Now I’m gonna tell you what he looks like.
You know that movie? The one with the cowboy who finds out he’s got AIDS and then he starts getting medicine and bringing it over the border? Okay, not that guy. The other guy. The one that plays the transvestite.
That guy.
Now imagine that guy, but imagine him when he is not playing a lady. Now make him about six feet tall and put jeans on him and a dark blue T-shirt that says something in Japanese but it’s a Wild West movie poster. Yes, a Wild West movie poster, with Japanese writing, on a T-shirt. I’m pretty sure it says, “The Good, the Bad and the Ugly,” but I’m not about to keep looking at this guy’s chest to figure it out because I’m already cowering in my boots and I’m not even wearing boots.
That’s how bad it is.
Also, there are green eyes involved. And either he is wearing false eyelashes or he should pick up the phone right now and call his mama and tell her thank you for the beautiful eyelashes. And for the mouth. Oh, you didn’t know he had a sweetheart mouth? Yes. Check. Chestnut-brown hair that is slightly a swoop but not too much of a swoop? Check. Camouflage Vans? Check.
What is happening now is Remy is looking at me and smiling like the cat that ate the canary. She is reading my thoughts like a scrawl on a news channel going around and around my head, but that doesn’t matter because I am slowly dissolving into the ground anyway.
“Told you.”
“What?”
“You know what.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Mm-hm.”
Milo doesn’t see us yet, but he certainly is looking for someone. Either that or he is auditioning for the play, but you and I both know that is not why he’s here.
“Remy!”
Oh, I guess Milo is here to see Remy. Maybe Milo is in love with Remy. That would make sense. Although Milo and Remy? Kind of too much, if you ask me. But maybe they are meant for each other. Like Titania and Oberon.
Before I can evaporate, Remy grabs my hand and brings me over to meet this person who is clearly a robot developed in a lab in order to destroy hearts.
“Oh, hi.”
Milo looks surprised Remy’s not alone. Not a good sign.
“This is Willa. She’s from Iowa.”
Kill me. Kill me now.
“What? Really? Wow, I’ve never met anyone from Iowa.”
It’s okay if this building just falls into the ground now. No problem.
“I know. Isn’t that cool?” This is Remy trying to make me feel better. Fat chance.
“What’s it like there?”
“Everyone’s blond.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, Scandinavian or something. Like that’s where everyone went. When they fled. The famine or something.”
God, what am I talking about? The famine?!
Now Milo is really sizing me up.
“And would you say you’re a typical Iowa specimen?”
“Um . . .”
“I just never really pictured people from Iowa looking like you. Can’t tell if that’s me being closed-minded or if I never really thought about it, honestly.”
What?
What just happened?
Remy sees me blush, and now her smile is from ear to ear. Seriously, you could just pull off the rest of her head now from the top.
“Oh, wow. You’re blushing.” Milo turns to Remy. “People do that?”
I feel like the biggest hillbilly of all time. I feel two feet tall.
Remy leans in to Milo. “Don’t get too cocky. She’s smarter than you.”
Okay, this is just getting weird.
“So, Milo, are you going to the Fall Ball?” She says it like a dare.
“Definitely not.”
Silence. Somehow Milo feels maybe that was the wrong answer.
“Why, are you guys going?”
“Yes,” Remy proclaims.
“Then definitely yes.”
“Willa’s never been.”
“Ah. Then I envy her.”
“Um, what is the Fall Ball?” I could play it cool, but they know I don’t know.
Remy waves her hand around. “It’s like this ball to celebrate the harvest or whatever.”
“The harvest? So is it like . . . hay rides and apple cider . . . ?”
“More like fancy dresses and people puking.” Milo smiles.
“Puking?”
“Yes, everybody dresses up, everybody spikes the drinks, some people dance, some people frolic.”
“There will be frolicking?” I turn to Remy for confirmation.
“Oh, there will be frolicking.”
“Will we be frolicking?”
“Oh, we will frolic.”
Milo seems charmed by Remy. The way he’s looking at her. Wistful, in a way. There’s a magic here, between them, shaking electrons that keep bouncing back and forth, back and forth, trying to form something.
“Okay, well, I’ll see you guys there, then.”
“So you’re going, Milo?” She chides him.
“I’m definitely going. Maybe.”
And with that, Milo is definitely-slash-maybe out the door, leaving Remy and me to contemplate.
“Told you.”
“Told me what?”
“About Milo. And how he’s a stone-cold fox.”
“Right. I lost track. Is he going to the fall thingy?”
“Sixty percent with a chance of scattered maybes.”
“So you’re saying that Milo is as unpredictable as the weather.”
“I’m saying Milo is less predictable than the weather.”
We’re walking back now, heading through the front gates of Witherspoon and back to Pembroke. All the boys around wear the uniform, navy blazers with a coat of arms on the pocket, tan pants. They look over at us and quickly look away. They whisper to one another and look again.
All of a sudden they seem adorable. Not pale and blue-veined. But shy and sort of embarrassed. If I were queen of the world, I would make all boys wear that uniform. Seriously, there’s nothing more sweet on earth or in heaven than a big-eyed boy, carrying books, almost too skinny, in a navy blazer.
Adorkable. That’s what they are. And it’s possible I may have died in that audition and now this happens to be heaven.
“Is that why you broke up with Milo?”
“Broke up! What are you talking about, crazy? We’re just friends.”
“So, you never went out or anything? Not even a little?”
“No way. We’re too close for that.”
“Of course. Why would anyone want to go out with someone they were close to? Gross.”
She nudges me playfully with her elbow. “Oh, Iowa, you’re so cute. In some ways, you’re actually very traditional. I guess they can take the girl out of the farm but they can’t take the farm out of the girl.”
“Moooooo.”
“Is that supposed to be a cow?”
“Yes, Remy.”
“It sounds more like a ghost.”
“Maybe it’s a cow ghost.”
Remy and I are through the gray stone gates of Witherspoon, making our way over the cobblestones back to Denbigh. It starts to rain in little droplets, then big droplets, then cats and dogs, then a typhoon.
We are screaming like banshees and running through the rain and getting soaked. Soaked. Drenched. Annihilated.
By the time we get back to Denbigh, we might as well have just jumped in the ocean. We reach the front doors breathless and laughing, and everybody in the lobby is staring at us.
We look at them, they look at us, and that just makes us laugh more.
And, you know, this is the moment. Right here. If I could go back in time and stop everything. It’s right here. This feeling of everything hilarious and nothing bad and everything heart-shaped and shimmering.
What I would give to just stop the tape here.
But life isn’t like that. Life keeps unspooling. Whether we want it to o
r not.
TWENTY-TWO
I have resolved not to go to the Fall Ball. Let them celebrate their harvest on their own! Besides, celebrating the harvest by dressing in superexpensive dresses and puking booze seems more like celebrating the fall of western civilization.
There is no way I’m going.
“Remy. I have something to tell you. It’s about the Fall Ball.”
“Ooh, this sounds official. Yes, Willa Parker. I am all ears. Please be very serious.”
Remy is lying on her bed with her legs up on the wall, contemplating her brand-new blue toenails. It’s a funny way to sit, but I have tried it and I find it very comforting.
“Okay, fine. Here goes. I’ve decided not to go to the Fall Ball.”
“What?”
“I, Willa Parker, being of sound body and mind, have decided not to attend the Fall Ball.”
“No. No, no, no. You have to go. I have to take you. It will be fun. There will be frolicking, remember?”
“I do not wish to frolic.”
“I do not wish to frolic without you.”
Now it’s my turn to lie on my bed and contemplate my toenails. Mine are orange. Neon orange. I don’t know why I made this choice, but now I’m stuck with it.
“Besides. Milo will be there.”
“Nope. Not falling for it. You said sixty percent with a chance of scattered maybes.”
“Yeah, okay. I did say that. But you have to go.”
“Nope.”
“Please. Pretty please with sugar on top.”
“Look, Remy, even if I wanted to go, which I don’t, I couldn’t, because I don’t have anything to wear, and so the night will be ruined and I’ll just turn into a pumpkin or whatever.”
“Okay, that is not how that story goes. Like, at all.”
“Look, I just don’t have those kinds of things lying around. Like . . . if it were a real harvest ball, with hayrides and candy apples, maybe, but not dressy stuff. Nope. No way. Just don’t have it. Cannot get it.”
“Oh, well, that’s easy.”
“Please enlighten me, o wise one.”
“You can just borrow something of mine. I have a zillion things. And they’re just sitting there. In my closet. Feeling lonely.”
“I don’t know . . .”
“I’m serious. Some of them even have the tags still on; it’s shameful. Come on. You have to come. Please?”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, of course. I’ll just go get them.”
“Go get them?”
“Yeah, I’ll go now. Be right back.”
Remy is up and throwing on a jacket and almost out the door in a whirlwind of dress-scavenging activity.
“Wait, where are you going?”
“It’s called New York. Maybe you’ve heard of it? Crowded place with very tall buildings.”
“So . . . you’re just going to New York now. Even though we have a test tomorrow?”
“Yes, this is much more important.”
And there she goes, Remy Taft, off to forage for a dress for her poor, pathetic, huckleberry friend. I don’t know how to take this. On the one hand, I’m grateful. I’ve never had a friend forage for me before. On the other hand, this is not exactly honor-student behavior. It’s not even student behavior. We have a test to study for, and she’s . . . gone.
She calls up to me as she barrels down the stairs.
“Leave the door open! I left my key!”
Of course she did.
TWENTY-THREE
I guess Remy is really taking her time looking through her closet, because it’s two days later and she’s still not back. Maybe her closet actually leads to Narnia and she is busy fighting the White Witch and communing with Aslan the Lion. That, actually, would make more sense than taking two days to find a dress. For her friend. To go to a ball. That she doesn’t even want to go to.
When she finally does comes back, she kind of looks like she just stepped out of a laundry basket. It’s late and I am studying down in the Denbigh study room, which puts the other study rooms to shame. I guess with this one they decided to go “full nautical.” The room is painted a deep shade of navy blue, with white trim, and everywhere there are pictures of ships, or nautical maps, or anchors, and even kicky pillows that have coral on them in embroidery. Maybe what happened is some salty dog sent his seaworthy daughter to Pembroke and dedicated this room in her honor. Either that, or someone in the housing department has a flair for interior design that will never be squashed!
Either way, I seem to be the beneficiary of this aquatic revelry, as no one else is in here and, now that I think about it, no one ever is. Maybe there is some sort of macabre rumor about this place. Maybe when no one is looking that octopus will crawl out of that painting and grab you. Never to return!
Speaking of never returning . . .
“Mission accomplished.”
“Um, Remy, is that you? I used to know someone named Remy, but she left on a quest and was swallowed up in some sort of interplanetary alternate universe. I do miss her.”
“Well, miss her no more! She is here. I mean, she is me! I mean, I am here! Get your face out of those books and come upstairs. I have something vast and thrilling for you to see, little farm girl.”
Look. I’m annoyed at her. I feel jerked around. And lied to. Or deceived. Or something. I mean, something is just not right here. How does a girl just disappear for three days? Where does she go? What is she doing? Did she forget how to use her cell phone’s text function? Why doesn’t she just tell me? I mean, it’s not like she’s smuggling weapons in from Mexico. I hope. And if that’s not it, I mean, is there something wrong with her? Is she dying of cancer or something and not telling anybody because she’s being supernoble and transcendent and then one day I’ll just walk into our room and she’ll be gone, never to be seen again?
“Remy, I’m gonna be honest with you here. And I know this may not be that cool, but whatever, maybe I’m just not cool. I don’t understand why you just keep disappearing. And, honestly, not to sound like your grandma or anything, but I’m worried.”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Okay. You’ve been gone for three days. With no text or anything. After taking off like a house on fire. Also, sidebar, you disappeared before that for two days. Also no explanation.”
“I don’t even remember that.”
“Okay, well, I do. Look, it’s no big deal, just tell me, okay? There’s no reason to be weird about it. I just—it’s just worrying me, kinda.”
“Wait. Is this really bothering you? Seriously?”
“Yes, it actually is. It’s like a trust thing or whatever.”
She smiles in this gigantic way that is practically blinding, then grabs me in a hug and smooshes her cheek against mine. “Farm girl! It’s like you really care.”
My entire body floods with warm fuzzies. My scowl loses its hold on my face despite my effort to keep it there. “Yeah, well. I’m waiting. Explain.”
“Okay, okay, okay. I was back in New York and my mom asked me to stay a few days, because she said she missed me, so I did.”
“Even though you had a test.”
“Well, I can make it up. It’s not like they’re gonna kick me out.”
And that’s true. Of course they won’t kick Remy Taft out. How could they? Her dad’s on the board of trustees. Whoever kicked her out would be fired by the weekend. Remy knows it. They know it. And presumably her mom knows it.
“Okay. Okay, fine. Thank you for telling me. I’m sorry I can’t be cooler or whatever.”
“Oh, but you are cool, Willa. And you are going to be ice-cold when you see what treasures I have pillaged in me travels.”
“It’s this room, isn’t it? It turns you into a pirate.”
“Yar, thar is the secret of the pirate’s study cove! Now ye landlubber must die before she tells the tale!”
“Something about being called a landlubber makes me feel fat.”
She breaks character. “Maybe it sounds too much like blubber. Like you feel like a landblubber.”
“Sometimes I do feel like a landblubber.”
That’s how easy it is. To get me to like her again. Here we are, back where we were before. And I am happy. Oh, so happy.
And then that happy turns into giddy when Remy shows me her grand reveal. In the old maid’s quarters next to our room, there it is. The room has finally achieved its true calling as a closet. There is a full-length mirror and some kind of upholstered bench/sofa and a little desk thing with a chair and another mirror perched above it, designed, I’m guessing, for sitting and admiring yourself in ultimate comfort.
And then, oh, and then, there is a giant rack of clothes in the middle.
You have got to see this rack of clothes. It’s absurd. It’s absurd and wonderful and frivolous and exquisite. Slippery silks, poofy tulle, rich velvets, and playful chiffon in a sixty-four Crayola box’s worth of colors.
Remy smiles, proud, standing back and observing her work.
“You like?”
Drawn like a magnet, I approach the rack of all these intricate, some embroidered, some bohemian, some simple, all elegant, with-the-tags-still-on dresses. These are not just any old dresses. These are the kinds of dresses that take weeks to make, the kind of dresses you have to order, the kind of dresses that trip you on your way up the stage to accept your Oscar.
The kind that cost as much as a car. And they’re beautiful.
“Well, Iowa. Take your pick.”
What’s funny about this moment is I know Remy has no intention of lending me any of these dresses. No, she is planning on giving me one. Whichever it is, whichever I choose. And it’s not braggy. And it’s not conditional. And it’s not proud.
It’s just Remy.
“Jesus, Remy, look at all of this. I could never . . . this is . . .” I pause. “It’s like—you saved my life.”
I meant the dresses. I only meant the dresses. But that’s not how it came out. It came out like I was planning to throw myself off the bell tower and then somebody came in and erased, just simply erased, the thought or even the memory of the thought of that.
It came out before I could take it back. Before I could grab it.
And Remy looks at me, catches it.
“I don’t know, Willa,” she says, taking my hand. “Maybe it’s the other way around.”
The Fall of Butterflies Page 8