And I know I shouldn’t believe him. And I know his story is thin. But I want it to be true. I want all of this to be true. I want to be Milo Hesse’s girlfriend. I want everyone to know it and to shout it from the mountaintops from here to Zermatt to Nepal. It’s the opposite of being from Iowa.
And now, total honesty: it’s all I want to be.
FORTY-EIGHT
I want you to know, I’ve thought about this. How to deal with Remy. This is what I’ve come up with.
She didn’t know. She really didn’t know about Milo and me. As far as she knew, I barely even liked him. She didn’t know I went to the island. She didn’t even know I was getting a crush on him. She didn’t know he touched me on the arm in a sexy but sort of innocent way. She didn’t know because I didn’t tell her. And I didn’t tell her because I was being tricky.
Let’s face it.
So, in a way . . . I kind of got what was coming to me. I should have just been honest about it. If I had told her, if she’d known, there’s no way she would have let him grope her and slobber all over her in broad daylight next to the campus center. Right?
It’s the edge of that thought that gets interrupted when Remy comes barreling in the room, some sort of lovesick tornado. She’s all over the place, bouncing off the walls.
“Sorry about the other day, I just felt like I should talk to you and I really wanted to tell you that thing about Humbert Humbert, but I should have just waited, I guess.”
“Remy, look, it’s okay. I have to tell you something.”
No, I’m not gonna tell her I saw the make-out session with Milo. What’s the point? It wasn’t her fault anyway. She didn’t know.
“It is? Okay, good . . . wait, what?”
“I think Milo and I are, like, boyfriend and girlfriend or something now.”
“Oh. Cool.”
“That’s it?”
Remy looks in her bag for something she’s obviously not looking for.
“Yeah, that’s cool. I’m really happy for you guys. He’s great.”
I really wasn’t going to say anything, and I’m still not going to say anything. I’m definitely not going to say anything. No way. Except that . . .
“Look, I saw you guys making out, okay?”
“What?”
“I saw you guys having a hot make-out session by the campus center.”
“Oh. Well, that doesn’t mean anything. I mean, we’re just friends.”
“Yeah, that’s what he said.”
“It’s true. I’m obsessed with Humbert. You know that more than anyone.”
“Yeah, look. I know you didn’t know. But you do now, okay?”
“Of course! Now that I know, that makes everything different. Like, everything. Besides, I just . . . look, I’m kind of freaking out right now, actually.”
And now Remy sits down, or, more accurately, floats like a piece of paper down in all her beautiful-girl-who-has-lost-too-much-weight-and-sleep-and-thus-could-be-on-the-cover-of-Vogue glory.
“What’s wrong?”
I wish I didn’t know what’s coming next, but I have a feeling I know what’s coming next.
“Humbert. He hasn’t texted me. Or called. Or emailed. Or anything.”
I want to scream, “Well, duh!” But I don’t.
The fact that Remy thinks this situation is even approaching normal, this teacher-fucking thing, is really beyond. I mean, what does she think? This guy is gonna take her to the prom? “Hi, everybody, here’s my date, and, by the way, he’s also my teacher! And just old enough to be my father!”
And now I’m consoling Remy even though two seconds ago I thought she’d be consoling me.
“Remy, he’s probably scared he’s gonna be fired or something. I mean, it’s just one phone call and he could go to jail. Did you ever think of that? He’s probably terrified.”
It’s the logical explanation. It makes total sense. But not to Remy, and there’s a reason for that.
I think what happened is . . . Remy was always like this little princess with everyone swarming around her and granting her wishes and obeying her every command. So, at some molecular level, she has no idea how to cope with something that doesn’t go exactly the way she wants it, exactly how she wants it, exactly when she wants it.
A short way to say that is . . . she’s spoiled.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Remy is spoiled.
But she’s not a bad person. She’s really not. She’s just kind of way too sheltered and coddled, and there seems to be a kind of delusional aspect to her as well. At least as applies here to her affair with Humbert Humbert.
“Remy, maybe you could tell me what happened . . . ?”
“What kinda happened is I’m kinda in love with him and I kinda went to his office and looked superhot and made sure he fell in love with me.”
“So, what, you, like, jumped on him?”
“Kind of.”
Remy can’t stop checking her phone. Putting it down. Picking it up. Checking it. Putting it down.
Outside, the sky shines lavender through the trees. By six it will be pitch-black; it’s that time of year. Half-day season. Pitch-black season.
“Well, he’s probably just freaking out.”
“Yeah.”
But she doesn’t sound convinced. She digs in her pockets and finds a pill. That’s the one. It’s a little white pill, almost like an aspirin. Oxy. She doesn’t even try to hide it this time. Just takes it right in front to me.
“Remy, you have to stop this. This is really bad. Okay. You look like some kind of stress case who’s one twitch away from the rehab center. I don’t even know what you’re doing or how much you’re doing, but I don’t even want to know. And I have stuff here I need your help with. Okay? Like, Milo and I sorta went to some mysterious but possibly royal island this weekend.”
“Higgs?”
“What?”
“Higgs. Higgs Island. With Milo. That’s what it’s called.”
“I guess. I kinda never asked . . .”
“That’s a big deal, actually. The fact that Milo brought you there. I mean, I’ve never seen Milo take anyone there. Ever, now that I think about it.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. He must really like you.”
We pause.
“Willa? I should probably tell you something . . . ?”
“What?”
She stares out the window for a second. Bites her lip.
“Oh, forget it.”
“Wait, Remy. What?”
“No, it’s nothing, I forgot.”
I can’t tell what’s going on over there across the room in obsessive-land. Is she mad at me? Is she sad at me? Is she totally apathetic because all she is thinking about is Humbert Humbert?
Probably. So even though my heart and my brain are in a million different places, I decide I have to do something.
“Look, Remy, maybe we should get out of here. Go somewhere. Get your mind off of it.”
“Really? You don’t have to stay here and study all day?”
(Yes.)
“No, let’s just go somewhere and do something that has nothing to do with Humbert Humbert or Milo or anyone. Okay?”
“Yeah, okay. Okay. I can do that.”
I feel relief. Far more than worry about this temporary academic derailment. Remy listens to me. I know that. And I feel . . . responsible for her.
After all, there’s no one else looking out for her.
And I have not exactly done a bang-up job of looking out for her, now, have I?
FORTY-NINE
The first person we see as we walk off campus is Zeb. He’s still in uniform, tie askew, a little pink in his cheeks from the cold. There’s something genuinely light about him. A kind of happiness. Like his swoopy blond hair just swoops all his problems away. Never to return.
“Shalom,” he says, flirty.
“Why, shalom to you, too, my friend.”
Remy smiles wide, blindingly, at Zeb. She is bac
k on track. Back in make-everyone-love-her mode.
“What brings you fine lasses off campus this lucky evening?”
“Honestly, we have no idea.”
“Aha! Well, come with me. I’m going into Philthy.”
“Where?”
“He means Philadelphia. Or Philly,” Remy explains. “But, you know, Philthy. Because it is.”
This sounds like the greatest idea ever. And before I know it Zeb’s getting an Uber and Remy looks at me and shrugs.
“You said you wanted adventure.”
FIFTY
So, the Franklin Institute. The Liberty Bell. The Philadelphia Museum of Art. These are appropriate places to see things and get one’s mind off a potential heartbreak.
But where are we? None of those locales! Don’t be silly.
Instead we are somewhere in the middle of downtown Philly, amid cobblestone streets, at a slippery little bar called the Lamplighter. They don’t card here. And everybody still smokes. It’s like the Twilight Zone, and this place is stuck in what I can only imagine is the mid-’90s.
You’re wondering how I let this happen. Let’s play that scenario out, shall we?
Zeb: So, I know this cool dive bar—
Remy: Oh, thank God!
Willa: Bar? No, wait! Did you know that the Declaration of Independence was signed less than three miles from where we . . . guys? Guys? (Runs to catch up with friends while dodging “appreciation” from a semipro female harassment construction team.)
So, yeah. The Lamplighter.
Somewhere on the jukebox someone is playing the Stones—“Sympathy for the Devil,” which I bet has been played here no less than ten thousand times.
Zeb walks right in and waves at the owner, who waves back from behind the bar.
“Um. You a regular here?” I ask.
Zeb laughs. “Oh, it’s just . . . my dad shot something here so we kinda got to know the place.”
It’s humble. It’s a shrug. He’s not trying to be full of himself. He looks kind of embarrassed to state the fact.
Remy glares at me. Somehow I wasn’t supposed to ask that. But what was I supposed to—
“Ladies . . .”
Zeb gestures to a red booth with a few cuts in the pleather. Obviously from all the low-down-and-dirty knife fights that are happening here on a regular basis. The entire city of Philadelphia seems to have carved their initials in our table and, also, their opinions about everybody else. My personal favorite: “Barry sucks donkey dick.”
So, you see, it’s a delicate place. Just made for regaining balance and serenity.
“Oh my God, Zeb. This is perfect!” Remy chirps.
I guess rich people like to pretend to be poor people. Funny, poor people don’t like to pretend to be poor people. Or to be poor people.
“I know, right. I love this place. My dad made this gritty thing about south Philly criminals. You know, lots of tough guys in wifebeaters. Bada bing!”
“Like you, Zeb?”
Remy is changing the subject. To flirting.
“Oh, I’m so tough. Watch out.” He flips his blond hair out of his eyes and strikes a karate pose.
“I could defeat those bad guys with a tofu teriyaki roll.”
Now both of us are laughing. Zeb is adorable. No question. So maybe it wasn’t such a bad idea coming to this place.
“So, Willa, come on. How do you like the Least Coast?”
“Boo.” Remy rolls her eyes.
“I can say that, Remy, because I am from the Best Coast. Aka the West Coast. But you, my friend. You, from the unknowable middle of our nation. How do you like it? Or do you hate it?”
“No, I don’t hate it.”
“Do you have a boyfriend yet?”
“Um. Yes?”
“Too bad for the rest of the world. What’s his name?”
Remy and I share a look. Should I tell him? Remy nods.
“Milo.”
“Milo Hesse! Are you serious?!”
“Um. Why?”
“What about you, Zeb?” Remy raises an eyebrow.
“Come on, Remy. You know I’m head over heels for my girl.”
“I know. Everyone knows. You’re off-limits. Too bad.”
They share a look. I definitely get the feeling there might have at one point been a Remy and Zeb flirtation.
“I’m taking Willa to Paris this summer. You should come. I think we’ll try living in Le Marais. Or Oberkampf.”
Zeb doesn’t have a chance to answer. The owner brings over three Pabst Blue Ribbons in cans.
I stare at them, unwilling to pick one up.
Zeb’s dad couldn’t have filmed at a coffee place?
Thankfully, Remy doesn’t take one, either. She gets up to go to the ladies’ room. I shudder to think what that might look like.
The owner walks away, giving a nod, leaving Zeb and me alone to contemplate “Eye of the Tiger” playing on the jukebox.
“So, Willa, you do know one thing, right?”
“Um . . . what?”
“You can’t trust these people.”
“Which people?”
“These ones. Just . . . try not to get too attached. To anyone. Or anything. Like any outcomes.”
“Why not?”
“They just don’t get certain things . . . about life, you know? Like, yeah, some of it is trivial, but the rest of it matters. Like, really matters. And they just walk around like everything is awful and nothing counts.”
“Do you really think that?”
“Honestly, I kind of do.”
“But I’m supposed to trust you.”
“No, you don’t have to. But you know, I like you, Willa. You’re kind of singular.”
“Singular?”
“Yes, unlike any other. Totally original.”
“Wow, Zeb. They definitely don’t make them like you back in What Cheer.”
He smiles, and that would all be perfect. Except some girl with black wiry hair comes running up to our table like the bar is exploding.
“Hey! Is that your friend in there?! You better come quick!”
FIFTY-ONE
What is happening to Remy is that she’s not in the ladies’ room. She is in the alley behind the Lamplighter turning into a zombie. Either that, or she is having some sort of overdose. She is turning blue, lying there on the ground, with what appears to be very little breath coming in and out of her lungs. Like she’s in a deep blue sleep. In the alley. Next to the trash.
Zeb and I rush over to grab her, and the owner comes running out, too. He doesn’t seem too pleased to have this zombie transformation and/or overdose happening at his establishment, no matter who Zeb’s dad is.
Zeb gets down beside Remy, puts his ear next to her mouth.
“She’s breathing.”
“Somebody call an ambulance!” I scream.
“No! Look, she can’t be here.” That’s the now-not-so-friendly owner.
But now there’s a huge breath, a gasp, and Remy is breathing again. Zeb leans back on his heels with relief.
There are five zillion things running through my mind to ask, but the thing that comes out is “What do we do? What do we do?”
“I don’t know. I think . . . I think she might be okay. She’s breathing, at least. That’s the thing.”
I can’t stop staring at Remy.
“Vinnie!” calls the owner.
And with that the aforementioned Vinnie appears looking exactly like an extra from Zeb’s dad’s movie. He’s kind of tall and thin everywhere but his belly. And there’s a lot of cologne involved.
He takes in the scene, nods at the boss, and with that, the undead Remy, Zeb, and I are ushered, practically flung, into a pitch-black SUV with Vinnie at the wheel.
“Where to?”
“Please! The nearest emergency room! Hurry!” I screech.
Remy leans, head lolling, on Zeb. Vinnie does not seem too excited about this errand. Zeb’s eyes are glued to Remy’s face, monitoring for . .
. I don’t even know what.
“It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. You’re okay, Remy.” I’m holding her hand.
Her eyes are rolled back in her head, but there is a faint nod, a dispatch back from the netherworld.
I’m afraid to ask, and I think I already might know . . .
“Zeb? What is this? What was it?”
Zeb looks at me, pauses. It’s like he doesn’t want to be the one to cast Eve out of the Garden of Eden.
We both know what happened, though. An overdose. Yes, definitely that. I didn’t pay close enough attention. I should have realized she was gone too long. And now . . .
I glance at Remy. Sleep has taken over, but she’s less blue, and her chest is moving up and down.
Her eyes open briefly, just a peek, and then back to sleep.
Our ride is smooth. I can only assume Vinnie is too busy trying to dump us off as quickly as possible to freak out about his undead passenger.
“Where do you think she got it? Whatever it was.”
“Some guy.”
Now Vinnie from the front. “Some guy here? At the bar?”
There’s a threat to it. Woe to he who deals at the Lamplighter.
Zeb shakes his head. “No, probably back home.”
I’m assuming “home” means New York. And the questions are again cascading through my brain, but right now let’s just concentrate on the blue-skinned zombie, okay?
Thank God, Vinnie pulls up to the ER. Awkward silence. We’re just about to get out of the car and lead Remy into the hospital.
“No . . .” Remy shakes her head.
She’s alive, suddenly.
“Remy, we have to make sure you’re okay.”
“No . . . they’ll call my parents.” It’s slurring, but it is a sentence.
“Maybe they should call your parents.”
“No, no. I’m fine. I’m fiiiiine.”
Zeb and I look at each other.
“Remy, I really think you should see a doctor. Right, Willa?”
“Yes. Remy. Seriously.”
“No. I’m fine. I’m okay now. I swear.”
The Fall of Butterflies Page 17
