The Fall of Butterflies

by Andrea Portes

  I just want you to know. There’s marzipan in little shapes of fruit in all of the different little ethnic bowls hanging around. Like a strawberry, a minibanana, a minipear, and even a minipumpkin. The minipumpkin is not an actual fruit. That would be ridiculous. They are all pretending to be fruit but inside they are delicious marzipan. I make a mental note to eat them when I am hungry again. Which should be in about two days. Maybe I should take them with me, if we leave earlier than that, but hopefully we won’t leave—earlier or ever.

  I would like you to know that my plan has worked. Everything feels great. And I’m in love. With everything. I’m in love with the floors and the marzipan and the fireplace and the Chinese wallpaper and Milo striking matches and Remy rolling around next to me like a demented potato.

  Also, Local Natives is playing. So that, too, is making love out of nothing at all.

  Remy is looking at me. Now she smiles. She whispers into my ear, “Do you wanna know something funny?”

  Local Natives is whispering into my other ear, all about airplanes. They are repeating “I want you back back back.”

  Remy whispers again, “You’re the only person from that dumb school I ever brought here.”

  I look at her like she’s lost her marbles.

  She nods. “Yup.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Milo! Milo . . . answer this question. Seriously. Have I ever once brought anyone back here from school, from Pembroke?”

  Milo looks down at me from next to the mantel, through the mirror.

  “Nope.”

  And this is just getting weird. I don’t say the thing I want to say, which is, “Why me?” Like, seriously, why on earth, considering that everyone at that school, everyone is falling all over themselves to hang out with the one person who is considered the mostest of the most, the allest of the all . . . why does that worshipped person simply decide to reach over and choose me, ME? The biggest hick in the entire school and probably on the entire Eastern Seaboard?

  I don’t ask that question, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

  And Milo doesn’t seem to mind.

  Nobody seems to mind anything.

  Everyone is just acting like this is what is meant to be and there’s nothing weird about it at all. No sir.

  Everyone is just acting like I’m supposed to be here. And I am acting that way, too. Now. Of course I am. I’m not an idiot. I’m not gonna go around this ridiculously beautiful and elaborate but somehow ethereal place with my jaw dropped down, slurping all over the Persian rugs and the parquet floors.

  But I can’t help wondering what my dad would say. If he saw me. I guess he’d probably tell me to lay off the drugs. Actually, what am I talking about? He’d ground me. Definitely. He’d definitely ground me for life.

  But my dad is not here right now, my pretty.

  And I’m not in Iowa anymore.

  And wasn’t that the point of sending me here in the first place? To be with the right kind of people? To do the things they do?

  “I have an idea.”

  It’s not Remy, it’s Milo. Milo is sitting next to me, and I’m trying not to notice that you could cast him as the cutest person on earth right now.

  “Why don’t you stay there. Stay as still as you can . . . and tell me if you like this.”

  I look for Remy. No sign. Guess she’s in the enormous powder room with fancy soaps in the shape of seashells.

  But there I am, lying on the floor next to the fireplace, and there is Milo. And what he’s doing is, he’s touching my skin. Just on my arm. Nothing pervy. He’s just touching my skin. Trailing his fingers up my arm, and down my arm. And now my ankles. On the sides of my knees. On the sides of my thighs. And up again. To my arms.

  All very PG.

  Right?

  Except that’s not what it feels like.

  It doesn’t feel PG.

  It feels like someone is setting my skin on fire. And that someone is Milo.

  And this feels like a secret.

  THIRTY

  We don’t even look at each other on the train ride back to Pembroke. Remy and I. There’s nothing wrong, technically. Nothing you could point your finger at and say, “There! That’s it. That’s why I’m so depressed!” In fact, we were happy as can be, flying high, not twelve hours ago. We were on top of the world. And now? It’s like all that just turned inside out on itself and now our heads are killing us, our stomachs are turning, and we both look like we have two black eyes from lack of sleep. Poisoned. We are poisoned.

  And it was fun.

  Look, it was. I’m not gonna lie to you.

  But now, looking out the window of the train with my head pounding and this desperate feeling of certain catastrophe . . . ugh. Again. Here we are again. Not worth it. Seriously not worth it.

  “I think I’m fucking up.”

  “What?” Remy turns to look at me.

  “I just don’t think I should do this. I think I’m gonna regret it. I already do regret it in a way.”

  “What? You mean, like, ever? You’re never, ever gonna do it again?”

  “I don’t know. I mean, look at us.”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s like we’re a couple of scarecrows.”

  “Yeah.”

  It’s not exactly an agreement. Remy is not committing either way.

  “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We have that midterm in two days. We gotta get it together.”

  “Oh, I forgot about that.”

  “I’m serious, Remy. We shouldn’t mess that up.”

  I don’t say the real thing I’m thinking. Which is that I’m on academic scholarship and if I get kicked out, that’s it for me. The whole life is gone . . . never to return again.

  Just straight to the trailer park.

  Back to What Cheer.

  No more Remy.

  Do not pass go.

  That’s the difference. Remy can fuck around all she wants, but that glowy fireplace will always be waiting for her. Not me. I gotta fight for it.

  It is strange, wanting to fight for something. When was the last time I wanted to fight for anything?

  The last time I can remember actually fighting was at the roller-skating rink when I was ten. It’s a long story, okay? But let’s just say fighting on roller skates is no small feat. I would like to say I retained my dignity, but that would be a stretch.

  “What did you think of that crazy girl, anyway?”

  This is Remy changing the subject.

  “Which one?”

  “Um, the one at the club. With the gap tooth and the stiletto boots, who kept pushing Milo and saying, ‘WTF, WTF’?”

  I shrug.

  But maybe he tried touching her in the dark, too.

  And maybe she let him.

  And maybe she never heard from him again.

  I haven’t told Remy about the Milo incident. I don’t know why. I have this feeling that somehow he belongs to her. Even though over and over she says they’re just friends. Somehow he belongs to her. But if I’m honest, I don’t want him to.

  I want him to belong to me.

  “Oh, yeah. I dunno. Do you think he, like, dumped her or something?”

  “Mm. I don’t think so. Milo is kind of a bunny rabbit. Doesn’t sound like something he’d do . . .”

  She trails off, staring out the window. Then, she smiles at me, sneaky.

  “By the way . . . what did you think of Milo?”

  I’m not gonna tell her.

  “Well, he seems pretty cool. When he’s not puking in the gutter. And getting yelled at by supermodels.”

  And I don’t know why I said that. I’m just trying to keep him to me. To keep the possibility of him to me. Safe. Untainted.

  “Plus, I don’t think he likes me very much.”

  “Why not?”

  “I dunno. He’s kind of . . . quiet.”

  “Well, Milo is not the kind of guy to just jump on top of you after some cheesy line.”


  She’s got that right. He’s more the kind of guy to sidle up to you while you’re on Ecstasy and gently touch your arm for ten seconds.

  “Yeah, I guess.”

  “Well, he did imply that you were pretty.”

  “Imply?”

  “Yeah, like when we met. He implied that you were attractive—that Iowa comment? I’m too drained to remember it exactly.”

  “Well, you both kind of said the same thing. Do they teach you that line in day care or something?”

  “What line?”

  “That Iowa must be where all the attractive people are. If I’m from there or something.”

  She shrugs.

  “Well, maybe we both actually thought it, ever think of that?”

  I shrug. It’s like a shrugging contest over here.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what you’re used to back on the farm, but all the guys I know are totally weird and shy and incapable of trying any lines or making any hot moves or whatever.”

  “Really?” I give an involuntary shiver, thinking of Milo’s hand going slowly over my skin in the dark.

  “Um. Yeah. Totally hopeless. If they like you then usually they just ignore you. Or say mean things. I think that’s called flirting.”

  Okay, this is the last time I’m gonna ask this question. But I have to know.

  “Are you sure you guys aren’t in love or something? Like some unrequited thing? Because it sure seems that way. I mean—”

  “Tsh. No. No way. Milo’s not my type.”

  If that’s true, then why do I feel like I’m stealing her boyfriend?

  We smile weakly, spent and sick, heads pounding.

  “Next time we should drink more water, I think.”

  The train pulls into Pembroke station. Now everyone’s getting up, gathering their things, collecting, looking around.

  “Next time?” I ask.

  Remy looks at me. Caught.

  “I mean, next time if we decide to do it. That’s all.”

  We sidle out beside a lady with an orange-and-black umbrella. “Princeton Tigers” on the handle. I look at the lady. She’s about my mom’s age. Skinny with wispy auburn hair. She smiles politely at Remy and me.

  “Pembroke, I assume?”

  She talks in that way you only talk if you’re from here. It’s not snooty or anything like that. It’s just a tiny bit nasal, vaguely amused, and the mouth doesn’t move that much. Like everybody’s a ventriloquist.

  “Yes, guilty,” Remy replies, in kind.

  This is a language they all speak. A language that’s always clever, always in on it, and never trying too hard. A language of the unimpressed.

  But that’s not what I’m thinking about right now. What I’m thinking about, as we get off the train, into the overcast late-afternoon sky, is Remy and Milo and next time.

  And as we walk through the crowd and off the platform, I swear, that next time is following us down the stairs, down the sidewalk, and all the way back to Pembroke.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Halfway across the green to the library there’s an art class set up, painting. All boys. A field trip from Witherspoon. All facing the same direction. The clock tower and the tree-lined path, the sunset in the distance. A serene but majestic vista. Walking past them, you can’t help but notice their work. That guy’s good. Um, that’s average. That’s pretty dark. Twenty different interpretations of the same omniscient clock tower.

  But then there’s this guy.

  This joker.

  Facing the complete opposite way.

  And that is Zeb.

  There he sits, easel set facing 180 degrees in the other direction. Toward the cafe. There’s a loading dock there and two guys, smoking. Working-class guys in white aprons, wrapped around sage-green pants. One white, ruddy-faced. The other black, taller. They’re laughing about something. A quick laugh. Maybe at the boss. Maybe at us. Maybe they spat in someone’s food. Some jerk.

  Zeb is painting them.

  I can’t help it. Curious.

  “What do you think they’re laughing at?”

  “Maybe they’re laughing at my painting.”

  He continues, looking over, dabbling the brush, looking over.

  “I like your painting. It’s bold.”

  “Thanks, Iowa.”

  “You remembered. Great.”

  “What, you think I could forget?”

  He looks up and raises an eyebrow. Such mischief.

  “Has anybody ever told you that you have an impish flair?”

  “Has anybody ever told you that you should take this class with me?”

  “Are you crazy? Painting is not allowed on my transcript.”

  “Good Lord! Heavens, no! What a terrible idea! Where are you applying that painting would be so frowned upon?”

  “If you ask my mother, it’s Princeton or death.”

  “Ugh. Princeton is death. You don’t wanna go there.”

  “Really? Why not?”

  “Total squaresville. Seriously, I think they hand out, like, light-blue oxfords and gray pants right when you get there. Blech. You’d hate it there.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because that’s a school for, like, future bankers. And I don’t want to presume, but that doesn’t strike me as you.”

  “Well, where do you wanna go? Or are you just gonna surf off somewhere into the night with yacht rock playing in the background?”

  “I know exactly where I wanna go. USC, documentary filmmaking. I want to change the world! Like Blackfish.”

  The teacher takes note of me and starts to come over, protective.

  “You better go. You don’t wanna get busted. It won’t look good on your transcript.”

  I look back at the two workers, heading in. One of them flicks his cigarette while the other gets the door. Break’s over.

  I turn to go.

  “Hey, Willa,” Zeb calls. “If you get into Princeton, I’ll come and make a documentary about how boring Princeton is.”

  He smiles.

  I can’t help but smile back.

  “Funny, Zeb. Very amusing.”

  And there’s something in my step here. A kind of freedom. There’s something to the way Zeb approaches the grass and the minutes of the day. Something playful and never scared.

  And I wonder what you have to do to get like that.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Something totally weird happened with the play, and now it’s not Grease anymore.

  I guess Teal Pantsuit had a nervous breakdown because somebody ate the rest of her Southwestern-Style Enchilada Lean Cuisine in the faculty fridge and she just kind of went ballistic and is taking time off to “refocus,” which I think means they almost shit-canned her but felt sorry for her. That’s the rumor, anyway. Whatever the case, now she’s gone for an undetermined amount of time, so they are bringing in an entirely new director with an entirely new vision. A vision involving Shakespeare. I, personally, would quit the whole thing right now, but somehow the fact that we’re already cast means we are by default involved.

  Ugh. Shakespeare.

  This is gonna be a real snore.

  And if I have to wear tights, I’m totally quitting.

  The play they have chosen is a rather obscure thing called Hamlet.

  If you like to watch reruns from the ’70s, you may remember it from the episode of Gilligan’s Island where they decide to make Hamlet into a musical.

  But this is not that version. And there’s something else, too. The drama instructor, Mrs. Jacobsen, has been replaced with . . . the Witherspoon English teacher.

  Who is—there is no way to sugarcoat this—hot.

  Yup. No Frenchy and singing by the bleachers. Now we are straight into medieval tragedy avec hot English teacher.

  There are a few problems, and the main one is we can’t all play Ophelia. There are only so many enviable roles for a young lass. The crazy girl who kills herself over the prince being the tippy top.

  So, basica
lly, it’s obvious we will all be spear carriers.

  Said English teacher is basically a little paler than white bread, with hair the color of ink. Jet-black ink. Set on bold. His hair is set on bold. And underlined.

  He’s sophisticated. He’s elegant. He’s unexpected. He is not blowing his own horn, but there’s something to be blown. Ahem.

  If you think Remy is not noticing, that is because it’s hard to tell what she’s doing because she’s hiding behind me, using me as a human shield, if you will. Why, you ask? Why on earth would Remy need to use me as a human shield? Well, quite simply, what is happening is that her tongue is basically exiting her mouth and slurping its way to the ground with love for this here English teacher before us.

  That’s right. She is hiding from her tongue.

  “What the fuck is that?”

  She whispers it into my ear, somehow able to speak.

  “That . . . is the director for our new production of our Shakespeare play.”

  “Is he a gift from God?”

  “I think he might be a gift from the devil, actually. Considering that he’s our teacher.”

  “I think he is my husband.”

  I laugh. “What’re you talking about? It rhymes with something. And that something is grape. Matchutory grape.”

  Remy is holding me by the shoulders and giggling into my ear like a schoolgirl.

  “What should we call him?”

  “Um. I think . . . Humbert Humbert.”

  “Humbert Whatbert?”

  “Humbert Humbert. The guy from Lolita.”

  “And that makes me Lolita?”

  “Bingo.”

  “Perfect. I love a starring role.”

  THIRTY-THREE

  I am left to ponder the incredible force of nature that is Remy Taft.

  She was cast as Marty in Grease by, basically, breathing.

  Now she’s been encouraged by our new director, the one and only Mr. Humbert, to audition for the starring (female) role in Hamlet. Old Bert referred to her natural presence when he made the suggestion.

  I nearly gagged. “How does he know they’re natural?” I joked. But Remy wasn’t laughing. She seemed to soak up Humbert’s particular brand of attention like a sponge. I could see it actually puffing her up, making her . . . more.