The Fall of Butterflies by Andrea Portes Page B

Either way, nice.”
    I smile. It doesn’t make sense, right? Remy Taft. Related to thepresident 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 nevertalking 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.
    â€™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.
    â€œWilla, 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.”
    â€œSure . . . um. Is everything okay? I know my last paper was a bit of a stretch, but I was . . .”
    â€œNo, no, it’s nothing like that. I’d just like to talk to you about something.”
    â€œOh, okay. Yes, of course.”
    â€œFourth floor, Wharton House. It’s the alcove in the back.”
    â€œOh, okay. Thanks.”
    Remy and I walk off down the hallway.
    â€œWhat do you think that’s about?”
    â€œMaybe she wants to haunt you. In your pants.”
    â€œGross, 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.
    â€œCome on, let’s go commit fake suicide.”

THIRTEEN
    W hen I’m next to Remy I feel famous.
    I know. I know that sounds stupid. But here’s the thing. All my life I’ve felt like everybody else is at this invisible party. And you get glimpses of this party, fleeting, on TV or online or in movies or magazines. And it’s this amazing, thrilling, whirling party where everybody is superfantastic and skinny and glamorous and nobody ever has to worry about money or food or anything quite so gauche. No, this is a party full of starlight people, and there’s just this one thing about this party, which is . . . I’m not invited. Because I’m not exceptional or tall or skinny or some rich old Social Register name’s daughter. I’m just some girl. And even if I ever got invited to the party it would be a total mistake. LikeI’d be some cousin’s uncle’s niece and everybody could tell and if they had their way they would kick me right out.
    Because I don’t belong at that party. That party is for the fabulous people. And I’m not fabulous. I’m from Iowa.
    But not with Remy.
    When I’m with Remy I’m invited to that party.