Okay, here it is.
I applied to Berkeley.
On my own.
Shh.
I said don’t tell!
Really, I just don’t want to feel like an idiot, okay? I just don’t want to feel like I tried for this big, totally unlikely thing and didn’t get it and then everybody will make fun of me and laugh at me or, worse, feel sorry for me. So, just don’t tell anyone. I’m not getting in, okay? It’s just a Hail Mary. Just a what the heck.
Just a shot in the dark.
FORTY-FOUR
I really didn’t think I’d see Remy before class today. Monday morning is always this bumbling rush of people, half-asleep, trying to make it to Con Lit or Calculus or Chemistry. But, as I was coming out of the campus center, scrambling to get it together, between my iced latte, my backpack, and my books, Remy appeared.
“Willa. I have to talk to you.”
She’s next to me now, as we rush across the green.
“Um, do you think we could talk after class ’cause I feel like I really need to talk to you, too, but I can’t right now ’cause I’m superlate.”
There are a zillion things to tell her. Mainly about Milo and the private island and my heart and what to do with it.
“Yeah, of course. No problem. By the way, I slept with Humbert Humbert.”
Okay, this stops me.
“You what?!”
“Humbert Humbert. He’s mine!”
“Remy, that is so . . . fucked!”
She smirks. “Don’t you mean I am so fucked?”
“No, I mean he is so fucked. Like, he’s fucked in the head, and he’s fucked in his career.”
“Career?”
“Yes, Remy. He’s an English teacher. Don’t be a snob.”
“Well, he could be so much more.”
“Like what, like Mr. Remy Taft?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Okay, that’s it. I am officially quitting the play. You tell Humbert.”
“What? Why?”
“Because he’s a perv, and I can’t risk him molesting me.”
“Come on. Besides, what am I even supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. Tell him I died.”
“Seriously?”
“Tell him . . . I’m allergic . . . to theater. And rapists.”
“C’mon, be nice. I need you. I’m feeling kind of vulnerable.”
And now I see it. Remy is standing there, in her full adorable weird mismatched outfit, looking at me, and there it is. She’s scared.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, like . . . I’m feeling kind of . . . I dunno, weird.”
“Remy, okay. I want to talk to you about this and I don’t want you to feel weird, but I also can’t miss class. So, let me just, I guess I’ll just drop by later. Okay . . . ?”
“Okay.” But she is . . . Is she shaking?
“Um, you’re okay, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okay, I’ll see you after class.”
Walking off, I turn around. Remy is just standing there. “Wait, why aren’t you going to class?”
“Oh, I kinda just don’t have, like, anything to hand in, so . . .”
“So you’re just not going to class?”
“Well, I don’t really feel very well.”
“Remy, just go to class.”
“I’m sick.”
And this is such a ludicrous self-diagnosis. Obviously, she’s not sick. Obviously, she just doesn’t want to go. Obviously, she just wants to sit there and pine over Humbert Humbert.
“Remy. If you go to class, it might take your mind off things. Like, it will distract you and you’ll feel better.”
“Mmm . . . I don’t think so.”
“Fine. I’ll see you later.”
There’s the clock tower at the end of the cloisters, and I have about thirty seconds to make it across the green into Royce Hall. I can do it. I can do it because I think I can do it and I must do it.
Persevere, Willa!
I could think about Remy standing there behind me fucking everything up or I could think about the fact that I seem to be becoming obsessed with Milo or I could think about the fact that the world is a horrible, unjust place, but none of that is gonna help me make it into the classroom before that bell.
FORTY-FIVE
Milo has sent me a frog.
Literally.
When I get back to my room there is a little frog there, left on my doorstep, in a terrarium with a deeply landscaped natural habitat that either he or a very enthusiastic pet store employee has designed.
It is a red-eyed tree frog, to be exact.
I’m not keeping it. Yes, I understand it’s an unexpected gesture that signifies all sorts of effort and thoughtfulness and possibly even love. But the instructions clearly state that tree frogs eat worms and crickets, and that seems awfully slimy to me.
And now there is a text:
if u kiss it, it turns into a prince.
There is also an invite attached. To a New York thing. A charity thing. And, attached to that, a note: “This will be boring, but you have to go with me. It’s my mom’s thing. I can’t face it alone!”
“My mom’s thing”? “My mom’s thing”?! You know what this means, don’t you? This means he wants me to meet his mother! Oh my God. Is this even happening right now? Wait. Am I really his girlfriend? I can’t be his girlfriend, can I? We haven’t even barely done anything. We’ve just sort of, like, groped. We’ve drug groped. That’s about it. Pretty PG-rated. Except the drugs. And the groping.
But no bodily fluids have been exchanged.
So this maybe is it. Maybe after the charity gala he will ask me officially to be his girlfriend. After I meet his mom. And get her approval. Wait, what if I don’t get her approval? I need Remy. I need Remy right now. Only she will be able to guide me through this socialite labyrinth.
Remy!
Before I can put a sentence together, I am down the stairs and out toward the campus center to find her. I seem to recall some vague memory of her random obscure philosophy class letting out near here. Whatever the case, this seems to be the main thoroughfare for all those who trample through the hallowed grounds of Pembroke.
Hallowed grounds? Hollowed grounds?
This is the last thing I think before I see it. Before I see the thing I can’t unsee. The thing I wish I could unsee.
Because I see Remy. Yes, that’s true. But that’s not all I see. I see Milo, too. But that’s not all I see. No, no.
This is what I get to see:
Milo’s hands all over Remy and his tongue down Remy’s throat and Remy holding on to him for dear life. Yep. That’s my Remy. And that’s my Milo.
Well, apparently he’s not mine, after all.
I am frozen there.
And I know what you’re thinking. I should say something. I know I should. I should scream out or throw tomatoes or do whatever people do when they see a grand betrayal such as this.
But nope. No way. No sir. This is all about me shrinking down. This is all about me not being seen and not being heard. This is all about me wanting not to exist and wanting to pretend this didn’t happen. This is me, see me there, walking backward into the trees and back up the steps and back into my bed in Denbigh dorm. This is all about me not wanting to be me.
And there is that dumb frog in a terrarium. Not a prince, after all. Just a frog.
FORTY-SIX
This gala charity benefit at the Knickerbocker is gonna be great. Oh, you didn’t think I was going? Oh, I’m going.
No, I’m not gonna start a scene in front of everyone and ruin the whole night to remember or anything. I mean, this is a benefit for orphans, after all. I know I may be ridiculously preoccupied and obsessed with the dastardly betrayal of my BFF and not-boyfriend . . . but I’m not so self-obsessed as to destroy a night meant to give aid, medical supplies, food, books, and shelter to the orphan children of the Middle East. I am
not the Dark Lord Asthmatic or Darth Maul or whatever his name is.
Milo looks great. How do I know? Because he’s standing right next to me. Yup, he’s standing right next to me, and he has no idea I saw his and Remy’s slobbery hookup and/or long-term relationship.
You see, that’s why I’m here.
I need to get this figured out.
I don’t know how long this has all been going on. I have to know how heartbroken I am supposed to be.
There are a few flyers on the table about this charity and the kinds of things they do to help orphans of all these terrible wars that seem to go on and on. I can’t help but pick one up, and next thing I know it stops my heart. I’m not kidding.
I’m not even gonna tell you what’s in these pictures, but I wish I could unsee them immediately. And this one. And that one. And another one.
It’s the kind of stuff you just don’t believe could ever happen. The kind of stuff worse than any nightmare, and, at a certain point, you gotta wonder: How could anyone let this happen? How could this even be happening?
Maybe this is what happens when every country on earth, with the exception of a handful, is run by dudes.
Lookit, you’d never see a lady Hitler. I’m serious. No way. She’d be too busy trying to figure out how to run Germany, how to make sure she doesn’t get ousted for having lady parts, who to invite to her kids’ birthday party, what to buy everyone for Christmas, what to do about dinner that night, and if she did have a husband, how to keep him from not feeling depressed for being second banana to his wife, the supreme dictator . . . so she would simply not have the time to conceive of, plot, and execute the extermination of millions of people. I know what you’re thinking. What if she doesn’t have a husband or even a boyfriend? Well, my friends, then lady Hitler would either be single with another huge laundry list of single-lady problems to worry about, or she would be a lesbian. And I think we can all agree that lesbian Hitler would not exterminate nine million people.
Maybe the problem is guys just have too much time on their hands. It’s like they just sit around making themselves crazier and crazier, getting themselves more and more riled up in a paranoid frenzy, whether they’re screaming about “The Jews! The Jews!” or “The Arabs! The Arabs!” or even “The women! The women!”
It almost seems like the most dangerous thing you could do is put a man in a room with nothing to do. They need to get more involved in, like, building parks, or PTA.
Dudes. It’s like they don’t know that life blows and they are just looking for something or someone to blame for life’s general suckiness. You never have to explain that to a girl. A girl knows. A girl gets to know that the first day she gets her period. It might as well come with a card: “Congratulations! Life sucks! Now you know.”
That’s why you never see a girl stewing in her room building an imaginary militia. What are you gonna do? Send a militia out to beat up the sky?
And all that might be well and good, but it doesn’t help these kids in these pictures.
Milo is standing next to me sneaking a cocktail. Kind of ridiculous. I’m sure he’s not fooling anyone.
“Where’s your sister?”
“Oh, she never comes to these things. She finds them depressing.”
I nod.
“Oh, shit, there’s my mom.”
He hides the so-not-secret cocktail behind his back on the table. And there is his mother.
Well, she’s blond. With her hair up in a bun at the top of her head, with a little braid around the bun. Très regal. She’s wearing a strapless black cocktail dress, and she looks like she might as well be Milo’s older sister. But she doesn’t look weird or plastic surgeried. She doesn’t have a duck mouth and giant boobies or anything. And even her blond hair is a pretty shade, pale but natural. Like wheat.
And there’s something about her. Her spirit, I guess. She’s got, like, a glow. Not like a bottle-orange glow that you always see on those TV housewives. But like a glow radiating around her. Like she’s got a lightbulb on inside, emanating.
“Mom, this is Willa. Remember, the one I was telling you about?”
“Willa. Yes, I do remember. Milo’s new girlfriend he’s crazy about.”
“Mo-om.” He rolls his eyes. I’m sure this is the millionth time he’s rolled his eyes at his mother.
“I know, I know. I’m embarrassing, and everything I say is embarrassing.”
She smiles, chiding.
“This is amazing, what you’re doing, Mrs. Hesse. Just really incredible.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you so much, Willa. Well, we try. Honestly, you get started and you just realize how much more you wish you could do.”
“Well, I’m really impressed. Truly.”
“Thanks, Willa.”
She gives Milo a little smile. A nod from a mother to her son. I think it might even be a nod of approval.
And did you hear that? Milo’s girlfriend he’s crazy about? I mean, this is really getting confusing. I sort of wish we could have name tags. Girlfriend or Not Girlfriend. Somebody hand me the right one.
One of the donors comes and whisks her away, and Milo gets back to his cocktail.
“Your mom is so sophisticated and kind and international and—”
“And desperately trying to make up for the fact that my family embezzled everyone’s money and my dad hung himself.”
Welp, that stops everything.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“No, I know you didn’t.”
Someone is about to make a speech, and everyone seems to be wrangling around to the other side of the room. A hush falls over the crowd as one of the donors takes the floor.
Milo and I are facing that side, with our backs to the wall. Everyone is listening, a few hushed whispers here and there. And now I whisper, too.
“Milo?”
“Yes?”
“I know about you and Remy.”
FORTY-SEVEN
Milo decided that the only place we could talk about something so personal and convoluted was by the catering station. So, while these guys in white hats and chef jackets are preening over the hors d’oeuvres, Milo and I are having a heated discussion about romance, making out, and the appalling nature of humanity. As if they’re not even there.
“I don’t know what you think you saw, but—”
“Milo. I think you should stop lying right now. Just get it all out on the table.”
“No, but I’m—”
“Milo, I saw you, okay? With my very own eyes in my very own face. I saw you with your tongue down her throat and all the groping and all the slobbering. By the campus center. Slobbering by the campus center.”
A waiter comes and take a grand platter of bacon-wrapped figs with some sort of cream involved. I wish I had an appetite, because normally I would eat the daylights out of that platter.
Milo sighs. Looks at me.
I look longingly at the bacon-wrapped figs before turning back to him. He’s calculating, figuring out if he should just spill the beans.
“Okay, okay. You’re right.”
“Thank you.”
“I’m sorry, Willa. I’m really sorry if I bummed you out.”
“If you bummed me out? Are you serious right now?”
“Well, what’s the big deal? Seriously. We’re just friends.”
“Just friends?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t do that with my friends.” Or anyone, I add silently.
“Okay, fine, we’re friends with benefits. It’s really no big deal, okay? You’re the one I’m crazy about. Didn’t you hear my mom? Totally embarrassing me?”
“Well, it is a big deal to me. Where I come from that kind of . . . groping is strictly for not-friends or more-than-friends or whatever.”
“Okay, okay.” He holds up his hands. “Honestly, I think what we have here is a cultural difference. This is like . . . when people go to Japan and don’t understand the high-tech toilets.”
“Toilets?”
“The toilets in Tokyo are very confusing. They kind of look like spaceships.”
“Really?”
“Yes. It’s like a bidet and a toilet and a washer and a dryer all in a toilet. There’s even a noise to make it sound like running water for privacy. It’s actually kind of brilliant, but that’s not the point right now. The point is . . . this is a cultural difference between us. Where I come from . . . this is nothing. Because it is. Where you come from . . . this is something. So we just need to create some kind of understanding here, okay? A cultural bridge, if you will.”
“Milo, I’m sorry, but I—”
“No, listen. I’m serious. Willa. I really like you. Like, I really, really, really think about you all the time and even told my mom about you, which I never do, and even brought you to the island, which I also never do. Please don’t be mad at me. Remy was going on and on crying about some guy, and I just wanted to make her feel better.”
“So you groped her?”
“Look, she was crying and acting crazy. I didn’t know what else to do!”
“Well, are you just always gonna grope her when she’s crying?”
“No. I’m not. Listen. Now that I know it bothers you, definitely not. I will never grope Remy again. Or kiss her or anything. Consider this like an Iowa friendship. Totally G-rated.”
From across the room, Milo’s mother gives a quick little wave to Milo and me. It’s a sweet thing.
“Look, my mom already anointed you my girlfriend, and that’s just fine with me, because I want you to be. I want to bring you home for Thanksgiving and somewhere snowy for Christmas and we’ll sip hot chocolate, like on a mountaintop, and maybe even take you somewhere superglamorous and kind of hilarious for New Year’s. If you’ll let me. I want to show you all sorts of cool things and see the look on your face when you see them.”
“Like the toilets in Tokyo?”
“Yes, Willa. Even the toilets in Tokyo.”
And my head is spinning now. I thought we were breaking up tonight. I really did. I thought we were breaking up and that was it. But now we are doing the opposite of breaking up, which is sipping hot chocolate in Christmas chalets and observing the cultural difference in bathroom fixtures.
The Fall of Butterflies Page 16
