The Fall of Butterflies (11 page)

W
elp, the Fall Ball is dramatically improved by the introduction of drugs. What before was a boring, contrived excuse for playing dress-up is now a mad, thrilling romp where everyone is adorable and the walls are in love with the ceiling. If you're wondering where I am right now, I'm in the middle of the dance floor, and Remy is doing what can only be described as an interpretive dance next to me, around me, a little bit away from me, and then around me again.

I've noticed that Zeb has left the party. No Zeb, no Milo. I could be sad about that if I weren't flying three feet above the ground and jumping everywhere. There's nothing that could happen that would be wrong right now. No wrong
song to dance to, no wrong thing to say, no wrong person to be. Everything is as it should be, and everything is the best thing ever.

I've never been in love before. This is the first time I'm in love. I'm in love with this. I'm in love with the chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, the light off the rafters, the hearts and rockets on Remy's dress, myself, Remy, the DJ, everyone in here and everyone who ever lived. This is what it's like.

I have the thought, it's a quick thought, that maybe this is the way it's supposed to be. Like maybe this is the way you're supposed to live your life. In love. In love with the sky and the trees and each day you're given. Maybe that's how you're supposed to do it.

Remy is grabbing me and pulling me outside, and when the brisk air hits us, that, too, is like the breeze has decided to fan us in just the right way, to lift us off the ground and into the night sky.

“Oh my God. Look.”

I look to where Remy is pointing and see nothing. There's a cobblestone path, the side of the library, and a golf cart.

“What am I looking at? What's happening right now? What is my name?”

“Your name is Willa and that's a golf cart.”

“Okaaaay.”

“And we are going to steal it.”

“Um.”

“Yes. Trust me. It will be fun.”

I wonder how many times in the history of mankind the words “trust me” have been used before something terrible happened. I'm guessing you can round it off to about a million.

“I think we could probably get in big trouble for . . .”

But Remy has not waited for my counsel on this matter. That's because Remy is too busy running to the golf cart, cackling like a crazy person, and jumping on the golf cart.

“Oh my God, the keys are still in it.”

“Maybe someone just left it for like two seconds and then they're gonna come back and then they're gonna be mad and then they're gonna put us in jail.”

Again, Remy has not waited for me to weigh in on the matter. Instead, she has started up the golf cart, laughed diabolically, and driven up next to me.

“Remy, oh my God, you're insane. I think you might have lost your mind.”

“Get in.”

“Maybe we should contemplate the pros and cons.”

“Willa, as your best friend and friend for life, I hereby decree that you must enter this golf cart.”

“Okay, okay, I suppose if you decree.”

And with that, I become an accessory to the crime.

We fly down the cobblestone path and wind around campus and over the hill until we are racing down the perimeter of the campus, all the way down down down past Denbigh, past Radnor, past the campus center, past the science center, and all the way to the very end, where there is a gymnasium next to the duck pond.

There's an almost-full moon tonight and I could swear to God the man in the moon is laughing at us, or with us, not yet determined.

It's impossible not to love the wind and the stars and the madness of flying through the campus on an illegal golf cart, our dresses billowing behind us.

Except we are going too fast.

“Remy, I think we're going too fast!” I'm yelling over the sound of the motor.

“What?”

She's yelling, too.

“I think we're going too fast!”

“I know!”

“What do you mean you know? You mean you know and it's okay or you know and there's nothing you can do about it?”

“I mean I know and there's nothing I can do about it!”

“What?!”

“It's not braking!”

“What?! Jesus?!”

And now we are going fast fast fast, way too fast, down the path leading to the gymnasium and the duck pond.

“Turn around! If we go uphill it will slow us down!”

“No, we'll fly out!”

But Remy does try to turn it, and it does slow us down, just enough, just enough so the golf cart runs into the embankment of the duck pond and, yes, into the duck pond with a last final splash.

And now we, too, are in that duck pond.

Remy and I, in our absurdly expensive dresses, have just crashed a golf cart into a duck pond.

And now we just start laughing.

I know. I know we should get up and run away and check that we are not dead or that anything is broken. That is what anyone normal would do. But that's not what's happening right now. No, no, instead, Remy and I are sitting waist-deep in the water and laughing uncontrollably.

This goes on for about five minutes.

You have to admit, it's kind of shocking no one has found us. I guess taking the route around the back of the campus was a stroke of brilliance.

“We are in so much trouble. Oh my God.”

“No, we're not! Come on!”

And now Remy is dragging me by the arm, out of the
half-sunken golf cart and up the grass.

“Let's stay off the path so no one sees us.”

“Remy, we can't just leave that there. We have to tell someone . . .”

“Oh, no, we won't. I'll be fine, but you'll get kicked out.”

And that's true. Oh God, I'm an idiot.

“Don't worry. This is the plan. We'll just sneak back to Denbigh. No one will see us. Everyone's at the Fall Ball—look around, it's like deserted.”

“Okay, okay . . . but, um . . . what about the cart?”

“What about it?”

“Well, we broke it.”

“We didn't break it; it was broken before. The brakes didn't work. It almost killed us.”

“Oh my God. It almost killed us because we stole it and we weren't supposed to. I think that was like karma or whatever.”

“Maybe. But it doesn't matter. I'll pay for it, okay? I'll make my dad get them, like, two new golf carts. That way it's, like, a win for them.”

“Really?”

“Sure. And besides, that was the best thing ever. You have to admit.”

“I do have to admit.” I pause. “I feel like we're in that movie with Audrey Hepburn. The one in Rome.”

“Europe! We should go to Europe! Willa, will you go to Europe with me? Next summer. I was gonna go, but I couldn't think of anyone I wanted to go with. We can fly into Paris. We have a place there. In the sixteenth. It's kind of bougie, but it's nice. I would've preferred Le Marais, but no one ever listens to me.”

“Wait. Are you serious?”

“Yes! It would be so fun!”

And now my mind is racing, thinking of all the things we could do and see and all the trouble we could get into in Paris.

“By the way, I'm freezing.” Remy gestures to her soaked dress.

“Me, too. Do you think our frocks will survive this debacle?”

“Sure. It's called dry cleaning.”

We walk along, the lights of Denbigh gleaming over the hill.

Remy is just shaking her head and smiling. “I can't believe we crashed a golf cart.”

“Into a duck pond.”

And now Remy quacks. And I quack, too. And now she attacks me in quacking-duck form. And I pretend run away from the duck attack. And we quack and laugh like that
all the way back. And even though we're freezing and even though we just committed a small crime and even though I don't do drugs but I just did drugs, this, so far, is the best night of my life.

And now we're going to Paris.

Y
ou should never do drugs and go to class. You should never do drugs and go to class the next day. You should never do drugs and go to class the next day after that. Maybe you should just never do drugs. How about that?

It's two days after the Fall Ball, and I am still in a state of wraith-hood, a state of overwhelming angst and depression. Remy calls it “recovery.”

There is no happiness here. No happiness allowed. It's like all the happy got sent out in one shot and now it's gone. And now there's just me. Sad me. Unable-to-be-happy me. Annihilated me.

Remy told me it would be like this. She wanted to prepare
me for it. But sitting here, in Ms. Ingall's Lit class, all I can think is,
I'm an idiot
.

It's the overpowering sense of doom that really is freaking me out. That's the kicker. It's truly difficult to get through the everyday comings and goings of life with an overpowering sense of doom. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy.

Not that I have any enemies. What am I, some kind of international superspy?

“Remy, I can't take this,” I whisper.

“It's just the crash; it's almost over. I promise.”

Maybe she's right. Maybe it is just the crash and then everything will be fine again. Just fine enough so that we'll do it again.

See, that's what I know will happen. Of course it will.

But knowing and doing something about it are two different things.

And I know, looking at Remy, who is also in her own particular state of wraith recovery, that I will do nothing about it.

Absolutely nothing.

And maybe it's not so bad after all. Maybe it's just the price of admission for being friends with someone like Remy. Maybe it's just the price for the ride.

Ms. Ingall steals a long glance over at me, then at Remy,
and I find myself convinced she can read my mind. She knows I'm guilty. She knows I'm blowing it. And I'm not proud of it.

Oh God. Maybe I'll get kicked out before midterms.

I
heard a rumor that there's a “New” York. The idea is . . . it's this place with all these tall buildings that everybody is supposed to care about and all the banking happens there and tons of theater and you have to be rich even just to look at it. It's a place that used to be dangerous but now everybody says is a shopping mall and it's Disney-ified and everybody wishes it were dangerous again. Oh, and it's an island. Called Manhattan. That is where the rich people grow.

If movies are to be trusted, you don't have much space, either. Even doctors and lawyers live in a space that, back home, would be considered kind of like a trailer. But here, put that trailer in the sky and call it magic.

But Milo Hesse does not live in a trailer in the sky. Milo Hesse lives in the kind of place they don't even show in movies because if they did, you'd never believe it. If they showed this place in movies everybody would stand up in the theater and say, “No way! Un-unh! I don't believe it!” before storming into the streets and throwing cars everywhere to protest the fact that anybody gets to live like this.

This was Remy's idea. She thought we might enjoy a little sojourn to “the city.” I guess there must not be any other cities on earth if this one is simply called “the city.”

But there is one place, this place belonging to the family of Milo Hesse, that makes it seem like, of course, there can be no other places.

First and foremost, there is art. And not just any art. No, no. Art that you see in museums. Example: You know that guy who does those paintings of just black with a white date written on the front? I know, I know, they seem ridiculous and like something any fourth grader could do, but they're worth a zillion dollars. Because art. Well, there are two of them, hanging up on the first floor of what essentially looks to be the top two floors of the building, gutted into an empty space, with a spiral staircase at the other end leading to what I can only imagine to be the villain's lair upstairs.

Not your taste? Okay, how about this? There's a giant screen print of Jackie Kennedy, staring across the space at a
giant screen print of Marilyn Monroe. Both by that guy with the crazy white hair. There's a sculpture in the middle of the room that looks like a balloon animal, but it's as big as an elephant. And the coup de grace, the pièce de résistance, is the entire back wall. It's taken up by a giant black-and-white photograph, with red writing on it, like you see on those T-shirts. It says: “We Don't Need Another Hero” in giant red letters, in front of a little girl and a boy flexing his muscles. But they look like a little boy and a girl from the '50s. And it's cool. All of it is beyond cool. All of it is designed to make itself look cold and daunting.

And then there's Milo. He just walks past it all like he's at the subway station, ignoring entirely the vast trove of contemporary art, and up the staircase.

“I'll be right back.”

He bounds up the stairs to the devil's lair, leaving Remy and me to contemplate the giant painting with the kids on it.

“What do you think it means?”

“I don't know. But it's pretty cool, don't you think?”

I nod.

“Barbara Kruger. She's awesome.”

We both nod, looking around.

Across from us, there's a black-and-white photograph of a little Latino five-year-old in a Mexican wrestling mask. He's
sort of tubby and happy as a clam. He's so happy you can't help but be happy with him.

“That's a Nan Goldin. Milo's favorite.”

“Oh.”

“Milo's parents have a wing named after them at MoMA.”

She senses my vague confusion.

“The Museum of Modern Art. His mom is pretty serious about art, as you can see. And orphans. She's always doing charity stuff for orphans.”

“Jesus.” I continue to stare at Happy Chubby Boy.

“I know. Don't ask him about it, 'cause it'll just embarrass him.”

And now I get it. You can come from this. You can have all of this. But you can't care about it. Like, you have to shrug it off like it's no big deal and act like you're just like the rest of everybody and don't live in a museum and don't care that your family's name is plastered on the side of MoMA and don't care that everybody can trace your folks back to the
Mayflower
. That's how you do it. You just gotta shrug it off. You just gotta pretend the whole thing embarrasses you.

“Don't you think maybe we should get back to school or something? I mean, we didn't sign out or anything.”

Remy looks at me and smiles. “Well, we could . . . but I already lied and said we were going to my parents' house for the weekend.”

“What?! You did?”

“Guilty.”

“And they believed you?”

“Yeah. They pretty much do whatever I want. My dad's on the board.”

“Huh?”

“The board of trustees, remember?”

“Oh, right. Of course he is.”

I walk around, inspecting the giant balloon animal.

“Jeff Koons. So overrated.” Remy rolls her eyes.

If you live like this, I bet they teach eye-rolling in pre-K.

Standing in the middle of that cavernous space, looking around with the art swallowing me up, it dawns on me that I am a zillion miles from home and light-years away from any world I have ever known. This is a world I kind of didn't even know existed. I mean, maybe every once in a while I'd catch a glimpse of this world in the past. Like in a Katharine Hepburn movie. But here. And now. In this time. I didn't really realize there were people who lived like this. And it's like a wash of sadness comes over me. I'd like to think it was a wash of empathy, sympathy for the huddled masses, and everyone else out there living in a trailer, or a shack, or a tiny hole in the wall, scraping by. But that's not what it is. If I'm honest with myself.

It's not that noble.

It's that I'm never gonna have this. It's that no matter what I do, or how much I succeed in the world, or how much I struggle and maybe even someday grab the brass ring and somehow end up in a place like this or even bigger than this, I'm never gonna be the one to casually shrug and walk my way past it and act embarrassed and just let it roll off my back like it's nothing. I'll never grow up with Andy Warhols staring at me. I'll never be in the Social Register. I'll never have the same last name as a president. And even though I spend half my life cracking jokes and making fun of it all . . . the fact of the matter is . . . deep down inside . . . as ashamed as I am to admit it . . . I'm jealous.

I'm fucking jealous.

God, my dad would be so disappointed in me right now.

He really would. He'd lecture me about gratitude and being a good person and never making comparisons. And he'd be right. I know he would be. But that doesn't change the fact that in the pit of my stomach there's this sinking feeling that somehow I just lost.

I lost. And nobody even told me we'd started the game.

“Okay, who's first?”

I look over and there is Milo. He's standing between Remy and me. And he's holding out his palm. And on his palm is a pill. Three pills, actually. One for each.

Remy looks at me and smiles.

“I'll go first.”

“What is it?”

“Nothing bad. Just X.”

And here we go again. It's not like I didn't think it was coming. I guess I just didn't know how I'd feel about it.

But now I know how I'd feel about it. Here, in this place.

There's something in me. Something that has to do with that last thought. That feeling that I already lost. That feeling that—why not?—what's the point anyway?

“Let's do it together. Like, all of us.” It comes out before I know I said it.

Remy nods. “Good idea.”

Milo grabs some water while Remy and I stare at each other, waiting.

“Don't worry. Milo always has the best stuff. There might not even be a crash. Seriously.”

I'd like to think that this makes me feel good. But it doesn't. I don't like what I'm doing, but somehow I'm still doing it. Thinking maybe, just maybe, that little pill will give me the same thing I just lost in this room about five minutes ago. Whatever it is. I want it back.

It's almost like I don't want to see this. Like there's a truth here I don't want to know. In this place. But if I take the pill. If I take the pill, I don't have to see it. Everything will be just
great
! I don't have to even care.

Milo comes back and the three of us each take a pill. I notice Milo decides to take two. Guess he had extra.

Remy smiles at me with a twinkle in her eye. I smile back, but I can't help but wonder, what's the price this time? What's the price for this ride?