By 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.”