The Fall of Butterflies (23 page)

A
pparently, calling Humbert Humbert was not a good idea. Apparently, this got him fired, shit-canned, axed. But wait, there's more! Apparently, the whole extravaganza, between the teacher sex, the acting thing, and the OD incident, have led the Tafts to the sensible decision that maybe the Pembroke School is a bad influence on their daughter.

(If they only knew.)

But there you have it.

Pembroke is bad for Remy.

So here I sit in my giant, beautiful room, with Remy's sheets on the bed and Remy's things scattered all around.

But no more Remy.

I have desperately wanted to talk to her but then
desperately wanted not to talk to her and so on and so on to infinity.

I have kicked her stupid dirty clothes to the corner of the room in a raging fit. And I have wrapped myself up in her bedding and stared, silent, out my open door toward the maid's room.

And Milo. Well, he's AWOL, too. Just like Remy said he would be. Maybe his mom heard about the OD and took him out of Witherspoon. He hardly ever went to class anyway.

I wonder if they'll still find a way to give them both their diplomas. I mean, if they did, would any of us be surprised?

And you. Perhaps you're hoping for one of those romantic-comedy moments where one day Milo is running toward me on the quad and confessing his love and begging for forgiveness in the last minute. Nope. Sometimes life doesn't get to be a movie. Sometimes it's just weird and unsettling. Like getting dumped on Thanksgiving and then never speaking to someone ever again.

That's okay, though. I'm trying to make it okay. Maybe part of the trick is not to expect that everything is gonna turn out like a movie. Maybe if you take away that expectation and just let everything be what it is, that's how you get through this thing without tearing your hair out.

Maybe you're just supposed to let it be. Maybe you just take away the “should.”

But right now there is no letting anything be, because everyone is freaking the fuck out about the play.

What to do, what to do?! All of them . . . brimming with anticipation about what's gonna happen to the play.

Apparently, Mrs. Jacobsen—who has been reinstated after Humbert's abrupt (ahem) departure—is in a real dither about the whole catastrophe. No Ophelia. No Ophelia! How can you have
Hamlet
without Ophelia?!

Maybe Mrs. Jacobsen can play Ophelia. A brilliant interpretation!
Hamlet
as Ann Taylor catalog!

But Mrs. Jacobsen will not play Ophelia. And neither will anybody else. For a moment it seems they may cancel the play altogether.

None of this would have happened if they had just stuck to
Grease
, of course.

But no,
Grease
was too pedestrian.

(I just want you to know I learned that whole Frenchy song.)

(And I'm kind of bitter about it.)

Then, finally, latest rumor. It is that Remy Taft is coming back to just do the play and only the play. A Friday-through-Sunday affair, never to be repeated again
in the annals of theater. An exclusive!

And, yes, the rumors have been flying about the reason for Remy's sudden exit. Everyone is sorta wondering, sorta whispering about an inappropriate relationship between Remy and the teacher. People come up to me, their faces squished in fake sympathy, to ask: “Is it true? Did you know about it? How long has it been going on?” But I cut them off with a look and they pretend to be staring at their term papers.

It's not like Remy's image is sullied. If anything, it is enhanced. That's Remy for you. Somehow everything disgusting and depraved looks good on her. On anyone else it's gauche; on Remy it's chic. Even the overdose.

But then, no one knows about that. No one but me.

Of course I haven't heard from her. I am vanquished. I am back on the other side, looking in. I am not cool anymore. But who am I kidding? I was never cool. I was never that person. I was always just a dork from the sticks. And maybe I proved my mother right. Maybe all this was too much for me to even begin to comprehend, considering where I'm from.

But regardless, I have a ticket to
Hamlet
tonight. I'm going to sit through this goddamn play and get it over with. I'm sure it will be terrible.

I'm sure I will absolutely hate every minute of it.

I'm sure I will not long for Remy from a dark corner of the auditorium during act one, scene five. Nope. Not one bit. Why would you even ask me that?

T
his place is the perfect place for bats to fly around. And spiders. And theater ghosts. This castle turned into meeting hall turned into stage. You have to admit, it's perfect for
Hamlet
.

The opening scene, a cascading landscape, papier-mâché falling from the very back of the theater, all the way to the front, a kind of dilapidated triptych. There are rear projections. There is text on the wall. There is eerie but beautiful music under it all. Then, from the rafters: “'Tis bitter cold and I am sick at heart.”

It. Is. Flabbergasting.

I guess Humbert Humbert really was more than a perverted English teacher after all. It doesn't take any of us very
long to realize we are seeing something we will never see again. Something extraordinary. The temperature of the room has changed from snarky apathy before the curtain, to enthralled fascination by the end of the first scene. It's a poem somehow onstage for us and for us only.

I find myself feeling grateful I am not in the play so I can see the play. Here's the other thing. It moves all around the castle. We, the audience, move from scene to scene, entering each scene like it's a discovery, like we just happen to have stumbled upon this whispering between these walls.

When Hamlet leaves Ophelia, there is Remy, staring off into the distance, pleading, “Oh, what a noble mind is here o'erthrown.” She is stunning. She is brilliant. And I am looking at her, thinking those very same words about her.

What an incredible supernova of a person is here overthrown. Spiraling downward. Driving herself crazy. There she is. Standing there in some future-past getup. Like if you made a beautiful old-fashioned dress out of gauze. It doesn't make sense, but it is exquisite. It feels like we're all awake, dreaming. Like we're all in the same hallucination. A fever dream.

Near the end of the play, in a vaulted room, Ophelia aka Remy comes in, and she is soaking wet. She's gone mad now, and she is giving flowers to everyone and saying the name of each flower.

“There's rosemary, that's for remembrance . . . And there is pansies, that's for thoughts . . .”

As the scene goes on her dress changes, like there must be dye in the dress and the wetter it gets the more dye comes out, changing the dress from white to all these beautiful blues and purples. Everyone in the audience is gasping and looking on. Amazed.

Then she looks out, directly, into the audience and says, “Good night, sweet ladies. Sweet ladies, good night.” As if suddenly she sees us, actually sees us, there in the audience. As if suddenly, for a moment, Ophelia, mad Ophelia, is the smartest person in the play.

We all stand in silence, caught.

We watch, then, as she exits the room and goes outside, where we can still see her, through a giant arched window, walking all the way down the rolling hill and then all the way up the next rolling hill, into the distance, until now she's only a tiny speck far away and then, finally, we can't see her anymore. Gone. Disappeared. A magic trick.

I
guess this is a postplay, meet-the-cast-and-drink-iced-tea-or-apple-juice-type thing. There are also crackers and cheese and a few grapes in case you forgot to eat your fruit today. Everyone is milling around in the foyer, marveling at this magnificent interpretation of Shakespeare. There are lots of scarves involved. I think a scarf was a requirement to get in, along with a ticket. The moms and dads look around, searching for their precious little geniuses to exit backstage and be adored. That's the one thing about parents. You could throw up on a piece of construction paper and they'd call it art. But then when you do something really good . . . I mean, they might as well fly up into the sky on a rainbow hot-air balloon.

Looking out at the sea of bashful kids and parents, I suddenly miss my dad. I think about all the times, all the little dumb activities I did, how he would always be standing there, after, proud as punch. “Oh, Cakey-pie, that was wonderful! I'm so proud of you!” And it didn't even matter what silly thing it was or if I fell on my face. He was just there. Like the sun and the moon and the stars. Constant.

Maybe that's what it is with Remy. Maybe her mom or dad, maybe they just kinda left out that part. Maybe they weren't
there
enough.

Or who knows, maybe they were perfect.

And maybe that didn't even matter.

Maybe we're just programmed. Preordained since birth to be this way or that way and never, ever to change.

One thing is for sure. Remy's parents are decidedly absent right now. And that is an incredible, unforgivable crime after what I just witnessed.

But out she comes anyway. She comes out from backstage, and there's a commotion, a sigh of approval, a collective gasp. A circle of heads surround her, bobbing up and down, kind words and assurances. I see she has also observed the scarf rule. A vaguely ethnic-looking scarf adorns our fledgling starlet.

And now she looks through the bobbing heads, directly at me.

I freeze, hoping to God she doesn't somehow express her disdain in this oh-most-horrible public forum.

But that's not what happens.

Remy parts the crowd like the Red Sea and comes directly to me, stands in front of me. There she is in all her postshow glory. You would never believe the last time I saw her she had tubes stuck up her nose and an IV in her arm.

She tilts her head to the side. “Proud?”

This doesn't even begin to cover it. I can feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “Oh, Remy, I . . .”

She hugs me.

I accept.

“That was . . . That was incredible. Seriously.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, can't you tell? Look at everybody. They don't know what to do, it was so amazing.”

She blushes. (I guess people do that now.) “Thanks. It was cool, right?”

“And you were heartbreaking. I practically cried or whatever.”

“I bet you stuck with ‘whatever.'”

We smile at each other, both a little gun-shy.

Then Remy goes first. “Listen, Willa. I'm really sorry. I fucked up. I shouldn't have lied to you. About the meetings. About everything.”

I let it all out in a whoosh. “I'm sorry, too. I was totally panicked and scared and I didn't know what to do.”

“It's okay. Besides, you basically saved my life.”

“Maybe.”

“I think definitely.”

“Well, I'm really sorry they found out about Humbert Humbert. I shouldn't have called him. I don't know what I was thinking—”

“They would have found out eventually. Don't worry about it. I sort of think maybe that was kind of the point.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. At least that's what my therapist says.”

Therapist?
I think. Well, how about that. Not just for the commoners, after all.

We stand there for a second.

“Do you miss it here? At Pembroke?”

“No.”

Ouch.

“But I miss
you
, Willa. I really do.”

Okay, I can put my heart back.

“Really? Oh my God, I'm so glad you said that. I thought you hated me. I mean, I wouldn't blame you. I mean. God, I sound lame.”

“I never hated you. Are you kidding? And I'm okay now.
I mean, I'm actually going to two meetings a day, if you can believe it.”

“Wow, Remy.”

“So, you know, even though I blew off Pembroke, I hope we can still hang out. Like, we can still go to Paris . . .”

“Wait. Paris? Really?”

“If you want to. Fuck yeah.”

The bobbing heads are coming toward us now—more admirers angling for chat with the superstar.

“Well, I better not keep you from the adoring throngs.”

She smiles and hugs me again. Unusual behavior for Remy. Almost normal. She is immediately enveloped when I step back. Elated masses all talking excitedly over one another.

How can I help but be proud of her? All of that underbelly—a piece of the real, vulnerable her—suddenly on display for the world to see. Everything shimmery that makes Remy unlike the rest of the humans—the stuff for which I was an audience of one—now they see it, too.

And it's not just about her parents and that she's related to this president or that scientist or that well-known novelist. It's that there's something
there
, something in
her
, something effervescent that will just give you a dress or steal a golf cart with you or whisk you off to Paris for the summer.
Something giving and vulnerable and fierce and delicate all at once.

And I love everything about it—about her, from the smudge-eyed tears to the forcible move into my room. From the beautiful Ophelia to the eye rolls at the meeting in the depressing church basement.

I love everything about her.

And now I could fly up into the stars, all the way past the Big Dipper and through Orion's belt, that she's back. We're back. And last but not least,
I'm
back. Because I get to be the person I am when I'm with her instead of the person I was when I got here.

Even though my dad is a thousand miles away, I have a feeling like I'm tucked in tonight. With a few kind words and everything in its place and the sky not falling.

And I'm about to leave the castle, walking on this excellent canopy of air, when something catches my eye.

Remember how this place was a scarf-a-thon? Well, there's something on the ground at my feet.

This is Remy's scarf. Remy's vaguely ethnic scarf. It must have fallen somewhere amid the uncharacteristic warm embrace and huddled masses.

In any case, I have no idea when exactly I'm going to see her again, since she's never coming back to Pembroke, so obviously I should just return it to her now. Simple.

Except I can't see her anywhere. She's completely swallowed up by the crowd.

No problem. I was supposed to be in this little show once upon a time, so I remember from rehearsal where the dressing rooms are backstage. I'll just tuck this scarf into Remy's stuff. Good deed for the day. Maybe I'll even leave her a little note alone with it—something funny but heartfelt, but funny.

Right?

I find the door leading to the backstage and push through it. Ah, yes. Two dressing rooms below, for the guys. Two above, for the girls. You have to go up a winding staircase to get up to the ladies' dressing room. I guess that's so the boys don't peek in.

There is not a blessed soul around. Everyone's too busy chatting over apple juice. Maybe they spiked it.

There's a janitor on the other end of the hall, but he's got his earphones in and is having a good old time without my interference.

I walk down the hall to the dressing room, and there it is, all of Remy's stuff. I would recognize that embroidered purse from Istanbul anywhere. There's probably only one on the planet. Also, it's gigantic. I mean, I'm sure
I
could fit inside it. Good, she hasn't left yet. I'll just leave the scarf.

Yep, I can just put this here. In her purse.

Except.

There is something else in her purse. Something new. It's not a new shade of lipstick or a brand-new gold compact or a new set of eyeshadow. It's not a key chain or a wallet or a vile of perfume. No, no.

It's a kit. Have you seen one of these? I haven't. Except on TV. On
Law & Order
.

If you watch
Law & Order
, you'll recognize the kit.

It's a little black bag, like a toiletry bag. Quite simple. And if you open it, which I do . . . There, look. It's got a spoon, it's got a little bottle of liquid, it's got cotton Q-tips, and, of course, it's got a couple of carefully placed syringes. All safe and snug, strapped in with elastic bands.

It's a fucking kit.

Well, it's a good thing Remy is going to two meetings a day, isn't it?

My vision clouds over.

And this is me wanting to not see this thing in my hand.

This is me wanting to never see anything again.