When 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. Like I’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. When I’m with Remy we are that party. And everybody is looking at us and wanting to be with us and smiling and coming over just to be superfriendly. And it’s not me. I know it’s Remy. But still. Still, with Remy, all that feeling, all that doubt and nervousness and shame, shame for just existing, goes far, far away, and it’s just me and Remy, just me and Remy in our own private movie where we are famous and everyone around is there just to shine a light on us.
Which is why I have temporarily moved from my room into hers.
But by the looks of it, she hasn’t even moved into hers. I mean it; there’s nothing in here. There’s one bedsheet, a fitted sheet, strewn over the mattress but not even fitted. Clearly, Remy is on the lam.
“Can you drool?”
“What?”
“Do you think you can make yourself drool?”
“Um . . . what are you talking about?”
“Here. Just think of a lemon. Think really hard.”
“You’re weird.”
Remy is leaning over the bed, sideways, with her mouth open, trying to make herself drool. She looks like a spastic flying fish.
“Why would you want to make yourself drool?”
“I don’t know. It kind of seems like if you can make yourself drool, or blush, then you can make yourself cry. And you are gonna have to cry to get out of that haunted bathtub.”
“It’s not a haunted bathtub. It’s a haunted area. It’s a haunted bathtub area.”
She giggles. “Would you say it’s a bed, bath, and beyond the grave?”
I have to bite my cheek to keep from smiling. “I would say that you can joke all you want, but I’m never going back there, I swear.”
Okay, we are supposed to be studying. It’s three p.m. and we’re done with class for the day, but all we are doing is leaning over her bed trying to make ourselves drool.
“This is dumb.”
“Okay, let’s just practice the crying.”
“Okay.”
I sit up and we start the scene. Remy plays the imaginary dean of student affairs.
“Okay, I’m gonna get in character. Mi-mi-mi-mi-mi . . . okay, I’m ready.”
She sits up, purses her lips.
“And why do you wish to switch rooms, young lady?”
“Because I’m thinking of killing myself.”
There’s something here. Something fast that happens to my face. It’s a tell. An accident. But my eyes almost give it away. My plan. About actually killing myself.
Remy stops. She looks at me. A different kind of look.
“Wow. That was . . . really good.”
“Thanks.”
“Like I really believed you.”
Her eyes are on me now.
“Oh. That’s weird.” I shift around in my seat.
And they’re still on me. Laser focus.
I shrug. “C’mon, we have to practice.”
Remy raises her eyebrows and continues the charade.
“Okay, okay. My, young Willa. That sounds like a bit of hyperbole.”
“It’s not, Mrs. . . .”
“Mrs. Persnickles.”
“It’s not, Mrs. Persnickles. I have a great fear of heights, and this room is one of the highest on campus. I mean . . . it’s really high. Like I’m on an airplane or something. I get vertigo. I feel like I’m gonna fall off. Like just fall off into the abyss forever.”
“Okay, now cry.”
“What?”
“Cry. That’s our cue. When Mrs. Persnickles looks most doubtful.”
“Okay, but I’m not going to do it now. I’m saving it up.”
“That’s good. Lightning in a bottle. Save that stuff.”
“Wait. Do you know how to cry?”
“Sure.”
“Where’d you learn?”
“In rehab.”
“Wait. What?!”
“I know. Can you believe it? I got busted once, ONCE, for pot at Spence. It was seriously no big deal. Like nothing. Like a dime bag.”
“I don’t really understand pot lingo, but I’m going to nod and pretend I do.”
“Good. Because it’s nothing. Seriously. And everybody acted like it was the end of the world and the sky was falling, and next thing you know I was in the most ridiculous depressing place with everybody sharing in a circle all the time. Ugh. What a joke.”
“Okay, but maybe it was—”
“It was stupid. Totally pointless. Except that I got to take ‘drama therapy.’ Incredibly useful, calling up your emotions at will and such. I mean, I wouldn’t mind making a career of it.”
Welp, she shut that one down. I get it. Rehab. Maybe she’s embarrassed. I try to change the subject. Make her like me again.
“Is the dean of student affairs really named Mrs. Persnickles?”
“Yes. Her name is Billybottom Persnickles the third.”
“Oh, good, I wouldn’t deign to meet with Persnickles the first. Or the second.”
“Of course not, darling,” Remy drawls. “It would be beneath you.”
It’s starting to get chilly out, and we only have two hours until the office closes, and I am not going to sleep in that haunted room one more drafty night, so this is it.
“Okay, wish me luck.”
I grab my blazer and leave Remy back to her pretend drooling.
“You know I’m gonna get this,” she says.
“What?”
“The drooling. I’m gonna make myself drool.”
“Are all rich people this weird?”
It’s an authentic question.
“Yes. Not the nouveau riche, of course. They’re too bougie to be weird. Like they are trying to be this idea of rich or something, but they just always come off as ridiculous, and a little pathetic.”
“Do I come off as ridiculous and pathetic?”
“No. You come off as maybe a little bit crazy.”
I blink. “Really?”
“Well, I’m not the one switching rooms because of a haunted toilet.”
“It’s a bathtub. A haunted bathtub.”
“Exactly.”