But, trust me, looking around, it’s obvious. I’m the lowest of the low in these digs.
All the buildings look like they’re haunted. Gray stone castles with spires everywhere. Gray arches. Gray stone pathways leading into the trees. Ghost city.
I’m surprised a ghost doesn’t float out of the admissions building to greet me.
But it’s not a ghost that comes out. It’s more like a vampire. A vampire lady with white skin and black hair who has probably been eating blood pudding for breakfast.
She emerges from a building marked Holyoke Commons.
She talks the way you talk to people you have to help. People slower than you. People beneath you.
“Well, hello, Willa. Willa Parker, yes? So very nice to meet you.”
Oh, I forgot. My name’s Willa. Yeah, I know. It’s ’cause my father loves My Ántonia and Willa Cather and we live in the Midwest, etcetera, etcetera. Now, go ahead, say it. Lucky he didn’t love Hemingway or Wharton or Shakespeare, or I would be named Ernest or Edith or William. I’ve only heard it, in infinite iterations, like a hundred times. It’s okay, though. I forgive you. I know you’re excited to be here, too.
The vampire lady introduces herself.
“My name is Ursula Cantor, and I am the head of admissions. We are so very glad to have you here. Did you know they teach your mother’s book in our economics courses?”
Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t roll your eyes. Don’t roll your eyes. It’s the first impression, remember? Come on. Be nice, Willa.
“Oh, really? That’s . . . great. I’ll be sure to tell her.”
That’s a lie. I won’t tell her because I never talk to her and even if I did talk to her and tell her she wouldn’t care. Or maybe she would. She is kind of like a blind narcissist. It’s never enough. The compliments.
But she’d pretend she didn’t care.
Wait! False modesty.
A sophisticated skill I should try to master, perhaps?
“It’s so kind of you to come greet me. I’m flattered.”
See how well I’m doing? I even said “kind.” I like this new character. Me. New and improved. East Coast me.
Vampire Ursula smiles. She has lipstick on her teeth. Deep berry. Or it might be blood. From that pudding.
“You will be staying off Radnor quad. Thiswicke. Third floor down the hall. Room three-oh-nine. You’ll be pleased to hear it has a lovely view of Shipley’s Promenade.”
“Oh. I am pleased to hear that.”
I have only understood half of those words, but look at me! I’m pleased to hear things now. It used to be I just liked things.
“Also, I’d like you to know I am here for you if there’s anything you may need to make the transition. Just let me know.”
“Oh, how kind of you. Thank you.”
No one can stop me. I am perfect now. My manners are impeccable.
Vampire Ursula sees something out of the corner of her eye, and all the polite is wiped off her face and replaced with irate.
“Remy! Put that out this minute!”
Remy? Who the hell is named Remy? I thought that was some kind of booze. I mean, I truly hope this girl’s last name is not Martin.
I turn to look and see her.
No, it’s more like this. I turn to look and see . . .
REMY.
All caps. Or more like this. I turn to look and see . . .
REMY.
Zapfino font. Remy deserves Zapfino font. And all caps. Remy deserves to have a giant statue erected in her honor.
This is what she’s wearing:
First, she’s got a plaid miniskirt on. No big deal there. It’s a uniform. But she’s wearing it with leg warmers. Those are not plaid. Those are striped. Striped! Horizontally! In rainbow colors! She’s got on a burgundy blazer with the school insignia on it. A coat of arms. (What did you think it was gonna be? A duck in a Chevy pickup?) Again—uniform. But then, when you look closely, you see she’s like written all over it. With a Sharpie, maybe? All kinds of words, maybe random, maybe not. She’s got on a pair of boots, but they have this like ethnic embellishment up the sides, like Mongolian or something. Then . . . And here is the kicker. She has a tie coming down like she is a boy. And braids. With a ribbon wound through them. A rainbow ribbon.
Jesus Christ.
Who is this person I’m looking at?
Remy is, also, smoking a cigarette. And not even an electronic cigarette. A real cigarette. From the olden times, you know. Like fire you stick in your face. Which she should not be doing. Not only because it’s not good for her, but, obviously, also because this school costs an arm and a leg and the soul of every firstborn cousin to get into, and the last thing anyone should be doing at this school is something that could get them kicked out. I mean, what kind of a person just stands there on the green smoking an old-fashioned cigarette like that? A person who deeply and truly doesn’t give a fuck. That’s who.
“Remy, you and I both know that is not allowed. Please put it out immediately or you know the consequences.”
Remy looks at Vampire Ursula, looks at me.
“Who’s the new girl?”
Vampire Ursula lifts her chin.
“Remy, I am not going to tell you again.”
Remy rolls her eyes and puts the cigarette out.
“Sorry, Miss Cantor. I’m quitting, I promise.”
Ursula pretends to be satisfied. Remy looks at me and smirks.
It’s weird how she kind of turn-disappears around the corner. It’s like a pivot, and, poof, she’s gone. It’s a hot move I decide to master.
Vampire Ursula reads my mind because everybody knows vampires are mind readers.
“I truly hope you will not allow yourself to be influenced by bad behavior while you are with us, Willa.”
I nod assuringly.
“Absolutely. Of course not. I would never.”
And I’m right. In that moment. I mean it. I mean it in every ion of every cell of my body.
I could laugh now, thinking of it. Thinking back on this moment. I would giggle into my shirtsleeve.
If it were funny.
Which it turns out, it was definitely not.
Because, you know, of what happened.
SIX
Did you know this place is haunted? Well, I mean, of course it is. You can’t build a place out of cold gray stone with gargoyles everywhere and dark wood floors and not expect a few ghosts to show up. Especially if you go back in time and build it two hundred years ago. It’s like a ghost’s natural habitat.
This place is modeled after Oxford. And that’s part of what makes it snooty. It’s funny how in America every time you model something after something in England, everybody thinks, oh, it’s the best thing ever. If it’s so great, then why are we all here anyway? Why did the fathers of our country take a look at that old place, say no thanks, and jump on a rickety, rat-filled boat with hardly any food and nary a chance at survival to get out of there in the first place?
Because it sucked over there, that’s why.
I know, I know. You’re not supposed to say that. Everybody is supposed to think it’s oh-so-sophisticated and we should be respectful and care about the queen and the monarchy and those guys in red suits and black furry hats standing still all day. But I’m not buying it. A queen? Seriously? In this day and age? You might as well just throw up your hands and say, “Let them eat cake!” Then you could punch all the poor people in the stomach on your way to your castle with those guys in funny hats standing at attention.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a communist or whatever. I just don’t see why anybody is supposed to care about a bunch of people because of who their parents were. Aren’t you supposed to care about what someone does? What they do with what they got? Like Maya Angelou, for instance. She wasn’t born in some red-velvet bed. She had a hard, horrible, terrible life, and then she just flew up out of the ashes and became a world-famous literary genius. Now, that’s what I call a queen. Not s
ome random zygote who hails from a long line of blue bloods mating with other blue bloods. Seriously. It’s like we all bought this swampland long ago and we just keep buying it. Hook, line, and sinker.
And, by the way, this place is not only buying that idea, this place is selling it. That’s why they copied the plans. This place is selling that idea from every plaque to every statue to every quad.
There’s a green. There’s a cloister. There’s a bunch of gothic buildings facing off, silent and judgy. There’s a Thiswicke dorm. Yup, Thiswicke. Say that with a lisp. It’s the haunted one. I googled it.
According to the legend there was some girl at the turn of the century taking a bath in kerosene in the middle of the night. Why was she taking a bath in kerosene? Oh, I’m so glad you asked. It’s because she thought she had the plague. Obviously. Everybody knows if you ever think you have the plague you’re supposed to take a bath in kerosene and, also, put a bunch of candles around said bath because, of course, you are taking the bath in the middle of the night. Taking a bath during the day is just not done. Especially if you have the plague.
Well, you can see what’s coming. Of course, one of the candles accidentally fell in the bath and then the girl accidentally caught on fire and then she accidentally ran the entirety of the fourth-floor hall, all the way to the end, where she accidentally jumped to her death out the window and now accidentally haunts the dorm in the middle of the night.
Nice place. Very comforting.
My room, of course, is on the fourth floor. Right next to the bathroom. Yes, the bathroom where the ill-fated kerosene soak took place.
Don’t worry. I am completely prepared for a haunting. Here is my plan: If I hear the bath in the middle of the night, the first order of business is to crawl under my sheets. That’s number one. Then, the next order of business is to pull the blanket up over my head. That’s two. Then, the third order of business is to find God.
Yes, I will pray. I haven’t decided yet to whom I will pray, but I figure I’ll just pray to them all and hope one of them comes to my aid. Even a broken clock is right twice a day.
But it’s not even dark yet, so don’t get ahead of yourself. We’re fine. All I have to do is just unpack my bags. Bag. I have to unpack my bag. Traveling light over here. Mostly because my arms aren’t that strong. Seriously, though. Am I the only one whose arms get tired washing my hair?
Don’t answer that. I know I’m lazy. God, what I would do to exercise! Wouldn’t it be great?! I really would love to do it sometime. And I will. Someday.
I’ll get a supersporty outfit and fancy all-terrain shoes for my twenty-mile runs through the woods, over puddles and creeks, through the forest, over the town, maybe even the track. No one will be able to stop me. It will be four in the morning, but I won’t care. It will just be me against the world. And against myself. I will be my fiercest competitor. You will see me in the morning light, see my breath coming out in bursts against the cold. I’ll follow the path along the river and my face will be stern, thinking about the crime I am solving, because in this fantasy I am suddenly that lady on Law & Order: Special Victims Unit. I am sassy and a fox and no one can mess with me. I have seen it all, but I still have hope for humanity. That’s why I do this job, and jog next to the levy at four in the morning. I’m a tough cookie. A cookie who jogs.
I really can’t wait.
But for now my arms get tired washing my hair.
So, baby steps.
It appears I have this whole room to myself. Maybe no one else wants to live up here in ghost city. Maybe the riffraff like me gets the last pick of the real estate around here.
That’s okay, maybe when I see the ghost, I can ask a few things about the afterlife. I have some follow-up questions from Bible school.
I wonder if the ghost will be able to sense my diabolical plan to hurl myself into the abyss. I wonder if the ghost will be happy to have the company. Maybe the ghost is lonely.
The wood floors here are dark brown, practically black. And there is elaborate molding involved. I know. They are not kidding around with this Oxford stuff, are they? It’s a corner room, so I have windows on two adjacent sides. That means next to each other. I know you probably know that, but in my school back home I had to explain to this cheerleader what “astute” meant. Astute! I can guarantee if you don’t know what “astute” means then you probably are not.
Down out the window, four stories down, I can see the green. And everybody walking back and forth to the campus center. It’s actually a pretty superfantastic vantage point. It’s like the catbird seat. Down below everybody is rushing around, books in hand, backpacked, plaid uniform miniskirts swishing, a few uniform blazers slung over shoulders. One girl’s wearing a carefree scarf. And socks. And glasses. Everyone rushing, rushing. You gotta figure at some point, one day, everyone will look back and wonder what the shnook they were ever rushing around for. Like, enough with the rushing already. We’re in high school. I’m pretty sure Vladimir Putin is not waiting on the latest dispatch from The Pembroke School quadrangle.
My dad got me a fitted sheet set with owls on it. They are knowing but also kind of eclectic. Also, he’s sending me a comforter, so I won’t “get a chill.” Word has it there are owls involved there, too. My dad. He thinks of everything. Although I bet he will also send me something really weird. Like a Tuscan-themed welcome mat with vines and trellises everywhere. Or something vaguely French. Or worse, he will try to be “cool” and send something with pink and black scribbles all over the place.
Something with Justin Bieber on it.
Until then, I will have to do with these knowing, alternative owls protecting me. I don’t even have one picture to hang. What would I hang? A poster with a cat balancing off a tree? Hang in there! Or what about a picture of the Eiffel Tower? Isn’t that what everybody does? It shows you’ve got class. Or how about that picture where that sailor guy is kissing that girl in Times Square? You know, the black-and-white one? If you look at that picture real close it kind of looks like she doesn’t even really want to be kissed. I dare you. Check it out. That girl is totally not into it.
Wait! There is one thing. I take my picture of Gabriel from the front pocket of my backpack. I place it on my desk and stare at his swirling deep-brown eyes, the ones I imagined myself falling into during some cheesy, slow-song sway in the crepe-paper-festooned gym.
Except now, all of a sudden, I don’t really get why I imagined it so much. I’m looking at this same picture I drooled over, and all of a sudden it hits me. Meh. Gabriel is actually kind of . . . average. Maybe he is just a Gabe after all. Maybe now that I am here he is too . . . provincial.
I crumple up the torn bit of paper and sink it into the little wastebasket in the corner.
As if on cue, a text from my dad.
Proud of U. Call if U need me. ♥.
I could call him and start blubbering all over the place, but that would just make him worry.
No. Be strong, Willa!
Class doesn’t start for two days so that means I have exactly forty-eight hours to sit here in my catbird seat and try to catch a glimpse of Remy. No, I’m not stalking her. I just want to see if she has any friends. And, if she does, how I could be one. Maybe.
But I’m not stalking her.
Please. Never.
SEVEN
Nobody seems to notice me the first day of class. Not in a bad way, not in a good way. Not in any way. It’s just like I’m invisible. That’s fine, too. I’d rather be invisible than humiliated. There seems to be no open aggression against me, and that’s a relief. Back in Iowa, there were days I would get tripped twice before first period. Twice.
Mostly, I just sit in the front row and look up at the teacher. I put on this listening face that makes it seem like I’m really interested and that she is the most fascinating person saying the most fascinating things. Sometimes that’s true, actually. But sometimes, not so much. It doesn’t matter. The listening face remains the same. Questioning
, quizzical, pondering, a rare nod of “I get it.” Trust me, it works. I’ve been a straight-A student since preschool. Day care, even. If there had been classes in the maternity ward, I would have graduated with honors. None of those other babies would ever have stood a chance.
Thus far, my teachers, with a few rare exceptions, have rewarded my engaged expressions, my onslaught of curious but not authority-defying questions, and my general most-inspiring-teacher-in-the-world classroom affirmations with straight As across the board.
That was always nonnegotiable. Everything else could just fall where it may with my mother except the grades. The grades had to be A-plus-plus. That was the only deal she made with my dad when she left him.
See, it helps if you sit in the front row and make the listening face. A slight tilt of the head but not too much. Just enough to imply contemplation. Stay in the front row so that no one can distract you. That’s important, too. Focus.
The classes are as follows: English Literature. Contemporary Lit. Calculus. Bio. American History. Art. And Music Theory. Both the art and music classes are kind of cool in that they combine actual learning with doing. Like you have to learn about pop art and then we make our own pop art. Or you have to learn about the jazz age and then a song or two. It’s kind of cool, honestly. Much better than anything we had back home. Back home it was more like, “Do this, don’t ask questions. Learn this date, spit it back at me!” But today we learned about Billie Holiday and this song about strange fruit but it doesn’t mean fruit at all because it’s about how they used to hang people down south just for being black, and that is one of those things that you don’t want to hear, or even know about, but you have to hear and have to know about, so you can make sure it never happens again. Or so that you can be ready with a rebuke when some dumb relative says something horrible about that time when “those people used to know their place.” Or at the very, very least, you can know better than to say the horrible thing yourself.
The Fall of Butterflies Page 3
