The Fall of Butterflies (6 page)

W
hat I'm doing now is lying low. Just staying quiet and keeping away from everybody. Here's the thing: All of a sudden I've got this, like, spotlight on me. Because of Remy.

Ever since that day when she sat next to me in Con Lit. Ever since that day, it's like there's this laser on my back. Like everybody looking. And wondering. But not asking. Parsing. Discerning. Analyzing. But not asking.

And me? I'm just keeping quiet.

Look. Remy sits next to me in class. That's it. We talk. We exchange notes. That's it. One time she walked me across the green. That's all.

But whatever she's been up to before must have been a whole lot of nothing, because I never see her with anyone at
school and all of a sudden everybody is being a lot nicer to me than before. It's like before I was Walmart and now I am Comme Des Garçons.

And that's not all. Last time I went to lunch, this girl next to me in line at the salad bar named Abigail—because people around here are named things like Abigail. And Martha. And Betsy. And other mothers of the American Revolution—turns to me and asks me
if I want to sit with her and all her friends
. I look over and they are all staring at me. Expectantly. Like they had talked about it. Like they had planned it. Like they were trying to nab me.

Now, I've never been nabbed before.

I've never even been slightly detoured.

It's weird. But what's weirder about it is I don't even know anything about Remy. It's not like I hang out with her. It's not like she's coming over to my room and we're having a pillow fight. It's just . . . nothing. It's a smile and a shared book in Con Lit. Because she always forgets it.

I mean, I don't get it.

And I don't know quite what to do.

My dad always says that if you don't know what to do, do nothing. So, my solution is . . . lie low. I'm just keeping my head down, going to class, asking insightful but not controversial questions, raising my hand with the answers but not too much, studying and handing in my tests but not
too much. I'm basically still just a bookworm, but now I'm a bookworm with eyeballs on my backpack.

But even tonight, tonight when I got out of the shower and was brushing my teeth in the mirror . . . You know, in the haunted bathroom? Even tonight, this girl from down the hall starts brushing her teeth next to me. She starts brushing her teeth next to me and looking at me. Awkward. When you're brushing your teeth: not looking time. Then, after she's done she starts talking to me. Out of the blue.

“Hey, aren't you in my Lit class?”

“Um. Yeah. I think so.”

“Cool class, right? I like the teacher.”

“Ms. Ingall? Yeah, she's nice.”

Then she looks at me a little longer, and I can tell she's about to say something else, or she wants to say something else, but she doesn't. She just stands there. And it's getting uncomfortable.

“Well, um, see you in class . . .”

And I turn to walk back into my haunted room from the haunted bathroom.

“Hey! We could study together. You know, since we're hall mates.”

I turn around, “Yeah, okay. That would be nice.”

“My name's Emma, by the way.”

“Oh, okay.”

“What's your name?”

“Huh? Oh, um . . . Willa. My name's Willa.”

I always do that. When I get put on the spot like that, I always forget my name for, like, three seconds. It's embarrassing.

“Oh, cool. Well, see you in class, Willa.”

“Yeah, okay.”

I mean, this is a long conversation to be having in your towel, especially when it's cold outside. I mean, not winter cold. But definitely fall-coming-soon-could-catch-a-cold-any-minute cold.

And I know that now that girl is gonna come up to me in class tomorrow. When I'm next to Remy. Watch. I'm telling you. It's like the whole school has been trying to forge this connection to the elusive Remy Taft, and now that she has anointed me with her friendship I am the conduit.

But it's just me.

Lil' ol' me.

And I'm not a conduit to anything . . . am I?

Y
ou're never gonna believe what happened. I swear to God, I'm not making this up. Remember that thing I told you about the legend of the bath? Okay, so here goes.

That same night, the night where that girl Emma accosted me during my dental hygiene routine . . . well, that same night, at about three in the morning . . . I heard the bathtub. Yes, bathwater running. And that's not all. I woke up, with a start, kind of sweaty, honestly. And as I lurched up in bed, I heard it. The bathwater.

No big deal, right? Maybe someone was just taking a bath at three in the morning. Stranger things have happened.

Well, that's what I thought. So, I sat there. And I sat there. And I listened. And I sat there. But then it wasn't
stopping. Like for an hour. An hour-long bath.

So now I'm starting to wonder. Is something wrong? Maybe someone fell asleep in the bath. Maybe I'm supposed to help them. Maybe that's why I flew awake in the first place.

So, now that I know I'm supposed to be the hero of this moment, now that there is some poor girl asleep in the bath and I am the only one to save her . . . I jump out of bed and tiptoe across the hall to the bathroom.

And I walk in.

Except . . .

There's nobody there.

There's not even the sound of the bath anymore. That's gone, too.

Okay, so there are two bathtubs in there. Four showers, four sinks, four toilet stalls, and two bathtubs. I guess they figured when they built this place that only two girls on this floor would ever take a bath at the same time or something.

But here's the thing. There's no one in the showers. Check. There's no one in the stalls. Check. There's no one at the sinks. Check. And . . .
there's no one in the bath.
Not the first one. Check. But, now, the second one, there is a curtain drawn around the second one, and the second one obviously is the one hiding the ghost. Or not hiding the ghost. (Schrödinger's ghost?)

I mean, seriously, how am I even supposed to look around this white tall wall when there could possibly be a ghost girl in the bathtub right there? I mean, what if she's soaking wet and purple and she looks at me smiling and then makes a mean face and her fangs come out? These are the questions, these are the questions . . .

I hold my breath.

Inhale.

And pull back the curtain.

Exhale.

Nothing.

But now I'm getting even more freaked out.

Guess why?

There's no water in the bathtub.

Nope, not even a tiny drop. Nothing. Nada. Dry as the Sahara.

One of these baths was running for an entire hour, I swear to God, I heard it. It woke me up, and now nothing. Zip. Zero.

So now I start backing up. Because now I'm getting really freaked out. Like my heart is pumping in my chest and I'm starting to get the feeling that someone, or some
thing
, is watching me. It knows I'm there and is looking at me, but I can't see it. And I can imagine it might be that soaking-wet ghost girl who is gonna smile but then grow fangs and
maybe even start laughing demonically as she corners me.

So I'm basically backing my way slowly, slowly away from the bathtubs, past the showers, past the sinks, out of the bathroom, and back to my room.

And then I'm just standing there.

I'm standing there in my room and trying to figure out what just happened and trying to calm myself down. Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm breaths. Soothing breaths. I start talking to myself. I'm not crazy, don't think that, I'm just trying to talk myself off the cliff here. I'm trying to yoga myself out of this situation.

“Okay, okay, Willa . . . that was just, that was just a coincidence. Maybe you didn't hear the bath after all. Obviously, you didn't hear the bath. Because there's no one in there. Maybe you were dreaming. Or maybe it was downstairs or something. Maybe that's the bath you heard.”

But I know that's not true, either. Downstairs the bathroom is way on the other side of the hall, all the way down. Like, someone could scream in there and there's no way I could hear it. Let alone the bathwater.

Okay, so then I decide it was just nothing and I'm just being silly and I decide to go back to bed. I get under the covers, and decide to just talk myself down to a nice sleep. And this works. For about five minutes. Until I'm just about to go back to sleep.

And then I hear it again.

The bathwater.

My eyes open and I look up at the ceiling.

This seriously can't be happening.

And it goes on and on. I try to think of all the things it could be, all the different random explanations, but nothing. Nothing. It really just sounds like bathwater.

Well, now I am really getting annoyed. Obviously, there's someone in there playing some sort of trick. There just has to be.

So I get up again and slowly make my way in, superquiet so I can catch whoever is playing this trick on me.

And I go in.

And, again . . .

There's no one there.

I
make an executive decision.

I. Am not staying. In this room. Tonight. In fact, I am not staying in this room ever again.

I swoop over to the closet, pack my bag, my books, my clothes for tomorrow, my toothbrush, and anything else I ever want to see again. I throw everything in my backpack and bound down the stairs to the first-floor study room. It's a nice room, actually. It's got sofas and lamps and cherrywood tables and desks. There's even a fireplace. And a wall of built-ins filled floor to ceiling with books.

I throw my stuff on the table and plunk down on the sofa. This is my bed for the night—I don't care if it makes me seem crazy. Clearly, there is some kind of purple ghost
girl in that bathroom and I have no intention of meeting her in person. Yes, I know that sounds like I may possibly be insane. No, I'm not going up there ever again.

#sorrynotsorry

I've got enough problems. Jesus.

I'm not religious, but I think I've reached the part of the plan in which it's time to find God.

“Dear God, Allah, Vishnu, Yahweh, Buddha, and all the god-type Super Friends in the sky-located Hall of Justice. Please make whatever that thing is go away and leave me alone and please protect me from ghosts in general forever and into eternity. Amen.”

I look up to the stars, to make sure my point is made, and that whatever God is on duty knows I really mean it.

“Thanks. I really appreciate this. You're doing a great job. Except in the Middle East. Might want to send some angels down there or something. But other than that, great job. Keep it up. And again, I know I'm repeating myself, but maybe not so much with the ghost visits.”

And I know you think this is probably all ridiculous, but I swear this bathtub thing actually happened, and seriously, tomorrow I'm gonna have to think of a way to get out of that room.

But how?

I can't tell them it's haunted.

Are you kidding me? They'd send me straight back to Iowa in a straightjacket. And then no one would hear the end of it.

And I'd be haunted by a far more frightening specter. My mother.

B
y the time Contemporary Lit comes, I look like I've been up for two days straight. What can I say? I barely slept last night, thanks to the visitation from beyond.

“Whoa. Look at you. Have you turned to a life of crime and prostitution?”

It's Remy. Of course.

“Nope. My room is haunted.”

“Really?”

“Well, it's my bathroom, actually.”

“Oooo-oooo. The case of the haunted bathroom . . .”

“Basically, the whole area of my floor where they put me is haunted by some sort of bath ghost.”

“You are . . .
odd.
”
Remy stares at me, openmouthed. Brow
raised. But that open mouth . . . is in the shape of a smile.

Ms. Ingall comes in and everybody sits up in their chairs.

“Now, class, I'm assuming we've all read the book in full? Show of hands?”

Everyone raises their hands but Remy. She's too busy writing me a note on the corner of her paper.

It says: “What are you gonna do?”

Ms. Ingall calls on someone in the front row. It annoys me I'm not in the front row, but it's assigned seating. How am I supposed to make my quizzical face from not in the front row?

I write back to Remy, on the corner of my paper: “Move.”

Remy writes back: “How?”

I write back: “Ask?”

Remy scribbles back: “They won't let you.”

I gulp.

She shakes her head at me.

Ms. Ingall is writing something on the blackboard. Something about “the other” and “living in the margins.”

I whisper to Remy. “But . . . they have to. I'm desperate.”

Ms. Ingall turns around.

Remy scribbles back: “I know what to do. You have to pretend you're gonna kill yourself if they keep you there. Then they have to move you. Or they'll be
liable
. Like in court. You know, if you actually try to go through with it.”

Oh, that's interesting. All this time I had to pretend I
wasn't
gonna kill myself, now I have to pretend I
am
gonna kill myself. Up is down, America!

Also, Ms. Ingall is on to us.

“Willa? Remy? Do you have something you want to share with the rest of us?”

“No, Ms. Ingall.” We say it in unison.

“Good. Now, Willa. What do you think it means? Living in the margins?”

“Um . . . I think maybe it means that the whole world, the whole story is focused on something else. Like men. Rich men. Rich white men, actually. And their hero stories. Like, American history. It's not about you. Not if you're a woman. And especially not if you're an African-American woman or a Latino woman. And especially if you're poor. So, you're, like . . . in the margins, living in the margins, making your case in the margins, trying to make a difference maybe, from the margins . . . but nobody really wants to listen to you. To see you. 'Cause you're not the story they want to tell.”

Ms. Ingall looks at me. And so does the rest of the class.

“That's right, Willa.”

Ms. Ingall turns around. Waits a beat. Turns back to me.

“And Willa . . . why is it not the story they want to tell?”

“I guess because . . . if you tell your story from the
margins . . . it kind of weakens their story, their storyline . . . kind of like their brand. It threatens them. All of their justifications for doing all kinds of horrible things go out the window if anyone listens to you.”

“Good, Willa. Very good.”

Remy looks at me, whispers, “Totally! Wow, you're smart! Or that ghost took you over and now you are possessed by a nerd. Either way, nice.”

I smile. It doesn't make sense, right? Remy Taft. Related to the
president Taft. Rich Remy. Born-with-everything-and-then-some Remy. Agrees? What does she know about coming in from the margins? How could she?

She
IS
the story. Hasn't she always been the story? A rich, pretty, white girl who comes from a rich family who lives in a rich house.

There's no reason
she
should be interesting.

And I'm ashamed to say it, but I don't trust her.

I don't trust her because of where she comes from and how easy it is, how easy it must be. And also because I see her in Con Lit and then she disappears to wherever effortlessly fascinating people go and I don't see her again till the following class. Where. Does. She. Go?

But then she says something hilarious and I like her so much, I can't help myself. It's like she doesn't care about anything. With her thrown-together clothes and her never
talking to anyone. She's just kind of doing everything in her own weird way and damn the torpedoes.

And that must be why everyone is so obsessed with her.

'Cause they can't figure her out. They can't put her in a box.

Ms. Ingall is wrapping it up, writing our assignment on the board. “Write a moment of your life when you felt like you were in the margins. Three pages.” We are all writing it down, getting nervous, thinking about what we'll do. How to impress Ms. Ingall. How to get an A.

The bell rings and the room turns into nothing but movement and books and pages flying everywhere and backpack buckles buckling.

Ms. Ingall stops me on the way out.

“Willa, do you think you could drop by my office hours sometime when it's convenient for you? I'm there from two to four p.m. Monday and Wednesdays.”

“Sure . . . um. Is everything okay? I know my last paper was a bit of a stretch, but I was . . .”

“No, no, it's nothing like that. I'd just like to talk to you about something.”

“Oh, okay. Yes, of course.”

“Fourth floor, Wharton House. It's the alcove in the back.”

“Oh, okay. Thanks.”

Remy and I walk off down the hallway.

“What do you think that's about?”

“Maybe she wants to haunt you. In your pants.”

“Gross, Remy! Shut up!”

But I laugh. Oh, do I laugh.

We walk past a gaggle of girls near the doorway. They stop talking and stare at Remy like she is the moon landing. One of them waves a meager little wave and the girl next to her bats down her hand, embarrassed. The first girl looks duly humiliated.

I notice this.

Remy doesn't notice this.

She doesn't seem to notice anything.

She leans in to me, devilish, and whispers.

“Come on, let's go commit fake suicide.”