Yes.” I continue dancing. The show must go on!

“What kind of ice-cream cone are you, exactly?”

“I am orange sherbet.”

“Please stop dancing now.”

I stop. Remy is still peeking out from under her armpit, in a ball next to the downstage fly system.

“Can you please explain, Willa? I'm not sure I understand your ice-cream cone. It seems very different from the other ice-cream cones.”

“Exactly. Exactly, Mrs. Jacobsen. Orange sherbet
is
different. All the other flavors say generally the same thing. But not me. No. Orange sherbet says ‘I'm zany. I don't care. I march to the beat of my own drum! Pick me! I'm not really
soothing like vanilla or chocolate or even strawberry.'”

There is a silence in the room.

It's clear I will be kicked out of this audition. Mission accomplished.

Mrs. Jacobsen comes closer.

Now she is close enough to me that I can smell she is wearing some kind of rose perfume, and I am here to tell you it smells pretty good.

And since Remy has inspired me to be all that I can be, and in this case, all I can be is someone who definitely does not want to be cast in this play, it's time to end this charade—for good.

“Wow, that's nice.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your perfume. Is that roses? Or gardenias? Jesus, that smells really good. Subtle yet bold. Well played, Mrs. Jacobsen.”

Remy is sitting up now, leaning against the wall, with amusement.

“Oh. Well, thank you. Now, where are you from again, Willa?”

Ugh. I brace myself for the snickering.

“Iowa.”

A nearly imperceptible smattering of scoffs snakes its way around the room.

I prepare myself for the axe.

“Well, Willa. Congratulations. You're Frenchy.”

The floor drops out of the room.

“What?”

“You're Frenchy. You're perfect for it.”

“Um . . . really?”

“Yes, Willa. You are the first person I have cast in this year's production!”

“Now, okay, not to be contrary or anything, but don't you think I'm more of a Marty? Because . . . I mean, she's pretty cool, you have to admit, what with those Marines and all those pictures in her wallet and stuff—”

“Sorry, Willa, but Marty you are not.”

“Seriously?”

“Hate to break it to you.”

“Wait. Really? Why am I not Marty?”

“You're just not, dear. No offense.”

“Well, who is, then? Just out of curiosity . . .”

“She is.”

And Mrs. Jacobsen points around the room and I follow her hand, and there she is . . . of course . . . Remy.

Right. Of course Remy is Marty.

Remy looks up.

“Me?”

“Yes, you. What is your name?”

There is a silence in the auditorium. It's as if no one in the vicinity can actually believe there is someone on earth who has not heard of Remy Taft. It's just short of a gasp.

“Remy.”

“Well, Remy, congratulations. You're officially Marty.”

“Wait. So I got the part? And she got the part? We haven't even read yet; this is weird.”

And Mrs. Jacobsen smiles. “It's all about casting. Some things can't be acted. Trust me.”

The entirety of the room slumps and wants to kill us.

Remy looks at me and give me a thumbs-up. She's actually glowing.

“Okay, now, everyone, let's take a break. When we come back we'll do the reading. You girls stay. Obviously.”

So that's that. Remy brought me to this dumb spazfest, and I tried with all my heart to fail, and now I've got Frenchy.

I make a note to try to fail more often.

Remy hops over to me in a hoppery of happiness.

“Aren't you excited?! We can be actresses! My mom will be so annoyed!”

“Wait, what? Really?”

“Yeah. ‘It's just not done.' That's how they put it. But screw it, I am going to do it!”

I blink. “Uh, wow. I never realized you were that serious about it, honestly.”

“Well, I am. Except I can't be.”

“Remy, you can be—”

And I am just in the very middle of that thought when my arm is grabbed in a sudden violent death grip. Remy clutches me and drags me back into the red theater curtains.

“There.”

“There what?”

“There. You see him?”

“See who?”

“Milo. That's Milo. Right over there. By that naked Greek statue.”

And I hadn't noticed there was a naked Greek statue on the other side of the room. It's just a small one, but it sits there, perched next the arched doorway in a kind of dare against leaving.

But that naked Greek statue is causing me to look down and see that person standing next to it in the doorway. That person who just walked in and is framed by the light in a kind of emanating halo of classical proportions.

And that guy, standing in that doorway, surrounded by that glowing halo, is not like anybody I've seen before—

—and now I know why I was supposed to know about Milo.

I
know what it's like to see somebody and be scared of them. To see somebody and think all the zillions of things you're not supposed to think about how you're not cool enough or too small or too big or too something you don't even know what it is. I know what it's like to see someone and practically melt the minute you see them because everybody told you there would be someone like that. It's in every book. It's in every movie. It's in every poem since the beginning of time and maybe even written on walls somewhere in cave drawings. Everyone tells you that person is coming. That person who's gonna knock your socks off. Everyone tells you for so long and in so many ways that finally you don't believe them.

Until you see them. Him.

Milo.

Milo Hesse.

Now I'm gonna tell you what he looks like.

You know that movie? The one with the cowboy who finds out he's got AIDS and then he starts getting medicine and bringing it over the border? Okay, not that guy. The other guy. The one that plays the transvestite.

That guy.

Now imagine that guy, but imagine him when he is not playing a lady. Now make him about six feet tall and put jeans on him and a dark blue T-shirt that says something in Japanese but it's a Wild West movie poster. Yes, a Wild West movie poster, with Japanese writing, on a T-shirt. I'm pretty sure it says, “
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
,” but I'm not about to keep looking at this guy's chest to figure it out because I'm already cowering in my boots and I'm not even wearing boots.

That's how bad it is.

Also, there are green eyes involved. And either he is wearing false eyelashes or he should pick up the phone right now and call his mama and tell her thank you for the beautiful eyelashes. And for the mouth. Oh, you didn't know he had a sweetheart mouth? Yes. Check. Chestnut-brown hair that is slightly a swoop but not too much of a swoop? Check.
Camouflage Vans? Check.

What is happening now is Remy is looking at me and smiling like the cat that ate the canary. She is reading my thoughts like a scrawl on a news channel going around and around my head, but that doesn't matter because I am slowly dissolving into the ground anyway.

“Told you.”

“What?”

“You know what.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about.”

“Mm-hm.”

Milo doesn't see us yet, but he certainly is looking for someone. Either that or he is auditioning for the play, but you and I both know that is not why he's here.

“Remy!”

Oh, I guess Milo is here to see Remy. Maybe Milo is in love with Remy. That would make sense. Although Milo and Remy? Kind of too much, if you ask me. But maybe they are meant for each other. Like Titania and Oberon.

Before I can evaporate, Remy grabs my hand and brings me over to meet this person who is clearly a robot developed in a lab in order to destroy hearts.

“Oh, hi.”

Milo looks surprised Remy's not alone. Not a good sign.

“This is Willa. She's from Iowa.”

Kill me. Kill me now.

“What? Really? Wow, I've never met anyone from Iowa.”

It's okay if this building just falls into the ground now. No problem.

“I know. Isn't that cool?” This is Remy trying to make me feel better. Fat chance.

“What's it like there?”

“Everyone's blond.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, Scandinavian or something. Like that's where everyone went. When they fled. The famine or something.”

God, what am I talking about? The famine?!

Now Milo is really sizing me up.

“And would you say you're a typical Iowa specimen?”

“Um . . .”

“I just never really pictured people from Iowa looking like you. Can't tell if that's me being closed-minded or if I never really thought about it, honestly.”

What?

What just happened?

Remy sees me blush, and now her smile is from ear to ear. Seriously, you could just pull off the rest of her head now from the top.

“Oh, wow. You're blushing.” Milo turns to Remy. “People do that?”

I feel like the biggest hillbilly of all time. I feel two feet tall.

Remy leans in to Milo. “Don't get too cocky. She's smarter than you.”

Okay, this is just getting weird.

“So, Milo, are you going to the Fall Ball?” She says it like a dare.

“Definitely not.”

Silence. Somehow Milo feels maybe that was the wrong answer.

“Why, are you guys going?”

“Yes,” Remy proclaims.

“Then definitely yes.”

“Willa's never been.”

“Ah. Then I envy her.”

“Um, what is the Fall Ball?” I could play it cool, but they know I don't know.

Remy waves her hand around. “It's like this ball to celebrate the harvest or whatever.”

“The harvest? So is it like . . . hay rides and apple cider . . . ?”

“More like fancy dresses and people puking.” Milo smiles.

“Puking?”

“Yes, everybody dresses up, everybody spikes the drinks, some people dance, some people frolic.”

“There will be frolicking?” I turn to Remy for confirmation.

“Oh, there will be frolicking.”

“Will
we
be frolicking?”

“Oh, we will frolic.”

Milo seems charmed by Remy. The way he's looking at her. Wistful, in a way. There's a magic here, between them, shaking electrons that keep bouncing back and forth, back and forth, trying to form something.

“Okay, well, I'll see you guys there, then.”

“So you're going, Milo?” She chides him.

“I'm definitely going. Maybe.”

And with that, Milo is definitely-slash-maybe out the door, leaving Remy and me to contemplate.

“Told you.”

“Told me what?”

“About Milo. And how he's a stone-cold fox.”

“Right. I lost track. Is he going to the fall thingy?”

“Sixty percent with a chance of scattered maybes.”

“So you're saying that Milo is as unpredictable as the weather.”

“I'm saying Milo is
less
predictable than the weather.”

We're walking back now, heading through the front gates of Witherspoon and back to Pembroke. All the boys around wear the uniform, navy blazers with a coat of arms on the
pocket, tan pants. They look over at us and quickly look away. They whisper to one another and look again.

All of a sudden they seem adorable. Not pale and blue-veined. But shy and sort of embarrassed. If I were queen of the world, I would make all boys wear that uniform. Seriously, there's nothing more sweet on earth or in heaven than a big-eyed boy, carrying books, almost too skinny, in a navy blazer.

Adorkable. That's what they are. And it's possible I may have died in that audition and now this happens to be heaven.

“Is that why you broke up with Milo?”

“Broke up! What are you talking about, crazy? We're just friends.”

“So, you never went out or anything? Not even a little?”

“No way. We're too close for that.”

“Of course. Why would anyone want to go out with someone they were close to? Gross.”

She nudges me playfully with her elbow. “Oh, Iowa, you're so cute. In some ways, you're actually very traditional. I guess they can take the girl out of the farm but they can't take the farm out of the girl.”

“Moooooo.”

“Is that supposed to be a cow?”

“Yes, Remy.”

“It sounds more like a ghost.”

“Maybe it's a cow ghost.”

Remy and I are through the gray stone gates of Witherspoon, making our way over the cobblestones back to Denbigh. It starts to rain in little droplets, then big droplets, then cats and dogs, then a typhoon.

We are screaming like banshees and running through the rain and getting soaked. Soaked. Drenched. Annihilated.

By the time we get back to Denbigh, we might as well have just jumped in the ocean. We reach the front doors breathless and laughing, and everybody in the lobby is staring at us.

We look at them, they look at us, and that just makes us laugh more.

And, you know, this is the moment. Right here. If I could go back in time and stop everything. It's right here. This feeling of everything hilarious and nothing bad and everything heart-shaped and shimmering.

What I would give to just stop the tape here.

But life isn't like that. Life keeps unspooling. Whether we want it to or not.