The Fall of Butterflies

by Andrea Portes

  “Wait. Do you know how to cry?”

  “Sure.”

  “Where’d you learn?”

  “In rehab.”

  “Wait. What?!”

  “I know. Can you believe it? I got busted once, ONCE, for pot at Spence. It was seriously no big deal. Like nothing. Like a dime bag.”

  “I don’t really understand pot lingo, but I’m going to nod and pretend I do.”

  “Good. Because it’s nothing. Seriously. And everybody acted like it was the end of the world and the sky was falling, and next thing you know I was in the most ridiculous depressing place with everybody sharing in a circle all the time. Ugh. What a joke.”

  “Okay, but maybe it was—”

  “It was stupid. Totally pointless. Except that I got to take ‘drama therapy.’ Incredibly useful, calling up your emotions at will and such. I mean, I wouldn’t mind making a career of it.”

  Welp, she shut that one down. I get it. Rehab. Maybe she’s embarrassed. I try to change the subject. Make her like me again.

  “Is the dean of student affairs really named Mrs. Persnickles?”

  “Yes. Her name is Billybottom Persnickles the third.”

  “Oh, good, I wouldn’t deign to meet with Persnickles the first. Or the second.”

  “Of course not, darling,” Remy drawls. “It would be beneath you.”

  It’s starting to get chilly out, and we only have two hours until the office closes, and I am not going to sleep in that haunted room one more drafty night, so this is it.

  “Okay, wish me luck.”

  I grab my blazer and leave Remy back to her pretend drooling.

  “You know I’m gonna get this,” she says.

  “What?”

  “The drooling. I’m gonna make myself drool.”

  “Are all rich people this weird?”

  It’s an authentic question.

  “Yes. Not the nouveau riche, of course. They’re too bougie to be weird. Like they are trying to be this idea of rich or something, but they just always come off as ridiculous, and a little pathetic.”

  “Do I come off as ridiculous and pathetic?”

  “No. You come off as maybe a little bit crazy.”

  I blink. “Really?”

  “Well, I’m not the one switching rooms because of a haunted toilet.”

  “It’s a bathtub. A haunted bathtub.”

  “Exactly.”

  FOURTEEN

  By the time I make it to the office of student affairs, I’ve pretty much lost all hope. Of course they’re not gonna let me move. Ghosts. What difference does it make? I know my days here are numbered and it’s only a matter of time until I, too, am lost to the endless stream of souls wading around in purgatory. Or is it waiting? I think they are wading and waiting. But aren’t we all doing that, really?

  Huh. Maybe this is purgatory. And we just don’t know it.

  Wait a minute.

  Maybe this is hell.

  No, no, this can’t be hell. Too many flowers. And sunsets. And my dad. He would never be in hell.

  But maybe hell is nearby.

  Like New Jersey.

  The door opens and suddenly the dean of student affairs is standing there. Ms. Smith. Totally boring. Mrs. Persnickles was much better.

  “May I help you, young lady?”

  She actually seems kind of nice. Much more crunchy than I had imagined. Like she eats a bowl of granola cereal for breakfast, a granola bar for lunch, and for dinner . . . a granola sandwich. She’s wearing Birkenstocks. With socks. Of course. She has a mane of curly, wiry hair that sticks up all around her head.

  “Hi, yeah, um . . . well, I’m here to ask for a possible room change, actually.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  She gestures for me to sit down. I’m not gonna lie to you. There are a lot of Navajo tapestries in here. There is even a dreamcatcher. I wonder if it will catch my dreams of getting a new room.

  “Yeah, um, it’s just . . .”

  I was really expecting a snootier-looking person in this scene. Not this Incense Lady. My lines are all wrong. I’ll have to improv.

  “May I ask what’s wrong with your current room?”

  “Honestly?”

  “Yes. Honestly.”

  “It’s haunted.”

  I hate my mouth I hate my mouth I hate my mouth! Shut up, mouth!

  “Really?”

  Okay, this is falling apart fast. First of all, I was never, ever supposed to say that, and second, she was not supposed to respond as though I had some kind of point.

  “Yeah, I mean. Okay. This is what happened . . .”

  She listens to my terrifying tale about the haunted bathroom. The whole thing. In detail. She doesn’t quite seem to be calling the men in white coats just yet. But any minute, I suppose she will press a button and there they’ll be—or else I will be ejected out the roof.

  “And you feel you won’t be able to get any of your work done if you stay?”

  “I mean, would you?”

  She’s on the fence. This is gonna take some waterworks.

  “I fear that if I stay there I might . . . kill myself. Like the spirits will convince me or something. The ghost-girl spirits.”

  She raises an eyebrow.

  Oh God. This is not working. Okay, think of something sad, think of something sad, think of something sad . . .

  I know. Here’s what. Think about how unfair it is that your mother is out there gallivanting around the rolling hills of France even though she’s a horrible person and your dad, who is the sweetest, best person, is stuck back in What Cheer, Iowa, with not any cheer at all and a whole lot of bills he can’t pay. Think about the fact that you are pretending you’re gonna kill yourself when you were actually going to kill yourself because all of it, the whole world, is so deeply unjust.

  And here’s the good part. Here’s what makes this work. I try holding back the tears. Yes, that seems to be the trick. Try to hold back the tears. Nobody ever wants to cry, right? So, even though my eyes are swelling up with tears just thinking about the injustice of my folks and the weight of the world and the elaborate suicide ruse I am simultaneously faking and hiding . . . I am holding back.

  “Willa? I’m sorry . . . Willa?”

  Now she is trying to get my attention. To free me of this weight.

  “This endless weight of being a human-type person on this spinning orb next to the sun in an infinite universe in a sea of the evermore infinite multiverse!”

  That’s what comes out. Of my mouth. I say the sentences and I can’t control them. Worse. I keep going.

  “What does it all mean?! How can there even be a multiverse?!”

  “Willa! It’s okay. It’s . . . it’s going to be fine. Here.”

  She hands me a tissue. I pant, trying to regain control of my breath, of myself.

  I peek out of my left eye. Clearly, I am done. She’s going to throw me out of this place and my only refuge will be the Barnum & Bailey circus. I will be a sad clown and life on the road will be hard, but we will get by with booze and cards every night by the lion cage. One day I will let the lion out of his cage and he will maul the greedy circus master before sprinting off into the setting sun.

  “There’s a very simple solution here,” Ms. Smith says.

  “Th-there is?” I say it through sniffles, like the last urchin left at the orphanage.

  “Yes, of course. Now just take a deep breath and I’ll figure out the best course of action.”

  Now our hippie lady is going through her files, peering into folders, scrolling through pages. She’s not quite talking to herself, but she might as well be. If she could solve this problem by squinting it would have been solved an hour ago.

  I whisper, “I’m sorry I got upset about the multiverse.”

  She pretends not to hear me.

  “Okay. Here we are. Denbigh Residence Hall. Perfect. It’s on the far side of the green, and you’re on the fourth floor. It’s a beautiful room. There’s ev
en a fireplace. That sounds lovely. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes! Er, I mean . . . oh, that would be so fantastic. I can’t thank you so much for your kindness in my time of woe.”

  Woe? Yes. I just said “time of woe.”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. That’s what we’re here for. And”—she wiggles her eyebrows—“I am giving you one of the best rooms on campus.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. You know, I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but . . . you’re not the first one to opt out of that room.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Well, I mean. Look, I don’t believe in ghosts. But it does seem that room ends up empty quite a bit. Who knows why . . .”

  “Wow.”

  She winks at me and hands me the key.

  Is she stoned? What’s going on? This is all very strange. I thought everyone at this school was supposed to be terrible and stuffy and full of themselves. And like Dean Hardscrabble in Monsters U. But this lady. This lady in socks and sandals, she’s all right.

  And this all worked out—because Remy told me what to do.

  “Listen, Willa. I know it’s sometimes hard to transition from . . . other places, maybe even other worlds . . . so if there’s anything you need, just feel free to knock. I’m always here. Well, I’m not always here, that would be weird, but my office hours are posted, and I’m here during office hours—you get the idea. But I don’t want you to feel like you’re all alone here. Because you most certainly are not.”

  Huh.

  Do you think this is because of my Golden Globe–worthy dramatic performance in a leading role? Or do you think it’s because I’m a freak from What Cheer, Iowa? Is that why she’s being so nice right now? And why did she wink? That, too, is a mystery. The Mystery of the Dean of Student Affairs’s Eyeball.

  Welp. Whenever anybody’s nice to me, my instinct is to run away as fast as possible. And that’s just what I’m about to do.

  “Um, well. Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, Willa. Remember, you are here for a reason.”

  “What, like here at Pembroke or like here on earth in general . . . ?”

  She smiles, amused. “Both. And, Willa, I, too, am baffled by the concept of the multiverse. But maybe it means that the universe is full of infinite possibility.”

  Ooo-kay.

  I could sit around and contemplate this interaction for five days, but I’m too excited to see my new room. I mumble another thank-you to the Dean of Infinite Possibility and scurry off to the new digs. Now I am in Denbigh dorm with an even bigger room, equipped with a fireplace and, of course, a view.

  I should make up stories and cry more often. I should ask more about “what would Remy do?”

  I resolve to get the rest of my things tomorrow. Not tonight. It’s dark out, and the ghosts are probably camped out in my old room, smoking pipes and reading the New Yorker.

  FIFTEEN

  “It worked!”

  I am practically flying across the green like some kind of ghost myself. Nothing is getting me there fast enough, because I am dying to tell Remy and I am still not there yet.

  Flying into the dorm and up the stairs and into Remy’s room, which is open, I am brimming with tales and quips about my magnificent performance and the ensuing room and let’s go see it right now. But Remy’s not there. Not a signal, not a sign. Nothing doing. Unmade bed. Check. Clothes all over the floor. Check. Remy. No check.

  But the door is open, so that’s weird.

  “Remy?”

  Maybe she’s in the bathroom. I walk down the hall and see a serious-looking girl with a furrowed brow furrowing at me.

  “Hi. Sorry. Have you seen Remy?”

  She shakes her head and retreats back into her lair.

  The bathroom smells like chlorine and more chlorine, but there is no Remy here.

  Maybe she’s in the study room. The study room in this dorm is unusually beat-up compared to my old study room. It’s as if they put all the other study rooms together with a calculated, magnificent plan and then realized they forgot one. This one. This one with furniture in it from the sixties. Put it this way, this study room will not be going in the brochure.

  There’s a redheaded student who is possibly a descendant of Strawberry Shortcake cuddled up in the reading nook. She looks up at me with annoyance. Then something registers, and she changes completely. Now she is a smile. A redheaded strawberry smile.

  “Hi, um, have you seen Remy? Remy Taft?”

  “Yeah, I know. I mean, I know her. I mean, not like you, but I know her.”

  This is getting awkward. She’s sort of falling all over herself and now she’s turning red but her hair is red, too, so everything is red over there in the reading nook.

  “Oh, um. Okay, well, if you see her could you tell her Willa is looking for her. That’s me. I’m Willa.”

  “I know.”

  I don’t understand what is happening right now. No one is supposed to know who I am. That’s Remy’s job. I am just the sidekick. The trusty sidekick who is not the star of the show but can be counted on to laugh at jokes, attend activities, and generally make everyone else feel better about themselves. I am the frozen yogurt, not the sprinkles.

  “I’ll tell her. No problem.”

  Strawberry goes back to her book after an assuring smile. I decide I like her. She reads books in the reading nook in the worst study room on campus. That’s a girl after my own heart. Maybe she’s like me. Lone wolf. Not good enough for the fancy study room.

  Sauntering out of the dorm, into the late-afternoon light, I have the feeling that maybe everything is possibly gonna be okay. Not just okay—maybe even better than okay. Maybe perfect. The sun is turning the sky dusty pink and orange and that means there is infinite possibility in a place where you can cry and get dorm rooms with fireplaces and a view. Where you get to be friends with Remy Taft. Where people know your name is Willa.

  SIXTEEN

  Denbigh dorm is across the green from the library, hidden away amid the spruce and the pines. From my room, on the fourth floor, I can actually see over through the treetops to the comings and goings along the green, but I am high enough to hear only silence and the occasional chirping birds, which are actually flying dinosaurs.

  Don’t even talk to me about birds. I can’t even.

  My only sadness, which is a goofy sadness, is that Remy wasn’t here when I opened the door. See, what would’ve happened then is that we would’ve held our breath, unlocked the door, opened the door, and then squealed with glee and delight and immediately had a pillow fight when we saw how superfantastic my new room was.

  That did not happen. Instead, I crept up the stairs to my lonely little room on the far end of the dorm, wiggled the key in the lock without any ado, opened the door, and peered in on the best room ever. But there was no squealing. And no pillow fight.

  There was only a brief sigh to be noticed by no one. Not even the leaves on the trees seemed to care. And the only room anywhere near mine in this small alcove, at the end of the hall, is this tiny room next door, which appears to be empty. It’s open, but, really, this adjacent room barely counts as a room. More of a large closet.

  But my room! Oh, ladies and gentleman, it is a grand affair! It is an affair with different-colored wood in the floors, like little designs in the wood. What will they think of next? Back home, if you wanted designs on your wood floor you would have to use a marker.

  But wait, there’s more! The fireplace has tile around it with little designs in the tile. Like little pictures. One is a scene of a girl sitting by a lake. In the tile. That scene is in the tile.

  And out of the windows, I kid you not, there is a little squirrel, just sitting in the space between the window and three of the little turrets that seem to have spawned all over this campus. The squirrel is standing still, in a sort of profile, holding on to an acorn, pretending not to notice me, or to exist at all. The squirrel is sizing up the situation. The squirrel is
attempting to figure out if I’m going to try to eat him.

  “Hi, squirrel.” I say it in a singsongy voice. To alert the squirrel to my intentions. Happy intentions. Non-squirrel-eating intentions.

  “Hi, little squirrely. Hi there.”

  The squirrel decides I am not his evil nemesis and decides to pay attention to the acorn he is holding and nevermind me anyway.

  I mean, you know you got the best room if there is a squirrel there to greet you. That is a sign from the good Lord above that this was meant to be. The only thing not meant to be is that I am alone in this room. I want to share this room. I want to jump up and down in this room and scream and giggle. I want to hold grand affairs in this room and maybe even a tea on Sunday.

  But it’s a holding pattern.

  I’m on standby. In this room.

  Alone.

  SEVENTEEN

  Two days later, she hasn’t even made it to class. It’s okay, though. I’ve analyzed my behavior and decided I was maybe being a little obsessive and maybe she didn’t like me all that much anyway. I don’t blame her. So it’s fine. I am acceptance now. Everything is as it should be. I am Yoda. You can’t stop me.

  Except . . .

  When I get back to my brilliant, amazing dorm room, there is Remy. Just sitting there on my bed like the cat that ate the canary.

  “Now, do you know how to fake cry or do you know how to fake cry?”

  I laugh, a little taken aback. How did she even get in here?

  “Well, Iowa, I think we can both agree that this is the best room of all time and I didn’t even know it existed. That’s how good it is.”

  “I know. Can you believe this? It’s like I won the lottery or something.”

  “Who’s next door?”

  “No one. The room’s too small. Like it’s probably the size of your closet.”

  “Maid’s quarters.”

  “What?”

  “Maid’s quarters.”

  “Um. I don’t exactly have a maid.”

  “I know. But they used to. People used to send their kids here, avec maid.”

  “Really?”

  “Oh, yeah. And . . . they used to have a lady who would wash your hair for five dollars. In the basement.”