The Fall of Butterflies by Andrea Portes Page A

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.

TWELVE
    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.
    â€œWhoa. Look at you. Have you turned to a life of crime and prostitution?”
    It’s Remy. Of course.
    â€œNope. My room is haunted.”
    â€œReally?”
    â€œWell, it’s my bathroom, actually.”
    â€œOooo-oooo. The case of the haunted bathroom . . .”
    â€œBasically, the whole area of my floor where they put me is haunted by some sort of bath ghost.”
    â€œYou are . . . odd. ”Remy stares at me, openmouthed. Browraised. But that open mouth . . . is in the shape of a smile.
    Ms. Ingall comes in and everybody sits up in their chairs.
    â€œNow, 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.
    â€œWilla? Remy? Do you have something you want to share with the rest of us?”
    â€œNo, Ms. Ingall.” We say it in unison.
    â€œGood. Now, Willa. What do you think it means? Living in the margins?”
    â€œUm . . . 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.
    â€œThat’s right, Willa.”
    Ms. Ingall turns around. Waits a beat. Turns back to me.
    â€œAnd Willa . . . why is it not the story they want to tell?”
    â€œI guess because . . . if you tell your story from themargins . . . 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.”
    â€œGood, 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.