The Fall of Butterflies

by Andrea Portes

  I guess she thinks she needs sustenance for her pants-free date with Mr. Old.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Watching Remy make a fool of herself over Humbert Humbert is a little cringe-inducing. She is focused. She is swooning. She pays attention. She bats her fucking eyelashes, for God’s sake.

  And I would definitely think this was a total waste of time, breath, energy, and pants-optional outfits, but I do declare, by rehearsal week four . . . I think she is making progress.

  Here is the evidence:

  Remy is Ophelia. (She got the part, naturally.) She is practicing this speech where she realizes that Hamlet has lost his marbles and she is bummed out to see such a great guy gone ape shit. “Oh, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown.”

  (That’s “overthrown,” bdubs.)

  (“Bdubs” means “BTW,” bdubs.)

  So, Remy is over there in another all-legs getup, getting all teary-eyed about bat-shit Hamlet, and I happen to take a glance at Humbert Humbert.

  Well, let me tell you. The guy is in a state.

  Depending on how you look at it, it’s either a state of forlorn longing or a look like a toddler just got his cookie taken away or the way a puppy looks at a “No Dogs Allowed” sign in an old-fashioned cartoon. Whatever it is, there is want there. Not even want. Need.

  Humbert Humbert is starting to lose it. Just the sight of him induces a kind of half gag I try to conceal.

  Remy finishes her (actually kind of great) monologue and everyone sits there, spellbound. Transfixed. Befuddled. Forlorn.

  It is as if, in this one moment, all of us plebeians just lose all the studying, and midterms, and papers, and failed diet plans, and we just sit there, for one moment, together in Ophelia’s lost love, taking in the madness of her secret boyfriend prince.

  I can’t help but wonder if Remy’s parents would think it was beneath her now. If they saw this. What she can do. If they saw what she just did to this room.

  And Remy looks at me. And I nod toward Humbert Humbert.

  There he is. In all his sage, skinny glory. Riveted.

  Oh, Remy!

  You did it! You really, truly did it. You hooked the bait. Your reeled him in. You got him.

  Truly remarkable.

  I really never thought it would happen.

  Never ever.

  And this is where I wonder, why am I worried about her? I mean, for Christ’s sake, she clearly has the world on a string. She’s getting the ungettable teacher, and she’s moving this entire auditorium to tears!

  I should be worried about me.

  Well, obviously, nothing bad can come of this. Right? I mean . . . it’s just an underage girl in love with an English teacher at a school where her dad is on the board.

  Please check if you will have chicken or fish at the wedding.

  THIRTY-SIX

  As you well know, I don’t care about Milo at all. There are some people, not me of course, who would obviously be in love with him, but I would never be such a stupidface because I am truly above that sort of thing.

  Even if he were the last guy on earth, I would tell him that we are just supposed to be friends, and that is that.

  So, don’t even think that just because he showed up at my dorm I even care.

  Here’s how it goes with Milo. Everyone on earth grunts and sweats under a weary life, and he just kind of sails through, not caring, not really trying, and knowing that it will all work out in the end. And why wouldn’t it? He will someday, after he’s been out and about in the world, be placed lovingly and gently into a position of some repute, nothing too crazy, as there will be enough of a symbolic upward movement for all those involved to feel satisfied. He will be a junior junior something. And then a junior something. And then a something.

  From what I can tell, he doesn’t even really have to show up at Witherspoon Prep. I mean, he does. He shows up as much as he has to. Which is as little as possible. But just enough. Just like Remy. That’s all he will ever have to do. Just enough.

  I heard a rumor he went to Bio class once. Once. And he passed.

  And that’s all very well and good. I actually like Milo. Platonically, of course. But it does seem a bit unfair to all those other poor schmucks out there who kind of just toil and toil away, trying to get ahead. I mean, it does kinda seem unfair that all the moves are made before you are born. And then it’s just settled.

  I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking, “No, no, no, you’re wrong, what about the Great American Dream?” And I’ve heard of it. But here’s the thing. I keep hearing about it. I hear about it all the time. But I ain’t seeing it. Back in Iowa it’d be like a guy would lose his job, and that was that. It’s like all the farms and all the factories and all the fisheries and all the widgets and all the gears in this great engine got shipped out to China or Bangladesh or Timbuktu and now the American Dream is more of an export.

  I’d love to be proven wrong, though. Maybe you can prove it to me.

  But, honestly, Milo isn’t a mean guy, or a greedy one, or a jerk. He’s humble and shrugging and sort of doesn’t say anything. Half the time his shoulders are curved in on themselves. Apologizing. What is he apologizing for? Maybe for having it so easy, I guess.

  The fact that he’s standing outside my dorm room is shocking, but I am not about to fall all over myself for him. No sir.

  And I am definitely not thinking about that part where he touched me in the dark, no talking. Nope. Not doing that at all.

  “Um . . . hi?”

  “Hi.” He looks embarrassed. Caught.

  “Um . . . Are you looking for Remy?”

  Of course that’s why he’s here. He’s probably extremely disappointed.

  PS: If he’s looking for Remy, good luck with that. I haven’t seen her for three days and I’m a little annoyed—again. No texts. No notes. No messages. Nothing on the interbot. No phone calls. Nothing. Zero. Zip. I’d say I was worried, but there’s really no need to ever worry about Remy, is there? It’s like if the world were turned upside down and we all ended up living in the postapocalyptic future-scape, Remy would show up on the back of some bad boy’s motorcycle and wink, before riding off into the blazing horizon. The ragamuffin bands of dirt-faced children in makeshift postworld leather outfits would run out behind them, cheering them off into their next death race for gasoline. And then they’d win.

  “Willa?”

  “Oh, sorry, I was just thinking about the gas economy in the postapocalyptic future-scape.”

  He looks at me, stone-faced. Crap. Big mouth strikes again. What is wrong with me?

  “Well, how could you not think about it?” he asks. “Clearly, there’s going to be trouble.”

  Wait. Is he . . . playing along?

  “Yes, I feel my future will be in fashioning deconstructed leather clothing. Very patchy.”

  “Uh-huh. And where do you think you will find this leather?”

  “I will make it. Out of roadkill. Skinned roadkill. Squirrels, mostly.”

  “Did they teach you how to skin squirrels in Iowa?”

  “No, just outsiders. City slickers. Anyone who hasn’t taken the oath.”

  Milo smiles. This is like a moment where there should be sparkles everywhere around us. And little butterflies.

  Singing, glittering butterflies.

  “So, I guess I could tell Remy you came by or something. I haven’t seen her for three days, actually. She’s probably in Bali or somewhere superspectacular. On a whim.”

  “Yes, Remy is prone to whimsy.”

  “Would you say she’s whimsical?”

  “Yes, I would say so. But only off the record. Are you recording this?” His eyes twinkle—actually twinkle—with mischief. My knees nearly buckle. God, I’m a nerd.

  Am I recording this, Milo Hesse? Oh, how I wish I were! I would record this and play it over and over again when I’m 103 years old sitting on my levitating easy chair eating Jell-O, staring at the projected wall of memories of the good ol
d days, before the robot takeover.

  “So, I’ll tell her you dropped by . . . ?”

  “Um, actually . . .”

  This is awkward. We are both just standing there. Each of us with our own personal ellipsis.

  “Um, Willa . . . ?”

  The way he says my name. It’s purposeful, yes. But there’s something else to it. It’s kind, like he’s stroking my name on the cheek.

  “I guess, um . . . well, I’m here to see you, actually.”

  “Wait? What? Why?”

  Okay, that came out wrong.

  “Um . . . because I thought it might be sorta fun or cool or something, but if it’s not a good time, I totally get it, and I will go away swiftly. With ease. And pizazz.”

  “How will the pizazz be involved?”

  “Perhaps a little soft shoe.”

  “Is a soft-shoe tap, or is it a different thing?”

  “I don’t know. I only took one kind of dance.”

  “What kind?”

  “African.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. I can do a helluva jumping dance. It’s the coming-of-age for warriors. I basically jump the warrior spirit into them.”

  “I’m gonna have to see that.”

  “You’re gonna have to ply me with a lot of alcohol before you see that.”

  “I’m gonna have to ply you with alcohol to see that and then record it and put in on YouTube and blackmail you under threat of your family disowning you.”

  “My family would be proud. Especially my mom. She would think it was very PC.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. The only thing she would like more than that is if, at the end of the dance, I came out of the closet.”

  “Do you think there’s any possibility of that occurring?”

  Milo has an answer to that. He has an answer that involves him leaning in, before I know it, and kissing me until my feet are one foot off the ground, except they’re not off the ground, I’m not exactly floating technically. It’s more like I’m levitating. In my mind. With Milo’s mouth on mine and his hands, both hands, on the sides of my ears, like he’s clutching me to him, like he’s been waiting to do this all along, dying to.

  And then he stops and we just look at each other.

  And he’s flushed.

  And I’m flushed.

  This is the moment I should say something clever, but my mind seems to be wandering up, up, up, into Milo’s deep-green eyes somewhere, spinning instead of brilliantly constructing witticisms.

  “And now you are coming out of your room with me.”

  “And now I am studying.”

  “Nope. Me.”

  “Studying.”

  We are both trying to act like what just happened was normal.

  “Okay, I’ll make you a deal. I will allow you to study now, as you are sure to be a genius lady scientist one day who will solve global warming . . . if, and only if, you promise to frolic with me on Saturday.”

  “Possible.”

  “A certainty?”

  “Potentially.”

  “Inevitable.”

  But I know I am going with him. How could I not? Not after that kiss. Not after that magical conversation with butterflies singing everywhere. I’m not even sure if my feet are touching the ground yet. I think I might have just turned into a hummingbird and flown into a rainbow possibly. And then that rainbow turns into a unicorn.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Ms. Ingall wanted me to meet her here. At the faculty lounge. There’s a restaurant for afternoon tea, whatever that is, with white chairs and white wainscoting and the sun coming in from three sides. Everywhere there are vines, clinging to white trellises through the window, trying to get in. Before the cold. Before the winter.

  Ms. Ingall is squinting in the bright, sunny room. I don’t get the feeling she’s used to this much sunlight.

  “Thanks for inviting me here, Ms. Ingall.”

  “Well, you’re very welcome. Do you like tea, Willa?”

  “Um . . . sure.”

  “You don’t drink tea, do you?”

  “Not really.”

  “They actually do make a respectable iced latte here, if that’s more to your liking.”

  The waiter comes, and before I know it there are cucumber sandwiches all over the place. Who would have ever thought to put a cucumber in a sandwich? It’s a revelation.

  “Tell me, Willa. Do you have friends back home? Back in Iowa?”

  “Yeah. I mean, I did.”

  “And do you miss them?”

  “I try not to think about it, honestly. It’ll just make me sad.”

  “I see.”

  The waiter brushes past.

  “Did you think about what we spoke about, Willa?”

  “Um. Sort of.”

  “Any thoughts . . . ?”

  “Well, my mom sort of . . . she sort of has, like, this plan for me. She kind of just wants to just take the reins, you know? Leave it to her kind of thing.”

  “Your mother. The economist.”

  I nod. “Well, you know, as you can imagine, she’s kinda got it all figured out.”

  Ms. Ingall looks at me. The waiter pours her tea into a little teacup with pink roses on the handle.

  “And you, Willa?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you have it all figured out?”

  The teacups are so dainty here, you almost feel like you could break them just by looking at them. And Ms. Ingall. She’s dainty, too. But I don’t get the feeling you could ever break her.

  “I don’t really have anything figured out, Ms. Ingall, to be honest with you.”

  “That’s okay, Willa. That’s part of the adventure.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, you have to find your way. But . . . it’s for you to find, Willa. No one else can find it for you.”

  The waiter comes by with a three-tiered platter; each tier has minicakes, some pink, some cream, some yellow. There are even some chocolate cream puffs, which I will rendezvous with soon.

  “But why does anyone have to find anything? I mean, why can’t you just . . . give up?”

  I say it before I know I’m saying it.

  Ms. Ingall stops for a minute. Puts her tea down.

  “Is that what you feel like, Willa? Do you feel like giving up?”

  And I don’t know what’s happening to my face. Suddenly it’s lit up, behind my skin, blazing.

  “Sometimes.”

  Saying this. Somehow, saying this makes it all come barreling down the track. And my eyes are trying to cry. Trying so hard to give in. But I’m not letting them. I am not going to cry over cucumber sandwiches.

  Ms. Ingall weighs the situation. The waiter comes over, but she waves him off. Not now. Not now, when my student is having a meltdown.

  “Is there a lot of pressure on you, Willa? To be . . . perfect?”

  It sounds like such a dumb thing. It sounds like such a dumb, easy thing.

  “Kind of.”

  I’m starting to put the tears back now.

  “Willa, you don’t have to be perfect. Do you believe me? You don’t. You just have to be Willa.”

  And I could gobble up this whole tearoom right now, the pink minicakes and the yellow minicakes and the chocolate cream puffs. I could gobble up this room and these trellises and Ms. Ingall, too. Just for having given me, once, just once . . . a reprieve. A relief from myself. A vacation. A respite from “should.”

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  I bet you thought that Remy was up to no good. Well, you’re right. She is so up to no good. She’s, basically, in the final last possible seconds before a car crash that seems at this point inevitable. But somehow, even as she’s careening wildly forward into the abyss, there still seems to be hope, some hope, that maybe, just maybe, she can still steer clear of the explosion.

  As far as I can tell, this is a two-pronged problem.

  I will give you the first prong:

  Humbert.
>
  “Willa, you’ll never guess! I mean, it’s crazy.”

  “What’s crazy?”

  “Humbert Humbert and me.”

  It’s been five days since I’ve seen her and there she is, practically leaping out of the bushes onto the green. Everything around us has turned yellow and orange and red now, the very last of the leaves almost gone, only those last few bleached-brown beech and oak hanging on, nervous. Now we are getting cold. But not Iowa cold. Pembroke cold. Wet and damp. The kind of cold that gets under your skin. The kind of cold that keeps you shivering till spring.

  There are circles under Remy’s eyes and her jaw looks angled, her cheekbones higher.

  Gaunt, I realize.

  “Um, okay, Remy. You do know this is a bad idea, right?—Humbert Humbert and you.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it’s the best idea ever.”

  “Oh my God.”

  I turn to Remy. She really looks out of sorts. I mean, there’s something about her that isn’t fitting into her own skin. Something shaking and unsure.

  “Remy. What do you know about this guy? I mean, he’s old. He could be married.”

  “No. No way. I asked. No wife. No girlfriend. I would never do something like that and—”

  “Okay, let’s step back for a second. All of this? Is bad. Don’t you think that this little obsession and, say, disappearing for the past three days possibly might have some effect on your grades and, therefore, your future?”

  “Not really.”

  I can feel myself deflate in that moment. The truth is, she’s right. It probably doesn’t matter what kind of grades Remy gets. I mean, she’s already where she needs to be. It’s all laid out for her.

  “Remy, you just . . . you can’t do this.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s just . . . trouble. I mean . . . you could die.”

  “Oh my God. Hello? Exaggerate much?”

  “Okay, well what about when it ends? With Humbert. Have you thought of that?”

  “Ends?”

  “Yes, Remy. Ends.”

  “Why are you being so negative?”

  She’s getting annoyed now. And she has never been annoyed with me before.