The Fall of Butterflies (15 page)

M
s. Ingall wanted me to meet her here. At the faculty lounge. There's a restaurant for afternoon tea, whatever that is, with white chairs and white wainscoting and the sun coming in from three sides. Everywhere there are vines, clinging to white trellises through the window, trying to get in. Before the cold. Before the winter.

Ms. Ingall is squinting in the bright, sunny room. I don't get the feeling she's used to this much sunlight.

“Thanks for inviting me here, Ms. Ingall.”

“Well, you're very welcome. Do you like tea, Willa?”

“Um . . . sure.”

“You don't drink tea, do you?”

“Not really.”

“They actually do make a respectable iced latte here, if that's more to your liking.”

The waiter comes, and before I know it there are cucumber sandwiches all over the place. Who would have ever thought to put a cucumber in a sandwich? It's a revelation.

“Tell me, Willa. Do you have friends back home? Back in Iowa?”

“Yeah. I mean, I did.”

“And do you miss them?”

“I try not to think about it, honestly. It'll just make me sad.”

“I see.”

The waiter brushes past.

“Did you think about what we spoke about, Willa?”

“Um. Sort of.”

“Any thoughts . . . ?”

“Well, my mom sort of . . . she sort of has, like, this plan for me. She kind of just wants to just take the reins, you know? Leave it to her kind of thing.”

“Your mother. The economist.”

I nod. “Well, you know, as you can imagine, she's kinda got it all figured out.”

Ms. Ingall looks at me. The waiter pours her tea into a little teacup with pink roses on the handle.

“And you, Willa?”

“Yes?”

“Do you have it all figured out?”

The teacups are so dainty here, you almost feel like you could break them just by looking at them. And Ms. Ingall. She's dainty, too. But I don't get the feeling you could ever break her.

“I don't really have anything figured out, Ms. Ingall, to be honest with you.”

“That's okay, Willa. That's part of the adventure.”

“Really?”

“Yes, you have to find your way. But . . . it's for you to find, Willa. No one else can find it for you.”

The waiter comes by with a three-tiered platter; each tier has minicakes, some pink, some cream, some yellow. There are even some chocolate cream puffs, which I will rendezvous with soon.

“But why does anyone have to find anything? I mean, why can't you just . . . give up?”

I say it before I know I'm saying it.

Ms. Ingall stops for a minute. Puts her tea down.

“Is that what you feel like, Willa? Do you feel like giving up?”

And I don't know what's happening to my face. Suddenly it's lit up, behind my skin, blazing.

“Sometimes.”

Saying this. Somehow, saying this makes it all come barreling down the track. And my eyes are trying to cry. Trying so hard to give in. But I'm not letting them. I am not going to cry over cucumber sandwiches.

Ms. Ingall weighs the situation. The waiter comes over, but she waves him off. Not now. Not now, when my student is having a meltdown.

“Is there a lot of pressure on you, Willa? To be . . . perfect?”

It sounds like such a dumb thing. It sounds like such a dumb, easy thing.

“Kind of.”

I'm starting to put the tears back now.

“Willa, you don't have to be perfect. Do you believe me? You don't. You just have to be Willa.”

And I could gobble up this whole tearoom right now, the pink minicakes and the yellow minicakes and the chocolate cream puffs. I could gobble up this room and these trellises and Ms. Ingall, too. Just for having given me, once, just once . . . a reprieve. A relief from myself. A vacation. A respite from “should.”

I
bet you thought that Remy was up to no good. Well, you're right. She is so up to no good. She's, basically, in the final last possible seconds before a car crash that seems at this point inevitable. But somehow, even as she's careening wildly forward into the abyss, there still seems to be hope, some hope, that maybe, just maybe, she can still steer clear of the explosion.

As far as I can tell, this is a two-pronged problem.

I will give you the first prong:

Humbert.

“Willa, you'll never guess! I mean, it's crazy.”

“What's crazy?”

“Humbert Humbert and me.”

It's been five days since I've seen her and there she is, practically leaping out of the bushes onto the green. Everything around us has turned yellow and orange and red now, the very last of the leaves almost gone, only those last few bleached-brown beech and oak hanging on, nervous. Now we are getting cold. But not Iowa cold. Pembroke cold. Wet and damp. The kind of cold that gets under your skin. The kind of cold that keeps you shivering till spring.

There are circles under Remy's eyes and her jaw looks angled, her cheekbones higher.

Gaunt, I realize.

“Um, okay, Remy. You do know this is a bad idea, right?—Humbert Humbert and you.”

“Maybe. Or maybe it's the
best idea ever
.”

“Oh my God.”

I turn to Remy. She really looks out of sorts. I mean, there's something about her that isn't fitting into her own skin. Something shaking and unsure.

“Remy. What do you know about this guy? I mean, he's
old.
He could be
married
.”

“No. No way. I asked. No wife. No girlfriend. I would never do something like that and—”

“Okay, let's step back for a second. All of this? Is bad. Don't you think that this little obsession and, say, disappearing for the past three days possibly might have some effect
on your grades and, therefore, your future?”

“Not really.”

I can feel myself deflate in that moment. The truth is, she's right. It probably doesn't matter what kind of grades Remy gets. I mean, she's already where she needs to be. It's all laid out for her.

“Remy, you just . . . you can't do this.”

“Why not?”

“It's just . . . trouble. I mean . . . you could die.”

“Oh my God. Hello? Exaggerate much?”

“Okay, well what about when it ends? With Humbert. Have you thought of that?”

“Ends?”

“Yes, Remy. Ends.”

“Why are you being so negative?”

She's getting annoyed now. And she has never been annoyed with me before.

Thing is, she's not the only one.

We reach the library. It's a grand old thing with tapestries hanging everywhere inside and huge vaulted ceilings. Iron chandeliers dangling from a million miles above the rafters. There are little patches of furniture, little seating areas lit by porcelain lamps, cozy and just so, wooden coffee tables, and girl after girl curled up, studying, buried deep in their books.

“I'm not trying to be negative. I'm just worried about you, okay?”

“Don't be bougie.”

We're whispering, trying not to disrupt this Norman Rockwell scene of study.

“I'm not bougie. And if I am, who cares? I mean, you look like you've lost ten pounds in three days.”

Remy doesn't listen, she just goes into her bag, searching. I put down my backpack next to a giant arched window, and when I look back up again she's popping something into her mouth, quick.

“What was that?”

“What?”

“Remy, what was that?”

“What? I seriously have no idea what you are talking about.”

We look at each other. It's obvious she's lying. She knows it and I know it. And we both know the other one knows.

Never mind. She doesn't have to tell me. I know what it is. It's the second prong in the two-pronged problem.

The pills. The many,
so many
pills.

That's why she's losing weight. That's why she looks like a lady skeleton. A very big part of me knows—just knows—she hasn't eaten anything but half bites off those little white
pills. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

“Remy. Listen to me. All of this . . . I know it feels fun and thrilling and like a big fuck-you to everyone, but I'm telling you, it's not pretty.”

“Not. Pretty.” She glares at me. “You know, Willa, I thought you'd be happy for me. I thought you'd want to hear all about—”

“About how you're losing your mind over some loser teacher who could end up in jail because of you?”

“He's not a loser. And we're in love.”

“Are you kidding me right now?”

“Nope. Not at all. This is it.”

“Well, does he know you're in love?”

“I think so.”

People are starting to look over but Remy stays looking at me, needing something from me.

And the absurdity, the sheer absurdity of all of this is making me want to honestly, literally, scream. So I just say whatever I have to to get out of there. “Okay, well, good luck and amen and
whatever
.”

And I walk away now. I don't know why she needs me to say this is okay. I don't know why she needs me to say anything.

This is so not okay. And the worst part is that I feel
somehow responsible. Like I'm the only person between her and her careening desire to crash and burn everything around her.

But maybe it's always like this. With rich kids. Maybe there's always a drama or something to break and something to put back together. Maybe there has to be something. Otherwise, what would there be to do?

I
t's laughable now, to me, what I thought this date was gonna be. I thought this date was gonna be like, you know, a simple kind of Saturday social. Maybe a museum and a stroll through the park. Maybe an ice-cream soda we shared with a straw. At a soda fountain. In the 1950s.

Wrongo.

This misinterpretation might have something to do with the fact that I've never really been on a date. Officially. I mean, that guy on the Amtrak who was trying to get lucky was sort of the closest thing. Also, I went on a few playdates with a kid named Wyatt, when I was three. Apparently, he had a tree house and a pirate hut. That is all.

But there are no tree houses, pirate huts, or Amtrak
creeps here. No, no. This is the kind of thing you don't know is happening until it happens, and then you think . . . um, what the fuck is happening right now?

Here's how it starts.

Milo shows up at my door dressed in what can best be described as a cool turn-of-the-century bartender outfit, minus the bar. There is a vest involved. I mean, he looks cool. But he definitely looks
dressed
. Like, really dressed.

I, on the other hand, was going for a much more casual thing. Like, I am not dressed for an afternoon of timeless romance. More like a picnic of delicious sandwiches, which can sometimes be the same thing. Don't judge me.

Seeing him at my front door, I immediately feel like an idiot and want to cancel the date entirely.

“Um. I'm not wearing the right thing for whatever it is we are doing, am I?”

“No, it's totally fine. Really.”

“Okay . . . well, what if you give me like five minutes to come up with something, a little less like I'm going to a football game and you're going to the opera.”

“If you want to. You don't have to—”

“I think I have to. Just. Hold on a second.”

And with that I slam the door in his face, which I really didn't mean to do but kind of happened anyway. I then swoop into my closet and try to find something, anything,
please, lord, to look cool.

Somehow I manage to put together something sort of vintage. It's not that easy to dress when you have only one bag of clothes and two uniforms, and you have no idea where you're going. But I give it the old college try, and I think I get a B for effort. Possibly a gold star.

When I come back to the door, Milo is on the phone, whispering. Clearly he is up to no good. He waves at me, a mischievous smile, and I realize he is really putting an effort into this outing.

He tries to reassure me when we get into the Uber.

“Don't worry. The drive to the coast will only take about a half hour. I know the secret route.”

Coast? Route? Secret? What is going on? I thought we were supposed to be, I don't know, five minutes into previews by now. Or maybe catching an open mike at the coffee bar in town.

What. Is. Going. On?

Milo gives me a wink and looks out the window. He's smiling to himself.

“Do you plan on selling me into slavery by dusk? Or sacrificing me to our lizard overlords? I need to know.”

“It's our first date, right? I wanted to impress you. I'm kind of nervous, honestly.”

What?
He's
nervous? If he's nervous, then I am certifiable.

“Oh, here. I stole this champagne from my stepdad. He's kind of a dick, so hopefully it costs a million dollars and he's going to be superannoyed.”

Milo serves up the champagne in two crystal champagne flutes. It's obvious these are stolen from said stepdad's collection, too.

PS: This is illegal.

PPS: Milo doesn't seem to care.

“I didn't know you had a stepdad. Or even that your parents were divorced. Or that your life wasn't completely perfect in every way.”

There's a pause here.

“Yeah. Um. My mom's pretty cool, actually. She does all sorts of art stuff, always caring about making art ‘available to the disenfranchised.' And she's always raising money for, like, street kids and orphans or whatever.”

“That's cool.”

“Yeah, she's a real bleeding heart. But she's great. She kind of dotes. Or tends to dote. She calls me her little prince. Still. Like, even now.”

“But your stepdad . . . ?”

“Ugh. He's such a fuckwad. He's, like, one of these money guys. Like, you know, the guys who tanked everything. He probably fucks his secretary.”

“What about your dad? What's he like?”

“He's like . . . dead.”

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry.”

“It's okay. It's been, like, a couple of years or whatever.”

“I'm really sorry.”

“I'm surprised Remy didn't tell you. It was kind of a thing.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, he kind of killed himself.”

Jesus.

My plan—the one involving the clock tower—flashes through my brain. And now I feel stupid and melodramatic and incredibly, overwhelmingly, like a total and complete jerk.

Seeing this. What it's like to be left behind.

To be the one left behind.

“Oh, Milo. I had no idea. I'm so sorry . . .”

“It's okay. Maybe that's why I like you. Because you didn't know.”

Or maybe he is just attracted to people who have fantasies about killing themselves. I don't say it. Thank God.

The sun is blazing down now, and we're going up and above all the row houses upon row houses. Some brick with old-timey ads painted on it. Old businesses, gone for decades, the hope gone with them, too. You can't help but wonder, looking at the zillion little lives, flying past, some
with laundry hanging, some with broken toys on the balconies, faded out by the sun, you can't help but wonder,
Why them?
Why do they get this shitty never-go-anywhere life? Who makes up these rules? You go there. And you, you go there. Oh, you . . . you're down there, sorry. It makes no sense if you think about it. And then there are people like Milo. People with everything. Little princes without a worry in the world.

Except a dad who killed himself.

He downs the rest of his champagne.

“You have no idea how lucky you are to be from Iowa.”