Thing is, she’s not the only one.
We reach the library. It’s a grand old thing with tapestries hanging everywhere inside and huge vaulted ceilings. Iron chandeliers dangling from a million miles above the rafters. There are little patches of furniture, little seating areas lit by porcelain lamps, cozy and just so, wooden coffee tables, and girl after girl curled up, studying, buried deep in their books.
“I’m not trying to be negative. I’m just worried about you, okay?”
“Don’t be bougie.”
We’re whispering, trying not to disrupt this Norman Rockwell scene of study.
“I’m not bougie. And if I am, who cares? I mean, you look like you’ve lost ten pounds in three days.”
Remy doesn’t listen, she just goes into her bag, searching. I put down my backpack next to a giant arched window, and when I look back up again she’s popping something into her mouth, quick.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“Remy, what was that?”
“What? I seriously have no idea what you are talking about.”
We look at each other. It’s obvious she’s lying. She knows it and I know it. And we both know the other one knows.
Never mind. She doesn’t have to tell me. I know what it is. It’s the second prong in the two-pronged problem.
The pills. The many, so many pills.
That’s why she’s losing weight. That’s why she looks like a lady skeleton. A very big part of me knows—just knows—she hasn’t eaten anything but half bites off those little white pills. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“Remy. Listen to me. All of this . . . I know it feels fun and thrilling and like a big fuck-you to everyone, but I’m telling you, it’s not pretty.”
“Not. Pretty.” She glares at me. “You know, Willa, I thought you’d be happy for me. I thought you’d want to hear all about—”
“About how you’re losing your mind over some loser teacher who could end up in jail because of you?”
“He’s not a loser. And we’re in love.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“Nope. Not at all. This is it.”
“Well, does he know you’re in love?”
“I think so.”
People are starting to look over but Remy stays looking at me, needing something from me.
And the absurdity, the sheer absurdity of all of this is making me want to honestly, literally, scream. So I just say whatever I have to to get out of there. “Okay, well, good luck and amen and whatever.”
And I walk away now. I don’t know why she needs me to say this is okay. I don’t know why she needs me to say anything.
This is so not okay. And the worst part is that I feel somehow responsible. Like I’m the only person between her and her careening desire to crash and burn everything around her.
But maybe it’s always like this. With rich kids. Maybe there’s always a drama or something to break and something to put back together. Maybe there has to be something. Otherwise, what would there be to do?
THIRTY-NINE
It’s laughable now, to me, what I thought this date was gonna be. I thought this date was gonna be like, you know, a simple kind of Saturday social. Maybe a museum and a stroll through the park. Maybe an ice-cream soda we shared with a straw. At a soda fountain. In the 1950s.
Wrongo.
This misinterpretation might have something to do with the fact that I’ve never really been on a date. Officially. I mean, that guy on the Amtrak who was trying to get lucky was sort of the closest thing. Also, I went on a few playdates with a kid named Wyatt, when I was three. Apparently, he had a tree house and a pirate hut. That is all.
But there are no tree houses, pirate huts, or Amtrak creeps here. No, no. This is the kind of thing you don’t know is happening until it happens, and then you think . . . um, what the fuck is happening right now?
Here’s how it starts.
Milo shows up at my door dressed in what can best be described as a cool turn-of-the-century bartender outfit, minus the bar. There is a vest involved. I mean, he looks cool. But he definitely looks dressed. Like, really dressed.
I, on the other hand, was going for a much more casual thing. Like, I am not dressed for an afternoon of timeless romance. More like a picnic of delicious sandwiches, which can sometimes be the same thing. Don’t judge me.
Seeing him at my front door, I immediately feel like an idiot and want to cancel the date entirely.
“Um. I’m not wearing the right thing for whatever it is we are doing, am I?”
“No, it’s totally fine. Really.”
“Okay . . . well, what if you give me like five minutes to come up with something, a little less like I’m going to a football game and you’re going to the opera.”
“If you want to. You don’t have to—”
“I think I have to. Just. Hold on a second.”
And with that I slam the door in his face, which I really didn’t mean to do but kind of happened anyway. I then swoop into my closet and try to find something, anything, please, lord, to look cool.
Somehow I manage to put together something sort of vintage. It’s not that easy to dress when you have only one bag of clothes and two uniforms, and you have no idea where you’re going. But I give it the old college try, and I think I get a B for effort. Possibly a gold star.
When I come back to the door, Milo is on the phone, whispering. Clearly he is up to no good. He waves at me, a mischievous smile, and I realize he is really putting an effort into this outing.
He tries to reassure me when we get into the Uber.
“Don’t worry. The drive to the coast will only take about a half hour. I know the secret route.”
Coast? Route? Secret? What is going on? I thought we were supposed to be, I don’t know, five minutes into previews by now. Or maybe catching an open mike at the coffee bar in town.
What. Is. Going. On?
Milo gives me a wink and looks out the window. He’s smiling to himself.
“Do you plan on selling me into slavery by dusk? Or sacrificing me to our lizard overlords? I need to know.”
“It’s our first date, right? I wanted to impress you. I’m kind of nervous, honestly.”
What? He’s nervous? If he’s nervous, then I am certifiable.
“Oh, here. I stole this champagne from my stepdad. He’s kind of a dick, so hopefully it costs a million dollars and he’s going to be superannoyed.”
Milo serves up the champagne in two crystal champagne flutes. It’s obvious these are stolen from said stepdad’s collection, too.
PS: This is illegal.
PPS: Milo doesn’t seem to care.
“I didn’t know you had a stepdad. Or even that your parents were divorced. Or that your life wasn’t completely perfect in every way.”
There’s a pause here.
“Yeah. Um. My mom’s pretty cool, actually. She does all sorts of art stuff, always caring about making art ‘available to the disenfranchised.’ And she’s always raising money for, like, street kids and orphans or whatever.”
“That’s cool.”
“Yeah, she’s a real bleeding heart. But she’s great. She kind of dotes. Or tends to dote. She calls me her little prince. Still. Like, even now.”
“But your stepdad . . . ?”
“Ugh. He’s such a fuckwad. He’s, like, one of these money guys. Like, you know, the guys who tanked everything. He probably fucks his secretary.”
“What about your dad? What’s he like?”
“He’s like . . . dead.”
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay. It’s been, like, a couple of years or whatever.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“I’m surprised Remy didn’t tell you. It was kind of a thing.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. I mean, he kind of killed himself.”
Jesus.
My plan—the one involving the clo
ck tower—flashes through my brain. And now I feel stupid and melodramatic and incredibly, overwhelmingly, like a total and complete jerk.
Seeing this. What it’s like to be left behind.
To be the one left behind.
“Oh, Milo. I had no idea. I’m so sorry . . .”
“It’s okay. Maybe that’s why I like you. Because you didn’t know.”
Or maybe he is just attracted to people who have fantasies about killing themselves. I don’t say it. Thank God.
The sun is blazing down now, and we’re going up and above all the row houses upon row houses. Some brick with old-timey ads painted on it. Old businesses, gone for decades, the hope gone with them, too. You can’t help but wonder, looking at the zillion little lives, flying past, some with laundry hanging, some with broken toys on the balconies, faded out by the sun, you can’t help but wonder, Why them? Why do they get this shitty never-go-anywhere life? Who makes up these rules? You go there. And you, you go there. Oh, you . . . you’re down there, sorry. It makes no sense if you think about it. And then there are people like Milo. People with everything. Little princes without a worry in the world.
Except a dad who killed himself.
He downs the rest of his champagne.
“You have no idea how lucky you are to be from Iowa.”
FORTY
There are certain things you think you will never experience, or never see, or don’t exist. This place where Milo takes me is one those things.
It’s an island.
A private island.
Oh, you don’t have a private island you can just randomly take your friends to on a Saturday date? Yup. Me neither.
It’s funny what’s going on here. For a second I thought this was going to get extremely rugged. You know, boats, a dock, craggy rocks, an endless swell of freezing black water. Going down to the dock, I couldn’t help but think maybe we were wearing the impossibly wrong attire of madmen destined to fall to their death in a watery grave.
But no.
The rugged part of the trip really just consisted of jumping in the boat, where “the boatman” took us across a not-so-placid stretch of ocean, up the coast, just a bit, turning at some cliffs, to reveal, through the perilous whitecaps, in the distance . . . an island, unto itself, no attachments. The sun is getting low in the sky, and it’s as if a spotlight is coming off the water onto the island, lighting up the pines and the craggy rocks on the shore. It doesn’t look real. An island, just sitting there, being beautiful and mysterious and probably just a ghost figure in the distance.
When the island appears, I look at Milo.
He smiles and gives a cute little shrug. It’s not a jerk shrug. It’s a shrug that says, “I know, I know, but I couldn’t help myself.”
I’m just trying to keep my jaw off the floor as we approach, closer and closer. Now there’s a clapboard house perched on the island, looking down at us: all white, with turrets, a wraparound porch, and even a crow’s nest. When I say “clapboard,” don’t think there’s anything rickety going on over here. This house is huge, and grand, and was probably built by Thomas Jefferson or something.
We reach the tip of the dock, ending the rugged part of the adventure, and the boatman helps us up and out.
“Easy does it.”
The boatman smiles. Milo smiles back at him, and I get the feeling these guys have known each other since Milo was a baby. There’s a warmth there, a comfort.
“Thanks, Freddy,” Milo says.
Making our way up the long dock, up the sloping hill to the house, I see a lone figure coming down from the house. The setting sun flares up through this diaphanous thing of light-blue chiffon, and above it are two hands outstretched, with something sparkling, a glass clinking ice, and lime—a cocktail.
Above the chiffon is an alabaster neck and black bob with bangs, short like a silent film star. A ghost face with light-blue eyes, smiling at Milo like he is the most precious cargo on earth.
“MyMy.” She says it like petting a cat, handing him a drink.
Milo turns to me. “This is Willa. Willa . . . this is my sister. Kitty. Her real name is Katherine, but that sounds like someone’s grandma.”
“Oh! Hi, Kitty. Nice to meet you.”
She hands me the see-through drink like it’s a done deal.
“Uh, thanks.”
“Come in, come in. We almost started without you . . .”
“Oh, sorry, Kit.”
“Seriously, Brit is, like, furious because he thinks the oysters are going to jump off the plate or something totally paranoid. I wish he’d get a girlfriend.”
And just like that we are whisked out of the rugged sea and up to the white looming house and Kitty opens the door to reveal . . . what looks like a painting, some kind of oil tableau of a parlor scene. In it, eight figures and a fireplace.
They all turn at once. All dressed. All dressed just so. Like Milo.
“Brit’s in the kitchen, but he’ll be out soon.”
There are four girls and four guys. Or rather, four ladies and four gents. I mean, we are deeply in the “mannered” zone here. I can’t figure the ages, but they’re definitely older than us. Maybe just out of college? Definitely not working. I’m pretty sure not one of these people will ever have to work a day in their life. And judging by the names, I’m pretty sure they couldn’t.
“Igby, Tad, Basil, Win (Winston, but nobody calls him that), Tisley, Paige, Binky, and Cricket. (Her real name is Camilla, but if you call her that she’ll get annoyed.)”
Sidebar: Don’t worry, you don’t have to remember all these names. I’m mostly just telling you because it’s an absurd collection in one room. Admit it.
I stand there, next to Milo, feeling like the smallest, dumbest, weirdest person on earth.
“MyMy!”
Okay, so I guess MyMy is his nickname. Short for MiloMilo.
The one who approaches is the one called Igby. He’s skinnier than the other three and somehow more intellectual-looking, but maybe it’s just the glasses. He looks like you could open the dictionary, point to a word, and he’d give you five definitions off the top of his head.
Paige and Tisley are up next. They sort of look like a matched set. Both with long brown hair, straight, both with skin that saw the sun last century.
“Milo, you’re so fancy.” They coo.
Yes, this is definitely flirty. A little too flirty for my taste. One of them grabbing his skinny tie.
“Well, you know, I try . . .”
Now come Tad and Win. These guys look like they could probably not die in a bar fight, unlike Igby and Basil. Tad has blond hair and bright-blue eyes. Win has chestnut hair and an adorable bow tie.
“And who, may we inquire, is your young guest?”
They are both smiling at me in a flirty way, and I am smiling back in an awkward, extremely uncomfortable way.
“This is Willa.”
Please don’t say it. Please don’t say it. Please don’t say it.
“She’s from Iowa.”
Ugh. There it is.
And there is the judgment, a wave across the room. Oh, she’s no one.
I wish I could bury my head in the sand. Milo didn’t mean it. He doesn’t know he’s the only one who thinks it’s cool to be from hicksville.
“Well, well. A farm girl.”
Tisley says it. It’s not nice. Or even trying to be nice.
Cricket gives her a look. I can’t tell if Cricket is colluding or scolding. Either way, I feel like an idiot.
Kitty looks at me. I can tell she gets it. “Don’t mind Tisley; she’s extremely jealous because all her boyfriends cheat on her.”
“Very nice, Kitty.”
Tisley walks out of the room, and Cricket turns to us.
“What Kitty is not telling you is that they cheat on Tisley . . . with Kitty.”
“That is so not true.” Kitty smiles.
Obviously, it is true.
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to fr
eakyland. Population: this.
Cricket continues. “The good news for you, Willa, is that your boyfriend is not gonna cheat on you with Kitty because your boyfriend is her brother.”
Milo and I look at each other. He’s not my boyfriend. Or is he? Is he officially my boyfriend now? Is that what it means to be brought to this weird island of misfit toys? Milo doesn’t say anything. Well, at least he doesn’t deny it. And I notice that the tips of his ears are turning a kind of alarming shade of red.
“Where’s Remy?” Igby leans in.
Okay, what? Time-out.
“I have no idea. She’s obsessed with some secret dude, and she is being very bizarre lately.”
Aha! So Milo knows Remy is obsessed with someone, he just doesn’t know it’s Humbert Humbert.
But let’s go back. Why, oh, why would Remy be here?
“Do you know Remy?” Win asks me.
“Uh, yeah. She’s kind of like my best friend at Pembroke. She convinced me to be in this dumb play I hate.”
“Ah! That sounds like Remy.”
“Um . . . How do you know her?”
There’s a little laugh here, inaudible. But palpable.
“Well, I met her once because she’s . . . my cousin.”
A titter across the crowd.
“Oh. Okay, I’m an idiot.”
“No, you’re not. You’re adorable.”
“What everyone is trying to tell you, Willa, is that we’re happy you’re here,” Kitty adds. “And we should eat.”
And with that said, the entire entourage exits to the dining room, leaving Milo and me to stand there and catch our breath.
“I’m sorry she assumed you were my girlfriend. I hope you’re not insulted.”
My heart is thudding. Not in a good way. In a what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here way.
I can’t help but wonder how I would possibly get off this island all by myself. Like, what if there was a nuclear war, or an undead apocalypse, or maybe everything just got too uncomfortable with all these weird people? Could I do it?
If I make the calculation, between the current, the tides, and my arm strength, my estimation is I could get about nine feet.
That is not involving sharks.
So—
The Fall of Butterflies Page 14
