The Fall of Butterflies (8 page)

“I
t worked!”

I am practically flying across the green like some kind of ghost myself. Nothing is getting me there fast enough, because I am dying to tell Remy and I am still not there yet.

Flying into the dorm and up the stairs and into Remy's room, which is open, I am brimming with tales and quips about my magnificent performance and the ensuing room and let's go see it right now. But Remy's not there. Not a signal, not a sign. Nothing doing. Unmade bed. Check. Clothes all over the floor. Check. Remy. No check.

But the door is open, so that's weird.

“Remy?”

Maybe she's in the bathroom. I walk down the hall and
see a serious-looking girl with a furrowed brow furrowing at me.

“Hi. Sorry. Have you seen Remy?”

She shakes her head and retreats back into her lair.

The bathroom smells like chlorine and more chlorine, but there is no Remy here.

Maybe she's in the study room. The study room in this dorm is unusually beat-up compared to my old study room. It's as if they put all the other study rooms together with a calculated, magnificent plan and then realized they forgot one. This one. This one with furniture in it from the sixties. Put it this way, this study room will not be going in the brochure.

There's a redheaded student who is possibly a descendant of Strawberry Shortcake cuddled up in the reading nook. She looks up at me with annoyance. Then something registers, and she changes completely. Now she is a smile. A redheaded strawberry smile.

“Hi, um, have you seen Remy? Remy Taft?”

“Yeah, I know. I mean, I know her. I mean, not like you, but I know her.”

This is getting awkward. She's sort of falling all over herself and now she's turning red but her hair is red, too, so everything is red over there in the reading nook.

“Oh, um. Okay, well, if you see her could you tell her Willa is looking for her. That's me. I'm Willa.”

“I know.”

I don't understand what is happening right now. No one is supposed to know who I am. That's Remy's job. I am just the sidekick. The trusty sidekick who is not the star of the show but can be counted on to laugh at jokes, attend activities, and generally make everyone else feel better about themselves. I am the frozen yogurt, not the sprinkles.

“I'll tell her. No problem.”

Strawberry goes back to her book after an assuring smile. I decide I like her. She reads books in the reading nook in the worst study room on campus. That's a girl after my own heart. Maybe she's like me. Lone wolf. Not good enough for the fancy study room.

Sauntering out of the dorm, into the late-afternoon light, I have the feeling that maybe everything is possibly gonna be okay. Not just okay—maybe even better than okay. Maybe perfect. The sun is turning the sky dusty pink and orange and that means there is infinite possibility in a place where you can cry and get dorm rooms with fireplaces and a view. Where you get to be friends with Remy Taft. Where people know your name is Willa.

D
enbigh dorm is across the green from the library, hidden away amid the spruce and the pines. From my room, on the fourth floor, I can actually see over through the treetops to the comings and goings along the green, but I am high enough to hear only silence and the occasional chirping birds, which are actually flying dinosaurs.

Don't even talk to me about birds. I can't even.

My only sadness, which is a goofy sadness, is that Remy wasn't here when I opened the door. See, what would've happened then is that we would've held our breath, unlocked the door, opened the door, and then squealed with glee and delight and immediately had a pillow fight when we saw how superfantastic my new room was.

That did not happen. Instead, I crept up the stairs to my lonely little room on the far end of the dorm, wiggled the key in the lock without any ado, opened the door, and peered in on
the best room ever
. But there was no squealing. And no pillow fight.

There was only a brief sigh to be noticed by no one. Not even the leaves on the trees seemed to care. And the only room anywhere near mine in this small alcove, at the end of the hall, is this tiny room next door, which appears to be empty. It's open, but, really, this adjacent room barely counts as a room. More of a large closet.

But
my
room! Oh, ladies and gentleman, it is a grand affair! It is an affair with different-colored wood in the floors, like little designs in the wood. What will they think of next? Back home, if you wanted designs on your wood floor you would have to use a marker.

But wait, there's more! The fireplace has tile around it with little designs in the tile. Like little pictures. One is a scene of a girl sitting by a lake. In the tile. That scene is in the tile.

And out of the windows, I kid you not, there is a little squirrel, just sitting in the space between the window and three of the little turrets that seem to have spawned all over this campus. The squirrel is standing still, in a sort of profile, holding on to an acorn, pretending not to notice me,
or to exist at all. The squirrel is sizing up the situation. The squirrel is attempting to figure out if I'm going to try to eat him.

“Hi, squirrel.” I say it in a singsongy voice. To alert the squirrel to my intentions. Happy intentions. Non-squirrel-eating intentions.

“Hi, little squirrely. Hi there.”

The squirrel decides I am not his evil nemesis and decides to pay attention to the acorn he is holding and nevermind me anyway.

I mean, you know you got the best room if there is a squirrel there to greet you. That is a sign from the good Lord above that this was meant to be. The only thing not meant to be is that I am alone in this room. I want to share this room. I want to jump up and down in this room and scream and giggle. I want to hold grand affairs in this room and maybe even a tea on Sunday.

But it's a holding pattern.

I'm on standby. In this room.

Alone.

T
wo days later, she hasn't even made it to class. It's okay, though. I've analyzed my behavior and decided I was maybe being a little obsessive and maybe she didn't like me all that much anyway. I don't blame her. So it's fine. I am acceptance now. Everything is as it should be. I am Yoda. You can't stop me.

Except . . .

When I get back to my brilliant, amazing dorm room, there is Remy. Just sitting there on my bed like the cat that ate the canary.

“Now, do you know how to fake cry or do you know how to fake cry?”

I laugh, a little taken aback. How did she even get in here?

“Well, Iowa, I think we can both agree that this is the best room of all time and I didn't even know it existed. That's how good it is.”

“I know. Can you believe this? It's like I won the lottery or something.”

“Who's next door?”

“No one. The room's too small. Like it's probably the size of your closet.”

“Maid's quarters.”

“What?”

“Maid's quarters.”

“Um. I don't exactly have a maid.”

“I know. But they used to. People used to send their kids here,
avec
maid.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yeah. And . . . they used to have a lady who would wash your hair for five dollars. In the basement.”

“What, like she lived there?”

“Yes, she was a troll.” Remy smiles, stands up. “No, but she was there all week. And they just abolished that as ‘classist' in the '90s. The 1990s. It's true.”

“Wow. I kind of wish she were still there—I hate washing my hair. It hurts my arms.”

But Remy isn't listening to me. She's too busy walking past me, into the tiny room next door, grabbing the bed,
and
bringing that bed into my room
.

“Um. What are you doing?”

“Um. Moving this bed in here.”

Now she is arranging the bed in the room, neatly under the window.

“That's where that wants to be.” She nods, approving her work, before going back into the other room and reemerging with the mattress.

She plops the mattress down on the bed frame and brushes the dust off her hands, surveying her work.

“That's perfect. I'll go get my stuff.”

Before I can say anything, or even process what the hell is going on, Remy is out the door and down the stairs. I see her rushing excitedly across the green, presumably to get her stuff, presumably to move in with me, presumably to start sleeping on that bed she just brought in here.

Huh. I guess I was not being obsessive after all. I guess I was being . . . normal?

I guess next to Remy anybody looks normal.

O
ur first
en suite
study session goes like this: I organize our work space. Remy orders sushi. I put the books down. Remy goes to the other side of the room. I crack my book open. My phone buzzes next to me.

And now I realize Remy is texting me. From the bed. Across the room.

Y U NO CALL ME NO MO?

I text back.

U CRAY CRAY

I continue to study. Or try.

And now Remy.

MY LUV IS TRUE

My turn.

U R A NERDFACE

And now her.

UR 2 QT 2 B 4GOT

And my turn.

I DIE. IT IS SLO DEATH.

And now, back to studying.

Remy stays quiet and I am just about to launch into an amazing chapter about the importance of the railroad and industry to the outcome of civil war. Except.

Darth Vader ringtone.

I glance down at my phone.

And look who it is!

I pick up.

She is on the other side of the room, but we're not looking at each other.

“Hello? Hello?”

I answer.

“Hello, who is this?”

“This is Ryan Gosling. I'm calling to tell you that I've fallen in love with you even though I've never met you.”

“That's great, Ryan, but the problem is I'm studying right now, so you will just have to call later and also marry me.”

“If I marry you will you gallivant in the rain like in
The Notebook
?”

“Yes, Ryan.”

“Okay, good. Bye.”

Remy hangs up.

Well, this is all very exciting, but I do have to study. Here I go, back to the genius of Abraham Lincoln.

Darth Vader ringtone.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Robert Pattinson. I was just calling to tell you you've won a trip to my penis.”

I try not to laugh.

“That is really tempting, Robert, but I have to study.”

I hang up.

Nothing.

Nothing. Back to studying . . .

Darth Vader ringtone.

I pick up.

“Trip to my penis!”

That's it. We both start laughing, and no studying is happening. Okay, I know how to do this now.

For to study: get the hell away from Remy.

For to laugh.

For to be happy.

For to not kill myself . . .

Stay next to Remy.

But Remy is over it now. Now she's ducking into the maid's quarters next door, which she seems to be doing a lot of lately. And now I can study. I can.

T
here's this thing they're doing at the boys' school, Witherspoon. The more I hear about these boys, the more I feel sorry for them. Like they all listen to Phish. And play Hacky Sack. And inevitably someone has a bongo drum.

Witherspoon Prep.

I mean, seriously.

These guys should really start breeding out of their circle. Half of them look like they couldn't lift a suitcase. Not that they'd ever have to. But that they actually couldn't. It's pathetic. I mean, what is going to become of them? If they don't get their trust funds, they are all goners for sure.

Anyway, I guess they're putting this thing together. A
play. It's an obvious ploy to get girls over there. Theater girls. But still girls.

I saw the flyer on the wall. Auditions. Guess what's the play? Actually, it's a musical. Don't squeal. God. What is wrong with you? You are so embarrassing sometimes.

Okay, here goes:

It's
Grease
.

Yup. These Witherbottoms over there are gonna put on a production of
Grease
, and we're all invited to be a part of the magic. Of course, everyone will want to play Sandy. That's obvious. (Even though everyone knows the coolest part is Marty. Marty's the hot one. She dates college guys. And Marines. And that famous TV guy who emcees the Rydell High dance contest.)

So I'm busy making fun of this in my head, having a blast internally, really, but next thing I know Remy is next to me, looking at the flyer, and now, get this.

“What?
Grease
!?”

“I know. So lame.”

“So lame that we are doing it.”

“What? No way.”

“C'mon. At the very least it will get us out of this godforsaken place. For a few hours at least. Otherwise we are destined to be shriveled-up old maids who play cards all day. Possibly pinochle.”

“You must be joking. Are you high?”

“What? No. Why? You wanna get high?”

“No, it's just an expression.”

“Oh, c'mon, it'll be fun.”

“Wait. You're serious? I mean, I know you were all into your drama therapy or whatever, but this?”

“Yes. This. I definitely think we should go over there for the auditions. What could it hurt?”

“I know what you're counting on. You're counting on the theater bug. You're counting on it biting me and turning me into a theater spaz.”

“Maybe. But really I'm really counting on us having an excuse to blow this popsicle stand.”

“I think it's more like you want to blow some guy's popsicle.”

“Ew.”

I shrug. “I'm just saying.”

“Look, it'll look good on your transcripts. How 'bout that?”

Ugh. The magic bullet. “I dunno . . .”

But I already know I'm doing it. If Remy wants to do it, I want to do it. Just to be with Remy. Just to have more to laugh about and make fun of. Just to be in her world. To be next to her. To outsnark and outjoke and outgiggle and outtext from the same room and be silly but act as though we are part of our own personal movie.

“Besides. I bet Milo will do it.”

“Milo?”

“Oh. Nobody told you about Milo.”

“Um, what are you talking about?”

“Wow, you really are from Nebraska.”

“Iowa. And no, I was making it up. To impress everyone.”

“Milo. Milo Hesse. Aka the guy you're about to be in love with.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Trust me.”

“How do you know?”

“Because everybody is.”

“Even you?”

“We're just friends. But trust me. The guy's irresistible. Like french fries.”

“I don't like french fries.”

“Well, you'll like this french fry.”

And now all I can think about is this unknown irresistible fry guy who even Remy cares about. And it's weird because I'm simultaneously scared of this guy and also jealous of him. Like why does Remy like this guy so much? He's just some stupid guy. And she's
Remy
.
The
Remy Taft. Why should she demean herself by even liking anyone? Isn't she above that? Everybody's supposed to like her, remember?

I resolve to hate this Milo.