I bet you thought that Remy was up to no good. Well, you’re right. She is so up to no good. She’s, basically, in the final last possible seconds before a car crash that seems at this point inevitable. But somehow, even as she’s careening wildly forward into the abyss, there still seems to be hope, some hope, that maybe, just maybe, she can still steer clear of the explosion.
As far as I can tell, this is a two-pronged problem.
I will give you the first prong:
Humbert.
“Willa, you’ll never guess! I mean, it’s crazy.”
“What’s crazy?”
“Humbert Humbert and me.”
It’s been five days since I’ve seen her and there she is, practically leaping out of the bushes onto the green. Everything around us has turned yellow and orange and red now, the very last of the leaves almost gone, only those last few bleached-brown beech and oak hanging on, nervous. Now we are getting cold. But not Iowa cold. Pembroke cold. Wet and damp. The kind of cold that gets under your skin. The kind of cold that keeps you shivering till spring.
There are circles under Remy’s eyes and her jaw looks angled, her cheekbones higher.
Gaunt, I realize.
“Um, okay, Remy. You do know this is a bad idea, right?—Humbert Humbert and you.”
“Maybe. Or maybe it’s the best idea ever.”
“Oh my God.”
I turn to Remy. She really looks out of sorts. I mean, there’s something about her that isn’t fitting into her own skin. Something shaking and unsure.
“Remy. What do you know about this guy? I mean, he’s old. He could be married.”
“No. No way. I asked. No wife. No girlfriend. I would never do something like that and—”
“Okay, let’s step back for a second. All of this? Is bad. Don’t you think that this little obsession and, say, disappearing for the past three days possibly might have some effect on your grades and, therefore, your future?”
“Not really.”
I can feel myself deflate in that moment. The truth is, she’s right. It probably doesn’t matter what kind of grades Remy gets. I mean, she’s already where she needs to be. It’s all laid out for her.
“Remy, you just . . . you can’t do this.”
“Why not?”
“It’s just . . . trouble. I mean . . . you could die.”
“Oh my God. Hello? Exaggerate much?”
“Okay, well what about when it ends? With Humbert. Have you thought of that?”
“Ends?”
“Yes, Remy. Ends.”
“Why are you being so negative?”
She’s getting annoyed now. And she has never been annoyed with me before.
Thing is, she’s not the only one.
We reach the library. It’s a grand old thing with tapestries hanging everywhere inside and huge vaulted ceilings. Iron chandeliers dangling from a million miles above the rafters. There are little patches of furniture, little seating areas lit by porcelain lamps, cozy and just so, wooden coffee tables, and girl after girl curled up, studying, buried deep in their books.
“I’m not trying to be negative. I’m just worried about you, okay?”
“Don’t be bougie.”
We’re whispering, trying not to disrupt this Norman Rockwell scene of study.
“I’m not bougie. And if I am, who cares? I mean, you look like you’ve lost ten pounds in three days.”
Remy doesn’t listen, she just goes into her bag, searching. I put down my backpack next to a giant arched window, and when I look back up again she’s popping something into her mouth, quick.
“What was that?”
“What?”
“Remy, what was that?”
“What? I seriously have no idea what you are talking about.”
We look at each other. It’s obvious she’s lying. She knows it and I know it. And we both know the other one knows.
Never mind. She doesn’t have to tell me. I know what it is. It’s the second prong in the two-pronged problem.
The pills. The many, so many pills.
That’s why she’s losing weight. That’s why she looks like a lady skeleton. A very big part of me knows—just knows—she hasn’t eaten anything but half bites off those little white pills. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
“Remy. Listen to me. All of this . . . I know it feels fun and thrilling and like a big fuck-you to everyone, but I’m telling you, it’s not pretty.”
“Not. Pretty.” She glares at me. “You know, Willa, I thought you’d be happy for me. I thought you’d want to hear all about—”
“About how you’re losing your mind over some loser teacher who could end up in jail because of you?”
“He’s not a loser. And we’re in love.”
“Are you kidding me right now?”
“Nope. Not at all. This is it.”
“Well, does he know you’re in love?”
“I think so.”
People are starting to look over but Remy stays looking at me, needing something from me.
And the absurdity, the sheer absurdity of all of this is making me want to honestly, literally, scream. So I just say whatever I have to to get out of there. “Okay, well, good luck and amen and whatever.”
And I walk away now. I don’t know why she needs me to say this is okay. I don’t know why she needs me to say anything.
This is so not okay. And the worst part is that I feel somehow responsible. Like I’m the only person between her and her careening desire to crash and burn everything around her.
But maybe it’s always like this. With rich kids. Maybe there’s always a drama or something to break and something to put back together. Maybe there has to be something. Otherwise, what would there be to do?