Breakfast Served Anytime (22 page)

Yeah, something like that. But that’s not really the kind of stuff you can put in a letter unless you want somebody to think you’ve gone completely batshit-crazy with a cherry on top.

So I was balancing the laundry basket on my hip and digging around in my pocket for my room key when I heard voices. On the other side of the door to room 317, Jessica and Sonya were singing. Some kind of duet, and Sonya was doing the low part.

“Shit,” came Sonya’s voice, breaking apart from the song. “Can we start again?”

As quietly as I could, I lowered the laundry to the floor and propped myself against the door. The hallway was empty; I had this show to myself.

“Want me to do alto?” Jess asked.

“No, you’re better on soprano. I got it, I got it. Let’s just start again.”

I could picture them in there, closing their eyes and letting their voices braid together. The song was something I’d never heard before, something about Gloaming and My Darling and the Lights, Soft and Low. My friends’ voices were surprisingly lovely; if I hadn’t known it was Jessica and Sonya in there, I never would have guessed that the voices could belong to them.

For my heart was tossed with longing . . .

Tossed with longing. The story of my life, maybe?

It was best to leave you thus, dear, best for you and best for me . . .

The song was sad as hell! Where had they gotten hold of this sad song? Their voices trailed off and, after a moment of quiet (another iridescent bubble; I held my breath), they both burst out laughing.

“Did I get it that time?” Sonya asked.

“You nailed it, girl.”

“Are we talent-show ready?”

“As ready as we’re gonna be.”

More laughter, and they launched into a rousing duet version of one of those Taylor Swift songs that for days had been cruising around uninvited in my head. I reached for the knob and then thought better of it. I waited until they finished the song, then I hefted my laundry and headed back down the stairs.

IT WAS our third week at geek camp, and Chloe had requested of X that she be permitted to present her Great American Novel at the Egg Drop. Xiu Li had agreed to open a half hour early on Chloe’s behalf; this meant that we all had to get up way early, so everyone was grumpy. Mason gulped coffee and Calvin tapped the window, on the other side of which was Holyfield, looking forlorn.

“I’ll bring you some scrambled eggs, buddy, don’t worry.”

“Calvin, you shouldn’t baby that dog so much,” X said. “So are we all met? Are we ready to get this show on the road?”

“Almost ready!” Xiu Li announced. She was clad in one of Chloe’s flapper dresses and was carrying a tray full of little glasses of something frothy and pink. “Sloe gin fizzes!”

Calvin was aghast. “Xiu Li, it is seven thirty in the morning. I’m seventeen.”

Xiu Li couldn’t have looked more pleased. She set the tray on the table and clapped her hands. “Drink up!”

Some kind of swanky speakeasy music started pouring out of the jukebox, and Chloe emerged from the swinging kitchen doors, swishy in her own fringed dress. She had a long string of beads around her neck and was smoking an unlit cigarette stuck onto the end of an elegant holder. I could see why Chloe fancied this era so much; she so looked the part. I exchanged grins with Calvin and Mason and we settled in for what promised to be an entertaining show.

A moment later the kitchen doors swung open again and another unexpected player emerged on the scene: the beautiful Latina girl from down the hall. She had been catching my eye since Geek Camp began, but I’d been too intimidated to approach her — she seemed years older than everyone else, oozing experience and sophistication in her pointy boots, dark eyeliner, and bright, tight clothes. She was the kind of girl who seemed in possession of the
facts,
is what I’m saying. One morning on the way to the shower I caught a glimpse of her in her room, kneeling before a silk-draped altar of candles and a miniature version of that ginormous Jesus statue in Brazil.
Christ the Redeemer,
one of the new seven wonders of the world,
I remember thinking stupidly as I stood there, too spellbound to know I was staring. She had looked up then and smiled at me, a kind smile that said
come in,
but I’d beelined for the bathroom, horrified at having been caught gawking. Now she was standing before me in a flapper dress, swinging a tennis racket, her dark hair wound around her head in a thick rope.

“This is Jimena,” Chloe announced. “She’s Jordan Baker. I’m Daisy, obviously.”

Jimena waved. “
Olá,
yall.”

Chloe looked at Jimena. “Ready?”

Jimena nodded.
“Sim.”

Chloe put on a bored expression and draped herself in the nearest booth. She gazed at her audience with impressive Daisy-esque languor. “‘In two weeks it’ll be the longest day of the year,’” she drawled. “‘Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.’”

On cue, Jimena threw her arm across her forehead as if she too were very, very bored. She yawned ostentatiously. “We ought to plan something.”

Chloe/Daisy perked up and rose from the booth. “All right. What’ll we plan?” She ran to Calvin and flung her arms around him. “What do people plan?”

Calvin looked around, panicked. “Am I supposed to say something? Because I do not have
Gatsby
memorized, if that’s what you’re thinking. You can’t just expect me to —”

“Shhhh!” Chloe ordered. She detached herself from Calvin and stepped back to where Jimena was standing. They gripped hands and bowed. Xiu Li commenced vigorous applause.

X raised his eyebrows. “Is that it?”

Chloe’s shoulders dropped. “What do you mean, is that it? Of course that’s it. That’s my favorite part of the book. You’ve just witnessed a dramatic interpretation of my favorite part of the book, X, hello.”

“Ahhhhh,” X said, backpedaling. “Gotcha, gotcha.” He looked around at us and nodded. “So. Can you tell us why it’s your favorite part?”

Chloe and Jimena exchanged a confused glance.

“Because,” Chloe said. “Because to me, that’s what the whole book is about. You wait and wait for something wonderful to happen and then it happens when you’re not looking. Either that or it doesn’t happen at all.”

This was a thing I understood, not just a little bit but a huge, fiery lot. I was about to voice my understanding when Chloe started to cry. Mason grabbed a handful of napkins and rose from his seat to offer them to her. Before, I would have scoffed at that move — here’s the Mad Hatter, using Chloe’s frustration as a chance to call attention to himself — but now I saw the gesture for what it was: Mason being nice. He could be really nice, really thoughtful, when he wanted to be.

“Forget it,” Chloe said, blowing her nose. She yanked the spangly feathered band from her head and tossed it on a table. “This is stupid. It’s too hard to explain. I can’t say why I love the book. I just do. You don’t pick the books you fall in love with any more than you pick the people you fall in love with. It just happens, and when it happens, you know. Who’s to say where love comes from?”

Chloe shifted her wet gaze briefly to Jimena, whose face appeared lit from within. The joy was contagious, like when a person yawns: I looked around at my friends and we were all wearing ridiculous grins.

Chloe grabbed one of Xiu Li’s sloe gin fizzes, sank into the booth beside me, and started gulping. “This is awesome, Xiu Li. Thank you.”

Xiu Li tipped her head in a compassionate nod. I took one of the glasses and clinked it against Chloe’s. “I thought you were great.” Then, I couldn’t resist a whispered dig: “Girl, you’ve been holding out on us!”

Chloe shrugged, grinning hugely. “It happened when I wasn’t looking.”

“X,” Chloe said, shifting gears. “This is hard. I really did want to get it right. I’m sorry if I let you down.”

“You didn’t let me down,” X said. “In fact, you illustrated the point beautifully. You gave me exactly what I asked for.”

“Failure?”

“Passion.”

Chloe managed a smile. “Yeah, well. Passion’s not going to get me into the Sorbonne.”

X shrugged. “Who says? You might be surprised. I hear the French are big on passion.”

Chloe smiled all the way.
“Oui oui.”

“Now,” X continued, “one more sip and then yall need to stop imbibing. My job is on the line. Thank you, Xiu Li, for the drinks and the atmosphere. This has been smashing. Are we ready to head to class? It’s time for a little James Joyce, people.”

The air was electric with the promise of rain. Not just rain but a storm — the kind you can smell drifting toward you on the breeze. GoGo had taught me that if you can see the undersides of the leaves, a storm is coming. Holyfield sensed it, too — he led the way to class with his ears lifted and a tiny Mohawk raised on his back.

Halfway to the classroom building, Chloe paused to say goodbye to Jimena. They’d been holding hands as they walked and now they were wrapped in a long embrace — long for eight in the morning, anyway.

“Don’t
stare,
” I said to Calvin, whacking his arm.

“I’m not staring!”

I steered Calvin onward and grabbed Mason’s sleeve with my free arm. “Give them a little privacy, yall, come on.”

We were hunching forward against the quickening wind when Jimena called out to us. “It was very nice to meet all of you!”

I stopped and turned, yanking Calvin and Mason around with me. “It was nice to meet you, too, Jimena. You’re a great Jordan Baker.”

Jimena raised her arm and pointed. A blue butterfly was flying toward her, beating its wings against the wind. “They’ll be gone after this storm. This one’s stopping to say goodbye.”

“She knows about this stuff,” Chloe said to us. Then, leaning into Jimena, “Hey, tell them about the legends.”

Jimena blushed. Her hair was whipping about her face; she unwound a strand from her neck and pulled another away from her mouth. “No, no. It’s silly.”

“It’s not silly!” Chloe protested. “Gloria, you’ll love this. So, where Jimena comes from, these butterflies are a very big deal. Some people think they’re evil — like tricksters or something, like in fables —”

“That’s not what I think, though,” Jimena added. “I think they’re good luck. My
avó
always said that every
borboleta
is the soul of a dead loved one, coming back to make peace or to watch over the living.”

“Really?” Mason asked. His eyes were following the butterfly as it swooped around Holyfield’s head. I wondered what he was thinking, or if he was wondering what I was thinking.

“I like that better than the evil thing, even though I think they are kind of scary,” Calvin said. “I mean, they’ve got global warming written all over them, don’t you think?”

I squinted against the wind, which was getting a little bizarre itself. “What’d you say the life span is, Cal?”

“One hundred and fifteen days.”

“I’m telling you, this storm is day one hundred fifteen for them. Just watch,” Jimena said.

I stared at the butterfly —
borboleta, mariposa, papilio,
the thing is beautiful in every language — and as if I had willed it toward me by some one-time-only kind of telekinesis, it fluttered right into my outstretched palm.
GoGo,
I thought.
Is that you?

It rose into the air and disappeared. Jimena was right: The storm rolled in like a freight train, and after that the butterflies disappeared like a dream washed away by daylight.

If you had told me a story about those butterflies, about all the strange and marvelous ways they made my life magic that summer, I’d have said that you were crazy. I’d have said that you were a little bit drunk on metaphor, or that Nabokov had gone to your head, or that you must have just
imagined
all those butterflies, you with your penchant for hyperbole, because come on, dude, how many South American blue butterflies can you cram into one stupid story?

Yeah, well. Truth is stranger than fiction, people. I’m telling you: The butterflies came, and they were magic, and then they were gone. The magic, though? The magic is what stayed.