TWENTY-FOUR
Hotchkiss Hall is something much grander than it would be in a movie. It’s this enormous, cavernous space with dark wood molding and giant iron chandeliers hanging down from the rafters. Said rafters are hand-painted in a colorful style somewhere between Game of Thrones and Aladdin. On each wall are oil paintings of various extremely respectable dead white people. There is an enormous stone fireplace in the middle of the hall. This fireplace looks like it could eat a normal fireplace. Tonight, the fire is lit. So if you wanted to flambé a small football team, that would be the place.
Remy and I are not matching. Never. That would be gauche! But we are complementary, that’s for sure. It’s like we’re in the same photo shoot. For Valentino. Yes, folks. I am wearing a Valentino dress for the first time in my life, and I almost feel like I should cash it in for tuition.
Shall I describe it to you? I know you are dying to see it. It’s a gray tulle dress with the most delicate wool flowers hand-sewn in no pattern whatsoever. They start at the bottom and then spread out as you go up the dress, like the dress is emerging from the woods, until there’s nothing but gray chiffon and fabulousness. It’s a diaphanous thing, and I feel a little bit like a wood sprite swooping around everywhere. And then there’s Remy’s dress. Which is hilarious. It’s a navy blue tulle dress with a giant red heart over Remy’s heart and what look to be hearts and rocket ships embroidered on the skirt of the dress. I know. It sounds insane. And it is insane. I don’t know who in their right mind designed this dress and who for. Well, actually, I do. They designed it for Remy. Only Remy could get away with this dress. But, boy, does she ever.
To get into this giant gala event, we have to walk up the marble steps, into the grand room. And when we walk up the steps into the grand room, it is like a record scratch. I’m not kidding. You could hear a mouse holding a pin and then dropping that pin.
Frankly, I’m a bit embarrassed by all of this, but Remy just takes it in stride and glides into the room with the greatest of ease. I guess she is used to stopping rooms. Of course she is. But this is my first room-stopping. I have never stopped a room before. I have never even stalled a room.
There are plenty of Witherspoon boys around, in various interpretations of black tie. My favorite one is the guy next to the DJ, who is wearing a skinny black tux, skinny tie, with a mop of blond surfer hair and checkered Chuck Taylor high-tops.
“Who’s that?”
“Who?”
“The cool guy with surfer hair?”
“Oh, that’s Zeb. He’s from LA. Of course.”
“People in LA name their kids Zeb?”
“Um, yeah. They also avoid gluten like the plague but drink a drink called Kombucha that looks like someone jizzed in it.”
“Gross.”
“He’s cool, though . . . wanna meet him?”
“Maybe later . . . Do you see Milo?”
Remy is distracted, looking at something on her phone.
“Wait, I’ll be right back.”
Aaaaaand she’s gone again. Great. If she leaves for two days I’m gonna scream.
But the DJ is playing Yeah Yeah Yeahs and I notice Zeb is spiking the punch. And he notices I notice he’s spiking the punch.
“Shh.” He lifts up his finger to his mouth and smiles.
I smile back. He’s kind of a cute guy. There’s something light there.
“I’m improving the recipe. It’s an ancient one handed down from my ancestors.”
“Really? Is your ancestor Jack Daniels?”
“He’s my father, actually. No, wait, that’s Darth Vader.”
We both stare at each other, a bit nervous.
“Okay, that joke didn’t really work.”
“I sort of liked it.”
“I like your dress. You look kind of like a wood fairy.”
“I feel kind of like a wood fairy.”
“I don’t really feel like a wood fairy.”
“No. You look more like an ad for . . . people who wear tuxes and . . . ride skateboards.”
“That’s a pretty small Venn diagram overlap.”
I like this guy. This Zeb. I like the fact that he seems to hail from different climes. Breezy ones. There’s something gentle about him. I bet he’s a Buddhist. Isn’t everybody from California a Buddhist?
But there is no more time to contemplate this Zeb, because Remy has come up behind me, captured my arm, and whisked me away toward the cloisters. I look back over my shoulder. “Bye, Zeb.”
“Wait, how did you know my name?”
“She’s stalking you,” Remy chimes in.
#facepalm
Thanks, Remy.
But now we are in the cloisters and all is dark. There’s a sarcophagus on the other side of the vault, and it’s just plain creepy. In the middle is a fountain, coming out of a shallow well. About six feet down. The water burbles over into the fountain and the music can barely be heard from inside the hall, although you can see the light flickering inside through the giant stained-glass windows.
“Remy, I kind of liked that guy.”
“Zeb’s supercool. You should like him. Just don’t fall for him, ’cause he’s got this ridiculously beautiful supermodel girlfriend he’s totally in love with. His dad is some famous director, so he’s kind of been cool all his life. Like he was raised on sets with everybody fawning over him all the time.”
“Ah, bummer . . . Well, now this party just got boring again.”
“No, no, this party hasn’t quite started, my dearest Iowa.”
“Come again?”
“So, remember how you were kind of wondering where I went sometimes?”
“Um. Kind of. By which I mean, of course.”
“So . . . one thing that I sometimes have been doing is something that you might be interested in, but I’m scared to mention it because I don’t want to freak you out.”
“Okaaay.”
“Can I tell you? Promise not to be mad?”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Okay, here.”
And she places something in my hand. Something little and pink and round with a heart on it.
“You’ve been collecting Valentines?”
“No, no. Much better. Although I guess you could say it’s a Valentine, because it fills you with love.”
“I’m confused.”
“So, okay, this is Ecstasy. Also known as MDMA. And it makes you feel like you’re in love. With everything.”
“This is what you’ve been doing.”
“Doing and recovering. There’s definitely a recovery period.”
It’s getting cold out, and I’m beyond uncomfortable in every way. I shudder.
“Look, you don’t have to. You don’t. I just thought it might be fun. And maybe thrilling.”
I’m frowning down at this small pink thing in my hand. “I don’t know . . .”
“Well, maybe just try it. Just to say you did it or whatever. The world’s not gonna end. And if it does . . . wouldn’t you like to be wearing that dress?”
She smiles and nudges me.
I can’t help it. I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t help it. There it is—curiosity.
“Okay. Ready?”
“Okay. Ready.”
“Stick out your tongue. I’ll do it at the same time.”
We both stick out our tongues, like little kids at the doctor. She places one pink pill precisely on each of our tongues. Gulp. We wash it down with some bottled water I hadn’t even noticed before. I guess her diabolical plan was calculated.
“And away we go . . .” She smiles, mischievous.
I don’t know where this “away” is.
I don’t know if I’m an idiot.
Ask me in twelve hours. I’ll know then.
TWENTY-FIVE
Welp, the Fall Ball is dramatically improved by the introduction of drugs. What before was a boring, contrived excuse for playing dress-up is now
a mad, thrilling romp where everyone is adorable and the walls are in love with the ceiling. If you’re wondering where I am right now, I’m in the middle of the dance floor, and Remy is doing what can only be described as an interpretive dance next to me, around me, a little bit away from me, and then around me again.
I’ve noticed that Zeb has left the party. No Zeb, no Milo. I could be sad about that if I weren’t flying three feet above the ground and jumping everywhere. There’s nothing that could happen that would be wrong right now. No wrong song to dance to, no wrong thing to say, no wrong person to be. Everything is as it should be, and everything is the best thing ever.
I’ve never been in love before. This is the first time I’m in love. I’m in love with this. I’m in love with the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the light off the rafters, the hearts and rockets on Remy’s dress, myself, Remy, the DJ, everyone in here and everyone who ever lived. This is what it’s like.
I have the thought, it’s a quick thought, that maybe this is the way it’s supposed to be. Like maybe this is the way you’re supposed to live your life. In love. In love with the sky and the trees and each day you’re given. Maybe that’s how you’re supposed to do it.
Remy is grabbing me and pulling me outside, and when the brisk air hits us, that, too, is like the breeze has decided to fan us in just the right way, to lift us off the ground and into the night sky.
“Oh my God. Look.”
I look to where Remy is pointing and see nothing. There’s a cobblestone path, the side of the library, and a golf cart.
“What am I looking at? What’s happening right now? What is my name?”
“Your name is Willa and that’s a golf cart.”
“Okaaaay.”
“And we are going to steal it.”
“Um.”
“Yes. Trust me. It will be fun.”
I wonder how many times in the history of mankind the words “trust me” have been used before something terrible happened. I’m guessing you can round it off to about a million.
“I think we could probably get in big trouble for . . .”
But Remy has not waited for my counsel on this matter. That’s because Remy is too busy running to the golf cart, cackling like a crazy person, and jumping on the golf cart.
“Oh my God, the keys are still in it.”
“Maybe someone just left it for like two seconds and then they’re gonna come back and then they’re gonna be mad and then they’re gonna put us in jail.”
Again, Remy has not waited for me to weigh in on the matter. Instead, she has started up the golf cart, laughed diabolically, and driven up next to me.
“Remy, oh my God, you’re insane. I think you might have lost your mind.”
“Get in.”
“Maybe we should contemplate the pros and cons.”
“Willa, as your best friend and friend for life, I hereby decree that you must enter this golf cart.”
“Okay, okay, I suppose if you decree.”
And with that, I become an accessory to the crime.
We fly down the cobblestone path and wind around campus and over the hill until we are racing down the perimeter of the campus, all the way down down down past Denbigh, past Radnor, past the campus center, past the science center, and all the way to the very end, where there is a gymnasium next to the duck pond.
There’s an almost-full moon tonight and I could swear to God the man in the moon is laughing at us, or with us, not yet determined.
It’s impossible not to love the wind and the stars and the madness of flying through the campus on an illegal golf cart, our dresses billowing behind us.
Except we are going too fast.
“Remy, I think we’re going too fast!” I’m yelling over the sound of the motor.
“What?”
She’s yelling, too.
“I think we’re going too fast!”
“I know!”
“What do you mean you know? You mean you know and it’s okay or you know and there’s nothing you can do about it?”
“I mean I know and there’s nothing I can do about it!”
“What?!”
“It’s not braking!”
“What?! Jesus?!”
And now we are going fast fast fast, way too fast, down the path leading to the gymnasium and the duck pond.
“Turn around! If we go uphill it will slow us down!”
“No, we’ll fly out!”
But Remy does try to turn it, and it does slow us down, just enough, just enough so the golf cart runs into the embankment of the duck pond and, yes, into the duck pond with a last final splash.
And now we, too, are in that duck pond.
Remy and I, in our absurdly expensive dresses, have just crashed a golf cart into a duck pond.
And now we just start laughing.
I know. I know we should get up and run away and check that we are not dead or that anything is broken. That is what anyone normal would do. But that’s not what’s happening right now. No, no, instead, Remy and I are sitting waist-deep in the water and laughing uncontrollably.
This goes on for about five minutes.
You have to admit, it’s kind of shocking no one has found us. I guess taking the route around the back of the campus was a stroke of brilliance.
“We are in so much trouble. Oh my God.”
“No, we’re not! Come on!”
And now Remy is dragging me by the arm, out of the half-sunken golf cart and up the grass.
“Let’s stay off the path so no one sees us.”
“Remy, we can’t just leave that there. We have to tell someone . . .”
“Oh, no, we won’t. I’ll be fine, but you’ll get kicked out.”
And that’s true. Oh God, I’m an idiot.
“Don’t worry. This is the plan. We’ll just sneak back to Denbigh. No one will see us. Everyone’s at the Fall Ball—look around, it’s like deserted.”
“Okay, okay . . . but, um . . . what about the cart?”
“What about it?”
“Well, we broke it.”
“We didn’t break it; it was broken before. The brakes didn’t work. It almost killed us.”
“Oh my God. It almost killed us because we stole it and we weren’t supposed to. I think that was like karma or whatever.”
“Maybe. But it doesn’t matter. I’ll pay for it, okay? I’ll make my dad get them, like, two new golf carts. That way it’s, like, a win for them.”
“Really?”
“Sure. And besides, that was the best thing ever. You have to admit.”
“I do have to admit.” I pause. “I feel like we’re in that movie with Audrey Hepburn. The one in Rome.”
“Europe! We should go to Europe! Willa, will you go to Europe with me? Next summer. I was gonna go, but I couldn’t think of anyone I wanted to go with. We can fly into Paris. We have a place there. In the sixteenth. It’s kind of bougie, but it’s nice. I would’ve preferred Le Marais, but no one ever listens to me.”
“Wait. Are you serious?”
“Yes! It would be so fun!”
And now my mind is racing, thinking of all the things we could do and see and all the trouble we could get into in Paris.
“By the way, I’m freezing.” Remy gestures to her soaked dress.
“Me, too. Do you think our frocks will survive this debacle?”
“Sure. It’s called dry cleaning.”
We walk along, the lights of Denbigh gleaming over the hill.
Remy is just shaking her head and smiling. “I can’t believe we crashed a golf cart.”
“Into a duck pond.”
And now Remy quacks. And I quack, too. And now she attacks me in quacking-duck form. And I pretend run away from the duck attack. And we quack and laugh like that all the way back. And even though we’re freezing and even though we just committed a small crime and even though I don’t do drugs but I just did drugs, this, so far, is the best night of my life.
An
d now we’re going to Paris.
PART II
TWENTY-SIX
You should never do drugs and go to class. You should never do drugs and go to class the next day. You should never do drugs and go to class the next day after that. Maybe you should just never do drugs. How about that?
It’s two days after the Fall Ball, and I am still in a state of wraith-hood, a state of overwhelming angst and depression. Remy calls it “recovery.”
There is no happiness here. No happiness allowed. It’s like all the happy got sent out in one shot and now it’s gone. And now there’s just me. Sad me. Unable-to-be-happy me. Annihilated me.
Remy told me it would be like this. She wanted to prepare me for it. But sitting here, in Ms. Ingall’s Lit class, all I can think is, I’m an idiot.
It’s the overpowering sense of doom that really is freaking me out. That’s the kicker. It’s truly difficult to get through the everyday comings and goings of life with an overpowering sense of doom. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.
Not that I have any enemies. What am I, some kind of international superspy?
“Remy, I can’t take this,” I whisper.
“It’s just the crash; it’s almost over. I promise.”
Maybe she’s right. Maybe it is just the crash and then everything will be fine again. Just fine enough so that we’ll do it again.
See, that’s what I know will happen. Of course it will.
But knowing and doing something about it are two different things.
And I know, looking at Remy, who is also in her own particular state of wraith recovery, that I will do nothing about it.
Absolutely nothing.
And maybe it’s not so bad after all. Maybe it’s just the price of admission for being friends with someone like Remy. Maybe it’s just the price for the ride.
Ms. Ingall steals a long glance over at me, then at Remy, and I find myself convinced she can read my mind. She knows I’m guilty. She knows I’m blowing it. And I’m not proud of it.
Oh God. Maybe I’ll get kicked out before midterms.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I heard a rumor that there’s a “New” York. The idea is . . . it’s this place with all these tall buildings that everybody is supposed to care about and all the banking happens there and tons of theater and you have to be rich even just to look at it. It’s a place that used to be dangerous but now everybody says is a shopping mall and it’s Disney-ified and everybody wishes it were dangerous again. Oh, and it’s an island. Called Manhattan. That is where the rich people grow.
The Fall of Butterflies Page 9
