The Fall of Butterflies

by Andrea Portes

  That same night, the night where that girl Emma accosted me during my dental hygiene routine . . . well, that same night, at about three in the morning . . . I heard the bathtub. Yes, bathwater running. And that’s not all. I woke up, with a start, kind of sweaty, honestly. And as I lurched up in bed, I heard it. The bathwater.

  No big deal, right? Maybe someone was just taking a bath at three in the morning. Stranger things have happened.

  Well, that’s what I thought. So, I sat there. And I sat there. And I listened. And I sat there. But then it wasn’t stopping. Like for an hour. An hour-long bath.

  So now I’m starting to wonder. Is something wrong? Maybe someone fell asleep in the bath. Maybe I’m supposed to help them. Maybe that’s why I flew awake in the first place.

  So, now that I know I’m supposed to be the hero of this moment, now that there is some poor girl asleep in the bath and I am the only one to save her . . . I jump out of bed and tiptoe across the hall to the bathroom.

  And I walk in.

  Except . . .

  There’s nobody there.

  There’s not even the sound of the bath anymore. That’s gone, too.

  Okay, so there are two bathtubs in there. Four showers, four sinks, four toilet stalls, and two bathtubs. I guess they figured when they built this place that only two girls on this floor would ever take a bath at the same time or something.

  But here’s the thing. There’s no one in the showers. Check. There’s no one in the stalls. Check. There’s no one at the sinks. Check. And . . . there’s no one in the bath. Not the first one. Check. But, now, the second one, there is a curtain drawn around the second one, and the second one obviously is the one hiding the ghost. Or not hiding the ghost. (Schrödinger’s ghost?)

  I mean, seriously, how am I even supposed to look around this white tall wall when there could possibly be a ghost girl in the bathtub right there? I mean, what if she’s soaking wet and purple and she looks at me smiling and then makes a mean face and her fangs come out? These are the questions, these are the questions . . .

  I hold my breath.

  Inhale.

  And pull back the curtain.

  Exhale.

  Nothing.

  But now I’m getting even more freaked out.

  Guess why?

  There’s no water in the bathtub.

  Nope, not even a tiny drop. Nothing. Nada. Dry as the Sahara.

  One of these baths was running for an entire hour, I swear to God, I heard it. It woke me up, and now nothing. Zip. Zero.

  So now I start backing up. Because now I’m getting really freaked out. Like my heart is pumping in my chest and I’m starting to get the feeling that someone, or something, is watching me. It knows I’m there and is looking at me, but I can’t see it. And I can imagine it might be that soaking-wet ghost girl who is gonna smile but then grow fangs and maybe even start laughing demonically as she corners me.

  So I’m basically backing my way slowly, slowly away from the bathtubs, past the showers, past the sinks, out of the bathroom, and back to my room.

  And then I’m just standing there.

  I’m standing there in my room and trying to figure out what just happened and trying to calm myself down. Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm breaths. Soothing breaths. I start talking to myself. I’m not crazy, don’t think that, I’m just trying to talk myself off the cliff here. I’m trying to yoga myself out of this situation.

  “Okay, okay, Willa . . . that was just, that was just a coincidence. Maybe you didn’t hear the bath after all. Obviously, you didn’t hear the bath. Because there’s no one in there. Maybe you were dreaming. Or maybe it was downstairs or something. Maybe that’s the bath you heard.”

  But I know that’s not true, either. Downstairs the bathroom is way on the other side of the hall, all the way down. Like, someone could scream in there and there’s no way I could hear it. Let alone the bathwater.

  Okay, so then I decide it was just nothing and I’m just being silly and I decide to go back to bed. I get under the covers, and decide to just talk myself down to a nice sleep. And this works. For about five minutes. Until I’m just about to go back to sleep.

  And then I hear it again.

  The bathwater.

  My eyes open and I look up at the ceiling.

  This seriously can’t be happening.

  And it goes on and on. I try to think of all the things it could be, all the different random explanations, but nothing. Nothing. It really just sounds like bathwater.

  Well, now I am really getting annoyed. Obviously, there’s someone in there playing some sort of trick. There just has to be.

  So I get up again and slowly make my way in, superquiet so I can catch whoever is playing this trick on me.

  And I go in.

  And, again . . .

  There’s no one there.

  ELEVEN

  I make an executive decision.

  I. Am not staying. In this room. Tonight. In fact, I am not staying in this room ever again.

  I swoop over to the closet, pack my bag, my books, my clothes for tomorrow, my toothbrush, and anything else I ever want to see again. I throw everything in my backpack and bound down the stairs to the first-floor study room. It’s a nice room, actually. It’s got sofas and lamps and cherrywood tables and desks. There’s even a fireplace. And a wall of built-ins filled floor to ceiling with books.

  I throw my stuff on the table and plunk down on the sofa. This is my bed for the night—I don’t care if it makes me seem crazy. Clearly, there is some kind of purple ghost girl in that bathroom and I have no intention of meeting her in person. Yes, I know that sounds like I may possibly be insane. No, I’m not going up there ever again.

  #sorrynotsorry

  I’ve got enough problems. Jesus.

  I’m not religious, but I think I’ve reached the part of the plan in which it’s time to find God.

  “Dear God, Allah, Vishnu, Yahweh, Buddha, and all the god-type Super Friends in the sky-located Hall of Justice. Please make whatever that thing is go away and leave me alone and please protect me from ghosts in general forever and into eternity. Amen.”

  I look up to the stars, to make sure my point is made, and that whatever God is on duty knows I really mean it.

  “Thanks. I really appreciate this. You’re doing a great job. Except in the Middle East. Might want to send some angels down there or something. But other than that, great job. Keep it up. And again, I know I’m repeating myself, but maybe not so much with the ghost visits.”

  And I know you think this is probably all ridiculous, but I swear this bathtub thing actually happened, and seriously, tomorrow I’m gonna have to think of a way to get out of that room.

  But how?

  I can’t tell them it’s haunted.

  Are you kidding me? They’d send me straight back to Iowa in a straightjacket. And then no one would hear the end of it.

  And I’d be haunted by a far more frightening specter. My mother.

  TWELVE

  By the time Contemporary Lit comes, I look like I’ve been up for two days straight. What can I say? I barely slept last night, thanks to the visitation from beyond.

  “Whoa. Look at you. Have you turned to a life of crime and prostitution?”

  It’s Remy. Of course.

  “Nope. My room is haunted.”

  “Really?”

  “Well, it’s my bathroom, actually.”

  “Oooo-oooo. The case of the haunted bathroom . . .”

  “Basically, the whole area of my floor where they put me is haunted by some sort of bath ghost.”

  “You are . . . odd.” Remy stares at me, openmouthed. Brow raised. But that open mouth . . . is in the shape of a smile.

  Ms. Ingall comes in and everybody sits up in their chairs.

  “Now, class, I’m assuming we’ve all read the book in full? Show of hands?”

  Everyone raises their hands but Remy. She’s too busy writing me a note on the corner of her p
aper.

  It says: “What are you gonna do?”

  Ms. Ingall calls on someone in the front row. It annoys me I’m not in the front row, but it’s assigned seating. How am I supposed to make my quizzical face from not in the front row?

  I write back to Remy, on the corner of my paper: “Move.”

  Remy writes back: “How?”

  I write back: “Ask?”

  Remy scribbles back: “They won’t let you.”

  I gulp.

  She shakes her head at me.

  Ms. Ingall is writing something on the blackboard. Something about “the other” and “living in the margins.”

  I whisper to Remy. “But . . . they have to. I’m desperate.”

  Ms. Ingall turns around.

  Remy scribbles back: “I know what to do. You have to pretend you’re gonna kill yourself if they keep you there. Then they have to move you. Or they’ll be liable. Like in court. You know, if you actually try to go through with it.”

  Oh, that’s interesting. All this time I had to pretend I wasn’t gonna kill myself, now I have to pretend I am gonna kill myself. Up is down, America!

  Also, Ms. Ingall is on to us.

  “Willa? Remy? Do you have something you want to share with the rest of us?”

  “No, Ms. Ingall.” We say it in unison.

  “Good. Now, Willa. What do you think it means? Living in the margins?”

  “Um . . . I think maybe it means that the whole world, the whole story is focused on something else. Like men. Rich men. Rich white men, actually. And their hero stories. Like, American history. It’s not about you. Not if you’re a woman. And especially not if you’re an African-American woman or a Latino woman. And especially if you’re poor. So, you’re, like . . . in the margins, living in the margins, making your case in the margins, trying to make a difference maybe, from the margins . . . but nobody really wants to listen to you. To see you. ’Cause you’re not the story they want to tell.”

  Ms. Ingall looks at me. And so does the rest of the class.

  “That’s right, Willa.”

  Ms. Ingall turns around. Waits a beat. Turns back to me.

  “And Willa . . . why is it not the story they want to tell?”

  “I guess because . . . if you tell your story from the margins . . . it kind of weakens their story, their storyline . . . kind of like their brand. It threatens them. All of their justifications for doing all kinds of horrible things go out the window if anyone listens to you.”

  “Good, Willa. Very good.”

  Remy looks at me, whispers, “Totally! Wow, you’re smart! Or that ghost took you over and now you are possessed by a nerd. Either way, nice.”

  I smile. It doesn’t make sense, right? Remy Taft. Related to the president Taft. Rich Remy. Born-with-everything-and-then-some Remy. Agrees? What does she know about coming in from the margins? How could she?

  She IS the story. Hasn’t she always been the story? A rich, pretty, white girl who comes from a rich family who lives in a rich house.

  There’s no reason she should be interesting.

  And I’m ashamed to say it, but I don’t trust her.

  I don’t trust her because of where she comes from and how easy it is, how easy it must be. And also because I see her in Con Lit and then she disappears to wherever effortlessly fascinating people go and I don’t see her again till the following class. Where. Does. She. Go?

  But then she says something hilarious and I like her so much, I can’t help myself. It’s like she doesn’t care about anything. With her thrown-together clothes and her never talking to anyone. She’s just kind of doing everything in her own weird way and damn the torpedoes.

  And that must be why everyone is so obsessed with her.

  ’Cause they can’t figure her out. They can’t put her in a box.

  Ms. Ingall is wrapping it up, writing our assignment on the board. “Write a moment of your life when you felt like you were in the margins. Three pages.” We are all writing it down, getting nervous, thinking about what we’ll do. How to impress Ms. Ingall. How to get an A.

  The bell rings and the room turns into nothing but movement and books and pages flying everywhere and backpack buckles buckling.

  Ms. Ingall stops me on the way out.

  “Willa, do you think you could drop by my office hours sometime when it’s convenient for you? I’m there from two to four p.m. Monday and Wednesdays.”

  “Sure . . . um. Is everything okay? I know my last paper was a bit of a stretch, but I was . . .”

  “No, no, it’s nothing like that. I’d just like to talk to you about something.”

  “Oh, okay. Yes, of course.”

  “Fourth floor, Wharton House. It’s the alcove in the back.”

  “Oh, okay. Thanks.”

  Remy and I walk off down the hallway.

  “What do you think that’s about?”

  “Maybe she wants to haunt you. In your pants.”

  “Gross, Remy! Shut up!”

  But I laugh. Oh, do I laugh.

  We walk past a gaggle of girls near the doorway. They stop talking and stare at Remy like she is the moon landing. One of them waves a meager little wave and the girl next to her bats down her hand, embarrassed. The first girl looks duly humiliated.

  I notice this.

  Remy doesn’t notice this.

  She doesn’t seem to notice anything.

  She leans in to me, devilish, and whispers.

  “Come on, let’s go commit fake suicide.”

  THIRTEEN

  When I’m next to Remy I feel famous.

  I know. I know that sounds stupid. But here’s the thing. All my life I’ve felt like everybody else is at this invisible party. And you get glimpses of this party, fleeting, on TV or online or in movies or magazines. And it’s this amazing, thrilling, whirling party where everybody is superfantastic and skinny and glamorous and nobody ever has to worry about money or food or anything quite so gauche. No, this is a party full of starlight people, and there’s just this one thing about this party, which is . . . I’m not invited. Because I’m not exceptional or tall or skinny or some rich old Social Register name’s daughter. I’m just some girl. And even if I ever got invited to the party it would be a total mistake. Like I’d be some cousin’s uncle’s niece and everybody could tell and if they had their way they would kick me right out.

  Because I don’t belong at that party. That party is for the fabulous people. And I’m not fabulous. I’m from Iowa.

  But not with Remy.

  When I’m with Remy I’m invited to that party. When I’m with Remy we are that party. And everybody is looking at us and wanting to be with us and smiling and coming over just to be superfriendly. And it’s not me. I know it’s Remy. But still. Still, with Remy, all that feeling, all that doubt and nervousness and shame, shame for just existing, goes far, far away, and it’s just me and Remy, just me and Remy in our own private movie where we are famous and everyone around is there just to shine a light on us.

  Which is why I have temporarily moved from my room into hers.

  But by the looks of it, she hasn’t even moved into hers. I mean it; there’s nothing in here. There’s one bedsheet, a fitted sheet, strewn over the mattress but not even fitted. Clearly, Remy is on the lam.

  “Can you drool?”

  “What?”

  “Do you think you can make yourself drool?”

  “Um . . . what are you talking about?”

  “Here. Just think of a lemon. Think really hard.”

  “You’re weird.”

  Remy is leaning over the bed, sideways, with her mouth open, trying to make herself drool. She looks like a spastic flying fish.

  “Why would you want to make yourself drool?”

  “I don’t know. It kind of seems like if you can make yourself drool, or blush, then you can make yourself cry. And you are gonna have to cry to get out of that haunted bathtub.”

  “It’s not a haunted bathtub. It’s a h
aunted area. It’s a haunted bathtub area.”

  She giggles. “Would you say it’s a bed, bath, and beyond the grave?”

  I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling. “I would say that you can joke all you want, but I’m never going back there, I swear.”

  Okay, we are supposed to be studying. It’s three p.m. and we’re done with class for the day, but all we are doing is leaning over her bed trying to make ourselves drool.

  “This is dumb.”

  “Okay, let’s just practice the crying.”

  “Okay.”

  I sit up and we start the scene. Remy plays the imaginary dean of student affairs.

  “Okay, I’m gonna get in character. Mi-mi-mi-mi-mi . . . okay, I’m ready.”

  She sits up, purses her lips.

  “And why do you wish to switch rooms, young lady?”

  “Because I’m thinking of killing myself.”

  There’s something here. Something fast that happens to my face. It’s a tell. An accident. But my eyes almost give it away. My plan. About actually killing myself.

  Remy stops. She looks at me. A different kind of look.

  “Wow. That was . . . really good.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Like I really believed you.”

  Her eyes are on me now.

  “Oh. That’s weird.” I shift around in my seat.

  And they’re still on me. Laser focus.

  I shrug. “C’mon, we have to practice.”

  Remy raises her eyebrows and continues the charade.

  “Okay, okay. My, young Willa. That sounds like a bit of hyperbole.”

  “It’s not, Mrs. . . .”

  “Mrs. Persnickles.”

  “It’s not, Mrs. Persnickles. I have a great fear of heights, and this room is one of the highest on campus. I mean . . . it’s really high. Like I’m on an airplane or something. I get vertigo. I feel like I’m gonna fall off. Like just fall off into the abyss forever.”

  “Okay, now cry.”

  “What?”

  “Cry. That’s our cue. When Mrs. Persnickles looks most doubtful.”

  “Okay, but I’m not going to do it now. I’m saving it up.”

  “That’s good. Lightning in a bottle. Save that stuff.”