The Fall of Butterflies

by Andrea Portes

  “What, like she lived there?”

  “Yes, she was a troll.” Remy smiles, stands up. “No, but she was there all week. And they just abolished that as ‘classist’ in the ’90s. The 1990s. It’s true.”

  “Wow. I kind of wish she were still there—I hate washing my hair. It hurts my arms.”

  But Remy isn’t listening to me. She’s too busy walking past me, into the tiny room next door, grabbing the bed, and bringing that bed into my room.

  “Um. What are you doing?”

  “Um. Moving this bed in here.”

  Now she is arranging the bed in the room, neatly under the window.

  “That’s where that wants to be.” She nods, approving her work, before going back into the other room and reemerging with the mattress.

  She plops the mattress down on the bed frame and brushes the dust off her hands, surveying her work.

  “That’s perfect. I’ll go get my stuff.”

  Before I can say anything, or even process what the hell is going on, Remy is out the door and down the stairs. I see her rushing excitedly across the green, presumably to get her stuff, presumably to move in with me, presumably to start sleeping on that bed she just brought in here.

  Huh. I guess I was not being obsessive after all. I guess I was being . . . normal?

  I guess next to Remy anybody looks normal.

  EIGHTEEN

  Our first en suite study session goes like this: I organize our work space. Remy orders sushi. I put the books down. Remy goes to the other side of the room. I crack my book open. My phone buzzes next to me.

  And now I realize Remy is texting me. From the bed. Across the room.

  Y U NO CALL ME NO MO?

  I text back.

  U CRAY CRAY

  I continue to study. Or try.

  And now Remy.

  MY LUV IS TRUE

  My turn.

  U R A NERDFACE

  And now her.

  UR 2 QT 2 B 4GOT

  And my turn.

  I DIE. IT IS SLO DEATH.

  And now, back to studying.

  Remy stays quiet and I am just about to launch into an amazing chapter about the importance of the railroad and industry to the outcome of civil war. Except.

  Darth Vader ringtone.

  I glance down at my phone.

  And look who it is!

  I pick up.

  She is on the other side of the room, but we’re not looking at each other.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  I answer.

  “Hello, who is this?”

  “This is Ryan Gosling. I’m calling to tell you that I’ve fallen in love with you even though I’ve never met you.”

  “That’s great, Ryan, but the problem is I’m studying right now, so you will just have to call later and also marry me.”

  “If I marry you will you gallivant in the rain like in The Notebook?”

  “Yes, Ryan.”

  “Okay, good. Bye.”

  Remy hangs up.

  Well, this is all very exciting, but I do have to study. Here I go, back to the genius of Abraham Lincoln.

  Darth Vader ringtone.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, this is Robert Pattinson. I was just calling to tell you you’ve won a trip to my penis.”

  I try not to laugh.

  “That is really tempting, Robert, but I have to study.”

  I hang up.

  Nothing.

  Nothing. Back to studying . . .

  Darth Vader ringtone.

  I pick up.

  “Trip to my penis!”

  That’s it. We both start laughing, and no studying is happening. Okay, I know how to do this now.

  For to study: get the hell away from Remy.

  For to laugh.

  For to be happy.

  For to not kill myself . . .

  Stay next to Remy.

  But Remy is over it now. Now she’s ducking into the maid’s quarters next door, which she seems to be doing a lot of lately. And now I can study. I can.

  NINETEEN

  There’s this thing they’re doing at the boys’ school, Witherspoon. The more I hear about these boys, the more I feel sorry for them. Like they all listen to Phish. And play Hacky Sack. And inevitably someone has a bongo drum.

  Witherspoon Prep.

  I mean, seriously.

  These guys should really start breeding out of their circle. Half of them look like they couldn’t lift a suitcase. Not that they’d ever have to. But that they actually couldn’t. It’s pathetic. I mean, what is going to become of them? If they don’t get their trust funds, they are all goners for sure.

  Anyway, I guess they’re putting this thing together. A play. It’s an obvious ploy to get girls over there. Theater girls. But still girls.

  I saw the flyer on the wall. Auditions. Guess what’s the play? Actually, it’s a musical. Don’t squeal. God. What is wrong with you? You are so embarrassing sometimes.

  Okay, here goes:

  It’s Grease.

  Yup. These Witherbottoms over there are gonna put on a production of Grease, and we’re all invited to be a part of the magic. Of course, everyone will want to play Sandy. That’s obvious. (Even though everyone knows the coolest part is Marty. Marty’s the hot one. She dates college guys. And Marines. And that famous TV guy who emcees the Rydell High dance contest.)

  So I’m busy making fun of this in my head, having a blast internally, really, but next thing I know Remy is next to me, looking at the flyer, and now, get this.

  “What? Grease!?”

  “I know. So lame.”

  “So lame that we are doing it.”

  “What? No way.”

  “C’mon. At the very least it will get us out of this godforsaken place. For a few hours at least. Otherwise we are destined to be shriveled-up old maids who play cards all day. Possibly pinochle.”

  “You must be joking. Are you high?”

  “What? No. Why? You wanna get high?”

  “No, it’s just an expression.”

  “Oh, c’mon, it’ll be fun.”

  “Wait. You’re serious? I mean, I know you were all into your drama therapy or whatever, but this?”

  “Yes. This. I definitely think we should go over there for the auditions. What could it hurt?”

  “I know what you’re counting on. You’re counting on the theater bug. You’re counting on it biting me and turning me into a theater spaz.”

  “Maybe. But really I’m really counting on us having an excuse to blow this popsicle stand.”

  “I think it’s more like you want to blow some guy’s popsicle.”

  “Ew.”

  I shrug. “I’m just saying.”

  “Look, it’ll look good on your transcripts. How ’bout that?”

  Ugh. The magic bullet. “I dunno . . .”

  But I already know I’m doing it. If Remy wants to do it, I want to do it. Just to be with Remy. Just to have more to laugh about and make fun of. Just to be in her world. To be next to her. To outsnark and outjoke and outgiggle and outtext from the same room and be silly but act as though we are part of our own personal movie.

  “Besides. I bet Milo will do it.”

  “Milo?”

  “Oh. Nobody told you about Milo.”

  “Um, what are you talking about?”

  “Wow, you really are from Nebraska.”

  “Iowa. And no, I was making it up. To impress everyone.”

  “Milo. Milo Hesse. Aka the guy you’re about to be in love with.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Trust me.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because everybody is.”

  “Even you?”

  “We’re just friends. But trust me. The guy’s irresistible. Like french fries.”

  “I don’t like french fries.”

  “Well, you’ll like this french fry.”

  And now all I can think about is this unknown irresistible fry guy wh
o even Remy cares about. And it’s weird because I’m simultaneously scared of this guy and also jealous of him. Like why does Remy like this guy so much? He’s just some stupid guy. And she’s Remy. The Remy Taft. Why should she demean herself by even liking anyone? Isn’t she above that? Everybody’s supposed to like her, remember?

  I resolve to hate this Milo.

  TWENTY

  If 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 Frenc
hy.

  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.

  TWENTY-ONE

  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.