I really didn’t think I’d see Remy before class today. Monday morning is always this bumbling rush of people, half-asleep, trying to make it to Con Lit or Calculus or Chemistry. But, as I was coming out of the campus center, scrambling to get it together, between my iced latte, my backpack, and my books, Remy appeared.
“Willa. I have to talk to you.”
She’s next to me now, as we rush across the green.
“Um, do you think we could talk after class ’cause I feel like I really need to talk to you, too, but I can’t right now ’cause I’m superlate.”
There are a zillion things to tell her. Mainly about Milo and the private island and my heart and what to do with it.
“Yeah, of course. No problem. By the way, I slept with Humbert Humbert.”
Okay, this stops me.
“You what?!”
“Humbert Humbert. He’s mine!”
“Remy, that is so . . . fucked!”
She smirks. “Don’t you mean I am so fucked?”
“No, I mean he is so fucked. Like, he’s fucked in the head, and he’s fucked in his career.”
“Career?”
“Yes, Remy. He’s an English teacher. Don’t be a snob.”
“Well, he could be so much more.”
“Like what, like Mr. Remy Taft?”
She doesn’t answer.
“Okay, that’s it. I am officially quitting the play. You tell Humbert.”
“What? Why?”
“Because he’s a perv, and I can’t risk him molesting me.”
“Come on. Besides, what am I even supposed to say?”
“I don’t know. Tell him I died.”
“Seriously?”
“Tell him . . . I’m allergic . . . to theater. And rapists.”
“C’mon, be nice. I need you. I’m feeling kind of vulnerable.”
And now I see it. Remy is standing there, in her full adorable weird mismatched outfit, looking at me, and there it is. She’s scared.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, like . . . I’m feeling kind of . . . I dunno, weird.”
“Remy, okay. I want to talk to you about this and I don’t want you to feel weird, but I also can’t miss class. So, let me just, I guess I’ll just drop by later. Okay . . . ?”
“Okay.” But she is . . . Is she shaking?
“Um, you’re okay, right?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”
“Okay, I’ll see you after class.”
Walking off, I turn around. Remy is just standing there. “Wait, why aren’t you going to class?”
“Oh, I kinda just don’t have, like, anything to hand in, so . . .”
“So you’re just not going to class?”
“Well, I don’t really feel very well.”
“Remy, just go to class.”
“I’m sick.”
And this is such a ludicrous self-diagnosis. Obviously, she’s not sick. Obviously, she just doesn’t want to go. Obviously, she just wants to sit there and pine over Humbert Humbert.
“Remy. If you go to class, it might take your mind off things. Like, it will distract you and you’ll feel better.”
“Mmm . . . I don’t think so.”
“Fine. I’ll see you later.”
There’s the clock tower at the end of the cloisters, and I have about thirty seconds to make it across the green into Royce Hall. I can do it. I can do it because I think I can do it and I must do it.
Persevere, Willa!
I could think about Remy standing there behind me fucking everything up or I could think about the fact that I seem to be becoming obsessed with Milo or I could think about the fact that the world is a horrible, unjust place, but none of that is gonna help me make it into the classroom before that bell.