I, on the other hand, am feeling considerably less as I make my way to Wharton House.
It’s a stoic white colonial across a gravel road, just north of the green. It sits hidden from everything by a grove of trees, and if you didn’t know it was there, you’d assume someone just lived there making pies all day.
But no! This place is silverfish heaven. Books, papers, files everywhere, and up a tiny, curving staircase on the fourth floor is the alcove. And in the middle of the alcove is my Contemporary Lit professor, Ms. Ingall.
I received a reminder note from her in my school mailbox. There it was, right alongside the care package from my dad. (For the record, said package included a Tupperware full of snickerdoodles and a novelty pencil. You know, the kind with the crazy felt hair and the googly eyes? I like it. I’ve decided to name it Fuzzy McGillicutty.)
Ms. Ingall has summoned me to her lair. I am fearful that I am about to receive a come-to-Jesus kind of lecture, here. I have not, certainly not, been the kind of laser-focused teach-me-o-wise-one student I have modeled for my instructors historically. And so, it seems, we’re having a little heart-to-heart. Who knows? Maybe I can turn this all around. Maybe I can get some sort of extra credit out of it, graduate with honors and some Latin next to my name.
There she is. Peering through her reading glasses over a pile of papers the height of a vacuum cleaner when my head pops up above the staircase.
“Um, hello?”
She looks up, over her reading glasses.
“Oh, Willa! I’m so glad you came. Thank you for taking the time.”
“Sure. Um . . .”
Um. What am I doing here? Um, why so mysterious, Ms. Ingall?
“Willa, you’re probably wondering why I’ve asked you here to my rather claustrophobic and extremely chaotic office.”
“Yeah, sort of.”
“Well, to be honest, I’ve taken an interest in you.”
Wait, what? Interest? Teachers have blessed me with their tacit approval before, but expressed interest? “Um.”
“Do you, by any chance, remember those tests we took perhaps? You know. The first day of class?”
“Sort of . . .”
“I know they were very unusual. Probably seemed pointless.”
She’s got that right.
“Well, the thing is . . . students come in from all sorts of circumstances. Some, well, quite privileged, and others . . .”
“Like me?”
“Well, let’s just say, from varied backgrounds.”
I mean, she’s practically tiptoeing around the silverfish here.
“The point is I like to know a bit more about my students . . . beyond what they might have learned, quite often by rote, at their previous place of education.”
“Oh.”
“Certain tests can be weighted to favor those who, say, have been exposed to certain kinds of education since . . . well, since preschool.”
“Okay.”
“And I don’t quite think that’s fair. So I have researched extensively and found a more analytical test. A sort of way of really seeing who my students are right there on the first day, before any impressions are made.”
I nod assuringly.
“Do you mind? I’d like to show you something, if it’s not too much bother.”
And now she is rooting around in her desk.
“Oh God, I can never find anything . . . oh, here it is.”
And now she takes out a blue folder. And now she takes out a piece of paper with a graph from that blue folder.
“You see this, Willa? You see where all these marks are here? These dots?”
“Yes . . .”
“Okay. Okay, good. Now, what these dots represent are just simply analytical skills. Nothing to do with certain books or even certain formulas. Just simple . . . analytical ability.”
She looks at me a second, hesitates.
“Do you see this dot here?”
“Um . . . yeah.”
“Willa, this dot here is you.”
“This dot is me?”
“Yes. And do you see how it’s separate?”
And this is true. All the other dots are huddled together having a little dot party, and there is one dot out to the side, left out.
“I get it. So I’m behind. That makes sense.”
“No. No, Willa. Oh God. You’re not behind. It’s the opposite. You are quite literally . . . off the chart. You’re . . . an outlier.”
“An outlier?”
“Yes. You have a score that is highly unusual and, well, given your classwork so far, and your participation and your papers, I have no reason to believe this is some sort of fluke.”
I’m having a hard time not staring at that dot all by itself in the middle of the chart.
“I’ve looked at your transcripts and your . . . background. And I feel I must tell you . . . I believe it would be possible for you to apply to a number of esteemed colleges, early decision. And, well, Willa, I think you have a good chance—in fact, I think you have a great chance of being accepted. Additionally, I want you to know I would be happy to write a letter of recommendation for you. If you wish.”
“Doesn’t it seem a little early for—”
“Well, yes. That’s why it’s called early decision. But it does have its advantages. I have a few brochures here, just a few choices, for you to peruse. You can take them. They send out throngs every year. Frankly, it’s a waste of paper. Let’s see, there’s, um . . . Oberlin. Brown. Berkeley. Cornell. Of course, any of the seven sisters . . . Vassar, Radcliffe, Bryn Mawr . . .”
“Huh. Ms. Ingall. I don’t really know what to . . .”
“It occurred to me that, with your grades, and your test scores, and your papers, and quite frankly, your unique perspective . . . there might also be some wonderful options for you that perhaps you might not be aware of. Or perhaps no one had told you about. I don’t mean to interfere, but, well . . . I know your mother . . . I mean, Princeton . . .”
She hands me the pamphlets gently.
“Some of these places give full scholarships. To those . . . in need.”
She’s trying to be polite about it. She’s trying to not come off like a jerk.
“Willa, you have . . . an interesting brain. I think there are possibilities for you, beyond what I think you may see for yourself, honestly.”
Walking down the steps with the stacks of brochures, I can’t seem to get out of there fast enough. I’m not sure if I should be swelling with pride or humiliated.
Hurtling down the stairs, my mind is a kaleidoscope. I can’t put it together somehow. What all this means.
At least it confirms something I have always suspected. I am what they refer to as “special.” They say this word, “special,” when what they really mean is “different” or “strange.”
Maybe that’s why when I was little my dad could never take me to the zoo because I would cry and scream to see all the animals in cages while everybody else just ate kettle corn and pointed and giggled. Maybe that’s why half the time I don’t understand what’s going on around me or who set the rules and why this world outside my head exists the way it exists or even exists at all.
I am, statistically, a square peg. My brain hums a long-forgotten tune. One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong.
I’m halfway down the driveway and around the bushes when I realize those things on my face are tears and there are thousands of them and they won’t stop.
I’m not feeling sorry for myself. I’m not. That’s not what’s happening. It’s just . . . I understand all those puzzled looks from my dad now. All those times he was trying, trying so hard to figure out his daughter, with the totally bizarre reactions to everything nice and normal like the zoo or the sandbox or the gas station. It’s just, he didn’t know what to do. It’s just, I didn’t know what to do.
It’s just . . . I never asked for this. I never asked to be a fox in the snow.
Remy is running lines now. From Hamlet. She told me she’s making it her mission to become the English teacher’s Lolita. Which makes no sense because she’s trying out for Ophelia. Also, I’m not used to Remy getting spastic about anything. Especially some off-limits creep. But that seems to be what’s happening, and, honestly, it’s having an effect.
She’s carrying a worn copy of Hamlet around like she’s some kind of character in a Salinger novel. And not only does she swoon at him all the time, which is embarrassing, but when he’s not there, she talks about him. Incessantly. Like, we’ll be having a conversation about pickles and the next thing you know it’s on and on about Humbert Humbert.
Sort of like this:
Me: “I like pickles.”
Remy: “I like Humbert Humbert.”
Or, the other day:
Me: “I think it’s gonna rain. I’m gonna wear my rain boots.”
Remy: “I think you’re right. I wonder if Humbert will drive me home in the rain.”
And on and on and on. Name one thing. Anything. And Remy can bring it back to Humbert. It’s absurd.
There’s another thing, too. She stole all these pill bottles from her aunt. Without telling me.
Yup. Last week she skipped out again for a few days. I didn’t worry. I’m kind of getting used to it. She came back with the same “I decided to stick around at home for a while” excuse and then she disappeared into the closet, aka maid’s quarters. Where she disappears a lot.
What happens in the maid’s quarters stays in the maid’s quarters, right?
But it’s getting kind of out of hand.
And the fact that she’s keeping it secret? Or trying to?
That’s not a good sign.
Am I supposed to say something? Is that the idea? Or am I supposed to ignore it, just shrug and say “whatever” and keep a smile on my face?
And it’s all happening so fast I kind of can’t keep track of it. Like on Monday.
Get this.
Monday after class, I get back to our room. I hear Remy’s voice from behind the door. She’s talking on the phone, and from what I can gather, it’s to her mother. The one side of the conversation I can hear goes something like this—
“So there’s this new drama teacher, and—yes, Mom, drama . . . What? No, I’m not going on about that whole thing again. It’s just a school play . . . fine. So, I’m trying to tell you that I got a part . . . Yes, I auditioned. Aren’t you proud of—so what if I did let myself get carried away with it? Oh, yes. The family name. You know the Kennedy son did theater, right? Well, maybe he wouldn’t have been flying that airplane if he’d been starring in a play that weekend. Mom. I’m just telling you that—”
I feel guilty listening to even that much, so I turn around and make myself scarce, reading in the study room while Remy deals with whatever that is.
When it feels like enough time has passed, I head upstairs. No more dialogue. Nope. Just a few slams and crashes. I open the door and WTF. OMG. Gasp. Everything Remy owns or has ever owned is all over the place, like the place was ransacked by a burglar on a cop show, and she’s rifling through it all like it’s the end of the world. And talking to herself.
Like a crazy person. Or some kind of stressed-out rat, rummaging through her cage.
So I ask her what she’s looking for and she totally ignores me. She’s actually, honestly, kind of a bitch about it. Sort of like flippant. Then, she finds whatever the thing is, goes back into the ol’ telltale maid’s quarters, then comes right back in like nothing happened.
She breathes a sigh of relief and apologizes.
I just stare at her.
“Sorry. I was just kind of freaking out.”
“Yeah, um, okay.”
“It’s just . . . my parents. They’re being so fucking mean to me. About this play. They’re like—they called it embarrassing. They want me to quit.”
I feign ignorance. “Really?”
“Yup. They think it’s, like, beneath me. Or them. Or whatever.”
Then she goes to the bathroom and I watch her down the hall. And now, in the maid’s quarters, I start rummaging around. Here. No. Maybe here. No. Okay, how about over here.
And then I find it.
Something I have never seen before.
Okay, I’ve heard of this drug. I have. Everyone basically says it’s the greatest thing ever. Like, it makes you feel like you’re the greatest thing on earth and everything is just peachy. Better than peachy. Perfect. And it makes you feel like the world is perfect. Like everything is as it should be. Which is kind of like a Buddhist thing. Except in a pill. A Buddhist pill.
But this is also a drug they give pregnant ladies to recover. From giving birth.
So, yeah, not exactly no big deal.
And this is the drug she’s hiding in the maid’s quarters.
I guess this is a new level of pill-popping. One that makes Remy bitchy and spastic and rummaging and kind of mean. And isn’t that kind of the opposite of Buddhism?
I hear Remy down the hall and go back to a completely abnormal “normal” position.
We’re supposed to walk over to this stupid Hamlet rehearsal, but to be honest, I really don’t want to go anymore. At least Grease would have been fun. And there would have been singing involved. And now it’s all about talking to skulls and jumping into graves and freaking out on your mom.
Remy will, of course, end up as Ophelia. If I’m lucky I’ll get to be Gertrude. You know, the mom who marries her brother’s killer and then pretends everything’s okay, no, really, don’t worry about it. I think in modern times Gertrude would wake up, put on her Juicy jogging suit, blend herself a nice vodka milk shake, and move to the OC. But not Ophelia. Ophelia would never move to the OC. Ophelia is the one who gets to be beautiful and crazy and jilted by Hamlet until she crawls up a willow tree, falls into the river, and drowns, and then Hamlet loves her again.
Sidebar: Why do guys always fall in love with girls after they kill themselves? Wouldn’t it work a lot better to fall in love with a girl before she kills herself? And then maybe she wouldn’t even have to kill herself? It always seems like guys fall in love with girls who a) don’t notice them or b) are dead.
It honestly seems like a guy would never like a girl just standing in front of him, being in love with him, no matter who she was. Even Angelina Jolie.
But Remy is not behaving like Angelina Jolie. No, no slightly aloof, regal glances here. She is, instead, falling all over herself for Humbert.
So far he’s kept things professional. Oh, sure, he’ll give her acting direction and talk about iambic pentameter. But he’s not whispering sweet nothings into her ear or anything slurpy. I just hope he can keep his weiner on straight in the face of whatever Remy has planned.
Exhibit A: Remy comes back in the room and now it’s all rainbows and buttercups. Now she’s happy as a clam and getting dressed for rehearsal like it’s her own personal date with Humbert Humbert.
“You know he can’t like you, right?”
“Who?”
“Humbert Humbert. He’s not allowed to like you. Even if he does. Or did. He can’t act on it or anything. He’d lose his job.”
Remy looks at me through the mirror, she’s holding up a cool Bohemian-print dress that might as well be a shirt. It’s the kind of thing that looks like you forgot your pants. It makes me involuntarily gulp.
“I know. I just want him to notice me, kinda.”
“Um, if you wear that pants-optional outfit, I’m sure he’ll notice you. As will everyone else.”
“C’mon, don’t you think he’s cute? A little?”
“I think he’s old a little.”
I could ask her right now. I could ask her about the pills and the maid’s quarters and the whole elaborate charade.
But somehow I don’t.
Somehow I’m afraid that if I do, I’ll break this thing we have. This thing I don’t totally understand the existence of i
n the first place.
“Can I ask you something, Willa?”
“Maybe.”
“How come you never talk about your mom?”
“My mom? Why are you asking?”
“Because she’s famous. Famous for being logical. Which sometimes you are.”
“I’m not anything like her, actually. And besides, economists aren’t famous.”
“Okay, world-renowned.”
“Better.”
“So . . . ?”
“Honestly, I haven’t seen her in, like, ten years. I haven’t talked to her on the phone for about two years, and I kind of like it better that way. I used to really care about what she thought, like it bothered me, like I had to be perfect. Then my dad brought me to a headshrinker, and the shrink said I didn’t have to care anymore. He said I could just write her off. Even though she’s my mom.”
“Really?”
“Yup, really. I couldn’t believe it. It was like, ‘I can do that? I don’t have to care what she thinks? Wow!’ And then I felt better. A lot better, actually. That headshrinker kind of saved my life. I really liked him. He kind of looked like John Denver. Like he had blond hair and this sweet smile and a big pie face. You sort of expected him to start singing any minute.”
“I wish I’d had that.”
“What?”
“A shrink that looked like John Denver.”
She puts on the non-leg-covering vestige.
“See? It’s not so bad.”
“People are starving for pants in India. And you, you throw away your pants like garbage.”
“Would you say they’re pants-starving?” Remy smirks.
“I would say you’re pants-starving. As in . . . you are dying for Humbert Humbert to get in your pants.”
She turns, assuring me.
“Don’t worry, mon amie. I won’t bring him to Paris with us.”
“Very funny. Wait. Were you thinking of bringing him to Paris?”
“Not really.”
She grabs her bag as if this is all so blissful and there is absolutely nothing that could possibly be wrong. We head out across the green. But don’t think I don’t notice that Remy ducks into the maid’s quarters again on the way out. And grabs that bottle . . . pretending not to grab that bottle.
The Fall of Butterflies Page 12