The Fall of Butterflies (16 page)

T
here 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 freakyland. 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—

It seems I am stuck here.

It seems I am somewhat of a mascot for the night.

Please, mouth, stay shut—do not say or do anything that will reveal me to be a commoner from the sticks. Just stay shut. Seriously.

Button it.

T
his dinner is kind of surreal. I think I need to talk about it. I mean, yes, it's dinner, so who cares? But, also, it's, like, a seven-course dinner and every course is tiny but delicious and set up like you are supposed to take a picture of it or something. Now, I'm not one of those people who takes pictures of my food and posts it everywhere, because, let's just face it, that's loserville. But, if I were one of those people, it would be photo session every round. Or course.

Not that I know what any of this is. It seems there are a lot of things that come out of the sea. Also, goose liver. There is a lot of wine, too. And the wine keeps changing, so drink up.

I'm not sure who is preparing the food—in my imagination
there is a very testy French chef involved, but it seems like the guests are taking turns bringing it out from the kitchen.

How normal of them. How down to earth!

Democracy is alive and well on this private island!

Right now, one of these guys, Basil or Cecil or Salad, is going on and on about adorable Cricket and her make-out antics.

“So, there he is, standing in front of her, totally smitten, and Cricket has
no idea
who he is.” Basil is holding court.

“That's not true. He looked vaguely familiar.”

“Yes, the ridiculous English rock star. He looked vaguely familiar. He had two eyes, one nose, and two ears.”

Everyone laughs. The general idea here seems to be: Oh, you, crazy Cricket. What
won't
you do?!

“So, what did
you do?” Tisley leans in, curious.

“Well, I made out with him, of course.”

Baha! Hearty guffaws all around. Lifted glasses.
Clink, clink.

“I mean, I kind of felt sorry for him.”

More laughter.

Tad chimes in. “I love it. Cricket's reason for making out with someone: I felt sorry for him.”

“Or he exists.”

“And he's in front of me.”

Waves of laughter. I think those last two were Basil and
Win. One of the guys. It's clear that the guys are here to make the jokes. The guys make the jokes and the girls laugh. The girls coo and say clever things, yes. But the guys are the ones in charge of making everyone laugh, of outdoing each other. The guy with the most clever quips wins. It's a different kind of guy contest than back in Iowa.

Back in Iowa I think it had more to do with how big your tires were.

Or your truck flaps.

Suffice it to say, in Iowa, if you had a monster truck with eight-foot tires and truck flaps with naked ladies on them . . . you were the social equivalent of Tad.

But here, on this private island that nobody knows about because it probably doesn't exist, the wittiest man wins. And there are no trucks involved.

Every once in a while, Milo looks over at me, checking in. It's a sweet thing to do, considering this group has obviously known one another since they were in the womb.

There's no one here being necessarily overt or snooty or condescending. I think that initial farm-girl comment was the last of it. I get the feeling everyone here is a bit protective of Milo. He's the kid brother to the group, after all.

There's a moment when I catch Kitty smiling at him, raising her eyebrows. I can tell, now, why Milo is so damn charming. He has Kitty as an older sister. She would never
lead him astray. She's probably been dressing him since he was two.

And you can tell she adores him.

It would be easy to hate these people. To think, Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you? Don't you see the world is crumbling to pieces and all you can do is sit around and outjostle each other and sip wine and eat weird, unrecognizable food in the tiniest portions known to mankind?!

But it's impossible.

Because they're charming. They're charismatic and kind of glowing and adoring—yes, even adoring to each other. It's a strange sort of family. A family of blue bloods, probably all related if you go back far enough.

Fun fact: Paige is an African-American Lit major.

Yeah, bet you didn't see that coming.

She is also an expert in African dance. What is it with these people and African dance?

Meanwhile, I can only assume Paige was named Paige because when she came out into this world she was the color of paper. PS: She is just as thin.

And I am going to have to ask her to show me her hot African dance moves after dinner because I am a horrible person.

Come on. You don't get to be that lily white and be an African-American Lit major with a minor in African Dance
if you don't want someone, sometime, to call you on it. I can't tell if this possible cultural appropriation is ludicrous, endearing, or absurd. I guess I will be able to tell by her dance moves.

But we are not going to get to that quite yet. Oh, no.

Because there is something else going on.

We are adjourning from the dining room and leaving behind all the plates and glasses because presumably they will magically vanish into thin air when we exit the room.

Remember how I told you about Milo and Remy and me and how we all did Ecstasy over at her place in Manhattan by the fire and how it was superfantastic except that the next day on the train we felt horrible and promised we would never do it again?

Well, the good news is we are not doing Ecstasy.

However, I feel I would not be being fully honest with you if I didn't tell you that what everyone is doing is a form of Ecstasy, which is the superpure Ecstasy, which is called Molly.

Sorry.

I know.

Don't be mad at me.

I honestly did put up somewhat of a fight.