The Fall of Butterflies (5 page)

N
obody seems to notice me the first day of class. Not in a bad way, not in a good way. Not in any way. It's just like I'm invisible. That's fine, too. I'd rather be invisible than humiliated. There seems to be no open aggression against me, and that's a relief. Back in Iowa, there were days I would get tripped twice before first period. Twice.

Mostly, I just sit in the front row and look up at the teacher. I put on this listening face that makes it seem like I'm really interested and that she is the most fascinating person saying the most fascinating things. Sometimes that's true, actually. But sometimes, not so much. It doesn't matter. The listening face remains the same. Questioning, quizzical, pondering, a rare nod of “I get it.” Trust me, it works. I've
been a straight-A student since preschool. Day care, even. If there had been classes in the maternity ward, I would have graduated with honors. None of those other babies would ever have stood a chance.

Thus far, my teachers, with a few rare exceptions, have rewarded my engaged expressions, my onslaught of curious but not authority-defying questions, and my general most-inspiring-teacher-in-the-world classroom affirmations with straight As across the board.

That was always nonnegotiable. Everything else could just fall where it may with my mother except the grades. The grades had to be A-plus-plus. That was the only deal she made with my dad when she left him.

See, it helps if you sit in the front row and make the listening face. A slight tilt of the head but not too much. Just enough to imply contemplation. Stay in the front row so that no one can distract you. That's important, too. Focus.

The classes are as follows: English Literature. Contemporary Lit. Calculus. Bio. American History. Art. And Music Theory. Both the art and music classes are kind of cool in that they combine actual learning with doing. Like you have to learn about pop art and then we make our own pop art. Or you have to learn about the jazz age and then a song or two. It's kind of cool, honestly. Much better than anything we had back home. Back home it was more like, “Do this,
don't ask questions. Learn this date, spit it back at me!” But today we learned about Billie Holiday and this song about strange fruit but it doesn't mean fruit at all because it's about how they used to hang people down south just for being black, and that is one of those things that you don't want to hear, or even know about, but you have to hear and have to know about, so you can make sure it never happens again. Or so that you can be ready with a rebuke when some dumb relative says something horrible about that time when “those people used to know their place.” Or at the very, very least, you can know better than to say the horrible thing yourself.

I wonder how many girls in this class have racist uncles or grandparents they have to listen to. It's kind of a massive problem, I bet. Old people are supposed to be wise, not jerkfaces. You gotta wonder what happened to sagacity.

Okay, so far, my favorite is the American History teacher. He's got patches on the elbows of his tweed blazer, and his oxford is kind of wrinkled, like maybe he slept in it. He's got light-brown hair and bright-blue eyes and, yeah, he's cute and everything, but I'm not about to ask him on a date. I bet lots of girls get a crush on him, though. You can kind of feel it. Like there's a mesmerized sigh in the room. A collective swoon coming off the desks.

Remy has been AWOL all day, so it's clear she was just a
figment of my imagination. Some kind of hallucination, or a wish I made.

Tonight, I have my first dinner in this place. I'll be honest with you, I'm not looking forward to it. You have to eat in the cafeteria and it's all these long Hogwarts-like tables, and I don't know anyone, so basically I'll just be sitting there alone. Like a jerk.

Then I remember.

There's a vending machine in the campus center. So my evening repast will consist of Doritos and Sprite,
en suite.

It's getting dark early now, with the lights streaming out of the cafeteria onto the green, but everything else is starting to look spooky. There's a full moon tonight, and it's so big it looks like you could just reach out and pull it down and roll it around the quadrangle.

Something weird about it, though. Something strange. And insistent. It takes my feet step by step, moving me forward toward it, across the green. Past and away from the chatter and
clang, clang
of silver coming out of the cafeteria.

Now, it's just me, beneath the moon, somehow on the other end of the green from my window. There's a bench at the end, under a row of trees. White marble and too big, really. Not even elegant. Just a giant alabaster bench glistening in the moonlight. Waiting.

It's not cold out, but you can tell it's gonna get cold soon.
Something crisp in the air about to smell like burnt leaves. Something dying.

That bench is waiting for me, and before I know it, there I am sitting on it. Looking across the green at the light streaming out the caf, a warm glow and the chatter floating up into the night sky, I feel a world shutting me out. You know what I mean? Like I don't belong here, or there, or back home, or anywhere. I'm just kind of this weird girl with no place to go. There's a part of me that always feels like that, you know? Like a fox in the snow. Somewhere deep in that arctic, my face sticking out of the tundra. (See me.) Surrounded by crisp, white freezing edges curving down to the horizon with nothing in them. (See me.)

But nothing.

No shelter.

Maybe there's a part of me that
wants
to be that fox in the snow that never gets to come inside. Maybe there's even a part of me that's scared to. You always hear about guys trying to be lone wolves and whatever, but what about girls? Maybe there are some weird girls who wanna howl at the moon, too. Some weird girls who are me.

Looking into the little windows, tiny across the green, it's like a picture show. And looking in, I can't help but wonder what all those silhouette moving heads are talking about and how do you even talk about anything? How do you even
come off as normal? Some people are so good at it. Have you ever noticed that? Like they can just smile and be happy and talk to anyone and they're just content. Normal.

But I'm not normal.

I'm a malcontent.

Restless. Always looking for a rock to hide under, or a room, or a cave, or a bench at the end of the green at dinnertime, when everybody else just goes inside, lets it ride, makes it look so easy. And I look up at the moon and wonder—why a malcontent? Why a fox in the snow? Why never at home? What's the point in making someone like that? Or maybe there's no point. Maybe it's just a mistake. A malfunction. A flaw in the design.

My dad's face flashes into my head, and before I even know it, it's happening again. The stupid tears, cold in the night air, rolling down my face. I wipe them with my forearms and sigh. You can see all the way down this row of trees to the bell tower.

I ponder it a moment. Now,
that's
a place you could kill yourself.

“Doesn't it look like a play?”

The words come out of nowhere, and I jump out of my skin. Turning from the bench, there she is.

Remy.

“Sorry. Did I scare you? I didn't mean to.”

“No, I just—”

I just what? I just was thinking how isolated and lonely I am? Jesus. I never know what to say.

“But don't they? The people in there? With the light behind them? It feels like the curtain went up and there they are. Act one.”

She nods toward the cafeteria.

“Yeah, it does kinda.”

She's leaning up against an oak and she's wearing another just-as-weird combination of clothes. It's like she threw everything on in the dark, but somehow it looks like Isaac Mizrahi put it together. It makes sense but doesn't make sense. And I don't know what to say about her, except that she is
everything
.

“So, what's the matter? Don't like cafeteria food? Me neither. It used to be worse. Seriously. Now they've gone organic or whatever.”

“Oh.”

See, I'm a real wordsmith at the moment.

“Let me guess. It's not the food, it's the company.”

“. . . Sorta.”

She takes out another old-timey cigarette. Lights up.

“You wanna try? Menthol. Tastes like a Junior Mint on fire.”

I shake my head.

“They actually have better food at the boys' school. So unfair.”

Oh, you didn't know there was a boys' school? Yup, it's the “brother school” to Pembroke. One mile on foot or one stop over on the R5 Paoli local train. Founded in 1805. Are you ready for it? Are you ready for the name? Don't laugh. It's called Witherspoon. I know. I mean, it's almost like they want their kids to get beat up. But that's what it's called, and it's our brother school. That means we're supposed to care about them. Like their lacrosse games and cotillions and dumb plays and stuff.

“Ya ever been over there?”

“Where?”

“Witherspoon?”

“No, um. Sounds too . . . withery.”

She chuckles. “Trust me, it is.”

We stand there a moment. I still don't quite understand why she's talking to me.

“Well, um, I have a test tomorrow, so . . .”

I start off toward Thiswicke. I don't even know why I'm leaving, other than I'm just embarrassed and can't think of anything to say. And that was a lie. I have no tests tomorrow.

“Hey!” she calls after me. “Where you from, anyway?”

God, should I tell her? She's gonna think I'm so lame and never talk to me again.

But then I think, who cares? It's not like I'm long for this world anyway.

Fuck it.

“Iowa.”

“What? Are you serious?”

“Yeah.” Resigned.

“Where?”

Here we go.

“What Cheer.”

“Excuse me?”

“What Cheer. I'm from a place called What Cheer, Iowa.”

“Oh my God, that is the greatest name for a place ever!”

What?
I wrinkle my forehead at her, confused.

“I've never met anyone from Iowa before. Do they all look like you?”

“Um . . .”

“Because then I'd know where they grow all the cute people.”

I'm not sure she actually said that. Did she just say that? Or what if she did? Or why? Or if she was talking about me. Was she talking about me?

All I know is I better leave. Before I say something stupid. And she realizes what a loser I am. I don't know what to say. I have nothing to say. I'm awkward. I'm weird, and I better leave. Like right now.

I enact a completely wooden gesture, something resembling a wave good-bye, mated with a salute and a bow, and turn to walk back to Thiswicke.

“Okay, then. See ya round . . . Iowa.”

She smiles and takes a drag.

All the way across the green I get the feeling she's watching me. Parsing me. Sizing me up. But here's the strange thing. I don't get the feeling that it's bad. I get the feeling that somehow, and I don't know why, but somehow this girl, this coolest girl ever invented—

—actually might possibly perhaps like me.

T
he next day in Con Lit we start reading
The Bluest Eye
, by Toni Morrison. Our teacher is named Ms. Ingall. She's got light-brown hair and fish-white skin. I mean, she's practically green. But there's something about her. Something kind. You get the feeling she's got to be a vegan or something. No one who ever ate meat could be that pale. I bet she has a “Free the Orcas” sticker on her car. Not that I mind that. I'd like to free the orcas, too. If I could, I'd free the dolphins as well. And the sea otters. Honestly, I'd spend the whole night going tank to tank, emancipating all the marine mammals and shouting, “Swim! Swim! Be free!” Why should they have to suffer just so people can ogle them and applaud on cue? If you want to see an orca, go on a boat. Or watch the
Discovery Channel. Why does anyone have to coop up some poor marine mammal just so you can eat a waffle cone and point at it at the same time?

Ms. Ingall has kind eyes. There's still a light in them. She's not married. So maybe that explains the light. She's wearing Mephisto shoes for comfort and a long, flowy skirt. Maybe she'll never be married. Or maybe this is just her teach-wear. Maybe when she goes home she lets her hair down and puts on red lipstick and kills all the boys with her rapier wit and stacked heels. Or maybe she has a cat. Named Mr. Snuffles.

It is not lost on me that I may end up just like her one day. Alone. With a cat herd. If my station in this class is any indication, I'm a shoo-in. You see, I'm at the back of the room. All alone. Yup, that's right. No one sitting next to me. Or even thinking about sitting next to me. All of my usual seats in the front row? Taken.

I might as well start naming the cats now.

Mr. Fritz. Senator Snuggles. Miss Whiskers. Chairman Meow.

There are going to be at least fifty, so feel free to add to the list. I'm sure I will run out of ideas anytime now.

“Excuse me? Is this Con Lit?”

The whole class turns and there in the doorway . . . is Remy.

The girl in front of me elbows the girl next to her and whispers.

“That's the girl I was telling you about . . .”

Ms. Ingall shushes them.

“Yes, this is Contemporary Literature. And who, might I ask, are you?”

“Remy Taft. This is my class, I think. I should be on the roster.”

“Yes, you are on the roster. And . . . you were on the roster yesterday, when you weren't here.”

“Oh, yeah, we just got in last night. Sorry.”

“Well, Miss Taft, I trust you will not
get in
late again. Take a seat.”

Remy walks down the row. There's a silence. A trepidation. Even . . . a hope. I get the feeling Remy is a hot ticket. I get the feeling everyone is hoping she will bless them with her presence, her smile, her last name. Taft. Like the president.

And now she sees me. And now she smiles. And now she sits.

Next to me.

“Well, hey! It's you. I can't believe you're in this class. Thank God.”

And the two girls in front of me, who were totally ignoring me and acting like maybe I had leprosy before, take a
long look at me and decide it's possible they should have tried to be friends with me. They look at each other. Dumbfounded. They are telepathically communicating with each other:
Oh. We messed up.

I'm sort of having an out-of-body experience right now.

Remy sits down.

One of the girls leans in.

“Hi, Remy.”

Remy barely hears them; she looks up and gives a cursory “Oh, hey.”

“Do you remember me . . . ? We met last summer? Fourth of July, actually? The Hamptons?”

“Oh. Maybe. I was kinda drunk . . .”

The girl looks vaguely humiliated, a little disappointed. But she tries to cover.

“Oh, yeah . . . me, too.”

The girl doesn't really pull it off.

Remy gives her a polite smile and turns back to me. And now I know.

Remy rules the school.

Of course she does. Her last name is Taft. She dresses like she just got out of the dryer. And she is a chronic, illegal, old-fashioned Junior-Mint smoker.

So, now that we've established that, the question is . . . why is she being so nice to me? I mean, seriously. Maybe it's
a trick. That could be. Maybe she's playing a trick on me. To humiliate me.

“Hey, can we look off the same book? I sort of lost mine.”

It is the second day of school.

“What? Oh, yeah . . . sure . . .”

“Did I miss anything yesterday?”

“Um, no, we just kind of took these weird tests that had nothing to do with anything.”

This gets a laugh, although I'm not sure why.

And I wonder if she knows how nervous I am. Or how I feel like an idiot. Or the fact that my hands are practically shaking when I hold up the book to share with her. Ugh, hands! Stop shaking, you nerds!

My hands
continue
to be total nerds. Look at me. I'm a
mess
!

I can feel the eyes of the two girls staring at me. I can feel them trying to figure out who I am. I can feel them boring a hole in my blazer, but I don't have the courage to tell them the truth. To tell them I'm no one.

And that I get the feeling, just at this second, that Remy has made me
someone
.