The Fall of Butterflies (2 page)

Y
ou want to know what happened?

Fine. I can explain everything.

It's because of “should.”

Yep, that one word. That's why it all went down.

Does that sound crazy? It won't for long. Not after I tell you the whole story. And this? This is the story you want to hear.

So, yeah. “Should.”

If it has to do with “should” or “supposed to be,” you are dealing, without question, with my mom.

If it has to do with “just the way things are,” that's my dad.

And “just the way things are” is never, ever, good enough.

Nope. Not for my mom.

Not that she even lives here anymore. She lives in France.
Outside Paris. In Fontainebleau. In
the forest of Fontainebleau
. Yes, she's actually a fairy. Doesn't that sound like a total fable? But hold on, we'll get to that later, 'cause that's a whopper.

If you think my dad and I live in Paris or France or
Fontainebleau
, you've got another think coming. No, we come from a very glamorous place you may have heard of. It's all the rage. Beyond
en vogue
. Can you guess where? Okay, here goes.

What Cheer, Iowa.

Yup, you heard me. What effing Cheer effing Iowa. You may have thought I just got distracted while we were talking and turned to the person next to me and said “What?” and that person answered, “Cheer!” but no. No. That is the name of the town. What Cheer.

There are many theories as to how the town got that name. I'm fairly sure the main reason is to make everybody confused when I tell them where I'm from.

The main story most people like to tell is the one where, back in ancient times, all the townsfolk—and I want you to imagine here a bunch of people in overalls, maybe someone with a corncob pipe, someone with a rope for a belt, and then a kindly old gentleman in a black suit with white hair like George Washington—gathered round in the town hall to think of a name for the town. No one could agree. There were insults made. Accusations hurled. Possibly a chair thrown.

Finally, it descended into so much chaos and rabble-rousing that the only respectable person there, who I imagine to be the guy with the George Washington hair, declared, “All right! The next person to come in that door, the first thing they say, THAT will be the name of the town!”

And then . . . out of the blue, a lonely old drifter came sidling in. I imagine this was the moment the hall fell silent. Possibly some tumbleweed blew across the floor. Maybe even the mice froze in anticipation. A kind townsman said, “Come in, sir. Take a seat.” To which the drifter replied, “What chair?” But nobody back then could hear anything, because they had all left their ear horns back home or something, so they all thought he said, “What cheer!” And, lo and behold, the first and most constant source of my awkward discomfort. What Cheer, Iowa.

People in town love to regale folks with this story. They tell it with real verve. At the punch line, everybody laughs and shakes their heads and pretends not to have heard it a thousand times before.

Oh, yes. I can rattle off that and a million other tales about What Cheer that would make the folks back home proud, but right now let's just stick to the fact that the population is 646 people. Actually, 645, if you're counting me.

Because right now, if you're looking at me, I'm on a train. See me there? I'm the girl with the frizzy red hair and the
funny mouth. Don't make fun of my mouth—everybody has to have one, and I just got a weird one. Not weird, exactly, just kind of big. I have a big mouth. In all senses. First, the mouth is literally big, and second, the mouth is open a lot, asking a lot—okay, maybe too much—about all kinds of things. But what I want to know is which came first? The big mouth or the “big mouth”? You can't exactly go through life with a mouth like this and not, by default, end up using it a lot to ask things everybody wonders but no one wants to say. If I had been born with a thin mouth, like Kristen Stewart or something, I bet I would just always be quiet and know my place. I bet I would wear a lot of beige. I bet I would bathe in beige.

But that's not what happened here.

What happened here is I got this funny mouth, which by order of the decree of human existence made me a “big mouth.” And also, I got a broke dad, because he and my mom are divorced. So, if you start with a kid with a smart-alecky persona, grow her up in a place called What Cheer, and give her zero money (Thank you, broken family!), then you get me. A girl who has to dress from a thrift shop and never stops asking questions.

They call it “quirky.”

I call it “If I weren't wearing these thrift-store clothes, I'd be wearing a pickle barrel.”

If I had just been born with a small mouth and a rich family I could've worn beige till the cows came home. Or the pheasants. Whatever rich people wait for to come home.

I could've had stick-straight hair and said clueless things like “For a home pedicure, just slather your feet in one-thousand-dollar gel made of rare dodo eggs!” Just like that celebrity woman with that “lifestyle blog.” Have you ever noticed how that blondie pale-face over there is always making a complete fool of herself? You know who I am talking about. Admit it. I have a theory, which is not that she's out of touch or too privileged or
just too transcendent
or something. My theory is that maybe she is just dumb. There I said it.

But this is not her story. God, wouldn't that be a bore.

No, this is a story about a girl from What Cheer, Iowa.

And the train has left the station. Literally. Like, the train just left the station fifteen minutes ago and now I am heading out to conquer the world. And by “conquer the world,” I mean “get calmly ensconced in a tomb of my own making and then end it all with a dramatic flair.” I am still hammering out the details, by the by. I'd like to see the lay of the land before I make any rash decisions.

I'd say I spent eighty percent of the year sitting there between OCD, Headgear Girl, and Peanut Allergy Boy trying to figure it out. What is the best way? When should I do it? Should it be a quiet one, where nobody knows and somebody
just happens upon me, like in the stacks of the library? Or should it be a dramatic jump off the top of the giant clock tower they show all over the place in the brochure?

But listen. OCD, Headgear, and Peanut had no idea, saying good-bye to me, that they'd never see me again. I covered. Look, why make them depressed? I think they have enough problems, don't you?

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't gonna miss them. I'm gonna miss the fuck out of them. This whole plan? To make me go east? To make me sophisticated? To make me a respectable member of society? Honestly? It's diabolical.

So I make a pact with myself. Don't think about them. Just put them far away from me in a box and never think about them. Or, at least, try not to think about them. I don't want to cry every day, now, do I? That is not sophisticated.

I bet you're wondering why I'm not heading west. Isn't that where everybody goes? Doesn't it seem like at the end of every movie, book, whatever, the main honcho always shrugs or has a moment of insight or kills the bad guy before taking a train, plane, bus, or horse, west—to where the sun shines free and the palm trees fan you to sleep?

You've got to wonder what everybody does when they get there.

I bet they just look around and say, “Huh.”

And then the whole of California just kind of shrugs and
goes back to its juice diet.

So, in case you're wondering, no. No, I am not heading to California. I mean, this is the
beginning
of the story, right? If I headed there now, it just wouldn't be proper. And I bet I'd end up on the streets with a guy named Spike as my criminal accomplice.

No, no. This story is about the “should.” As in, I “should” be more sophisticated by now, according to my mother. And I “should” be less of a total freak if I want to get anywhere at the Ivy League university I will no doubt be attending. Sending somebody to California to get sophisticated is like sending someone to the Krispy Kreme to lose weight.

Nope, to ensure this all-important sophistication I am headed to The Pembroke School back east. Oh, you've never heard of The Pembroke School? That's because it's basically a secret and nobody can get in unless their parents are in the Social Register or their great-great-great-great-great-grandparents came over on the
Mayflower
or their names are Sasha or Malia. Other than that, you're out of luck. Don't even think about it. It will just depress you.

So, how does a giant-mouthed, secondhand oddball from the sticks like yours truly get into a place that should obviously reject and scorn me before I even say its name? Well, here's the good part.

So, have you ever heard of that theory of money called
“The Logic of Collective Action”? You know, the “theory of political science and economics of concentrated benefits versus diffuse costs, its central argument being that concentrated minor interests will be overrepresented and diffuse majority interests trumped, due to a free-rider problem that is stronger when a group becomes larger”?

Of course you haven't.

Nobody has.

Except economists. And bankers. And political scientists. And everybody who cares an awful lot about money and power, mainly because they already have money and power and they need to make sure to keep the money and power while everybody else just sits around wondering where all the jobs went, or why they work for forty hours a week and still can't afford to put food on the table.

Well, that theory, that theory, which is impossible to understand, was the main, superimportant work of . . . drumroll, please . . . my mother. Basically everybody in that little microcosm of the world, the one with the money and power, knows that theory and knows my mom.

Not “knows her,” exactly. “Worships her” is more like it.

Yes. She is worshipped.

I know, it's weird.

And because of that, she's written a zillion books and been in a zillion brain trusts and served under not one but
two presidents. Like, in their cabinets. You get the picture. She's a mucky-muck. A big whoop.

Don't be jealous, she's not a nice lady.

Like, if you're even thinking of being jealous, you might want to take that thought and throw it out the back window and go downstairs and hug your normal mom, who maybe didn't come up with some famous theory of economics but maybe, also, remembers your birthday, or Christmas, or that you even exist. Trust me. If you have a mom, and she went to maybe, say, ONE activity you ever did in your life, little league or the school recital or the Christmas pageant where you played Mary (MARY, for God's sake!)—well, then, you have me beat. And you are sitting pretty, my friend.

Where this comes in handy, however, is The Pembroke School.

Because in places like this, if your attendance isn't assumed by virtue of your birth, then it comes down to someone making a phone call. And when you get a phone call from an ex-president, you answer the phone. Even if this ex-president is, you know, just a pal, making a phone call for his pal. To get his pal's daughter into your school.

It's like that, see. That's how it goes in these places.

Oh, did you think it was about the best candidate?

Wrongo.

This is the kind of thing you're not supposed to know
about. Like there's this gas station right out of town, right out of What Cheer. And my dad had to stop going there. At least, with me in the car. Why? It's because they live there. The whole family. The gas attendant, his wife, their three little kids. They live right there. Above the gas station. You can see the little kids looking out the front door, squinting there, in just a pair of shorts. And the littlest one, the baby, in just a diaper. And my dad just had to stop taking me. 'Cause every time I would throw a fit and tell him we had to go back and give those kids some clean clothes and maybe some food and “it isn't fair, Dad. It's just not fair, it's just not FAAAAIIIIIRRRR.”

And there would be my dad, just trying to reassure me. Just trying to calm me down. “Shh, it's okay. Shh, we'll go back if you want. Okay? Okay, honey?” But I could tell there was a part of him that just wondered, you know? Just wondered if maybe his little girl had a screw loose. If maybe his little girl was one of those girls who will inevitably one day get taken away to the funny farm.

But those kids, those kids who live above the gas station? Who makes their phone call? Who picks up the phone and makes sure they get in the good school? Or even something to eat? Or maybe some shoes?

No one. That's who.

So excuse me while I go kill myself.

Just kidding. I can't kill myself. We're not even out of Iowa yet! God, be patient. What is wrong with you?!

So, right now, see, what we're looking at is a broke sixteen-year-old in a thrift-store dress, heading to a snooty school on the Eastern Seaboard.

This sixteen-year-old is recovering from a tearful, snot-stained good-bye to the motley crew from her lunch table—a crew that, despite their obvious shortcomings, she seriously did NOT want to leave. This sixteen-year-old also may or may not be carrying with her a picture of the boy she had been stalking as a junior prom date, the boy whose name she dares not even speak, ripped surreptitiously out of the copy of the yearbook from the school library.

Okay, Gabriel. His name is Gabriel.

Actually, Gabe, but I call him Gabriel. When I am talking to him in my imagination. 'Cause obviously he's like an angel sent from heaven. And he likes it when I call him Gabriel. In my imagination.

I didn't tell you about the good-bye to my dad. Honestly, I feel like if I tell you I'll just start crying all over again. Like sobbing. My dad was trying not to cry. He was trying to be brave. Like a cowboy, kinda. Like a skinny cowboy who squints into the distance. And I'd like to tell you that it doesn't matter. That none of it matters.