Apparently, calling Humbert Humbert was not a good idea. Apparently, this got him fired, shit-canned, axed. But wait, there’s more! Apparently, the whole extravaganza, between the teacher sex, the acting thing, and the OD incident, have led the Tafts to the sensible decision that maybe the Pembroke School is a bad influence on their daughter.
(If they only knew.)
But there you have it.
Pembroke is bad for Remy.
So here I sit in my giant, beautiful room, with Remy’s sheets on the bed and Remy’s things scattered all around.
But no more Remy.
I have desperately wanted to talk to her but then desperately wanted not to talk to her and so on and so on to infinity.
I have kicked her stupid dirty clothes to the corner of the room in a raging fit. And I have wrapped myself up in her bedding and stared, silent, out my open door toward the maid’s room.
And Milo. Well, he’s AWOL, too. Just like Remy said he would be. Maybe his mom heard about the OD and took him out of Witherspoon. He hardly ever went to class anyway.
I wonder if they’ll still find a way to give them both their diplomas. I mean, if they did, would any of us be surprised?
And you. Perhaps you’re hoping for one of those romantic-comedy moments where one day Milo is running toward me on the quad and confessing his love and begging for forgiveness in the last minute. Nope. Sometimes life doesn’t get to be a movie. Sometimes it’s just weird and unsettling. Like getting dumped on Thanksgiving and then never speaking to someone ever again.
That’s okay, though. I’m trying to make it okay. Maybe part of the trick is not to expect that everything is gonna turn out like a movie. Maybe if you take away that expectation and just let everything be what it is, that’s how you get through this thing without tearing your hair out.
Maybe you’re just supposed to let it be. Maybe you just take away the “should.”
But right now there is no letting anything be, because everyone is freaking the fuck out about the play.
What to do, what to do?! All of them . . . brimming with anticipation about what’s gonna happen to the play.
Apparently, Mrs. Jacobsen—who has been reinstated after Humbert’s abrupt (ahem) departure—is in a real dither about the whole catastrophe. No Ophelia. No Ophelia! How can you have Hamlet without Ophelia?!
Maybe Mrs. Jacobsen can play Ophelia. A brilliant interpretation! Hamlet as Ann Taylor catalog!
But Mrs. Jacobsen will not play Ophelia. And neither will anybody else. For a moment it seems they may cancel the play altogether.
None of this would have happened if they had just stuck to Grease, of course.
But no, Grease was too pedestrian.
(I just want you to know I learned that whole Frenchy song.)
(And I’m kind of bitter about it.)
Then, finally, latest rumor. It is that Remy Taft is coming back to just do the play and only the play. A Friday-through-Sunday affair, never to be repeated again in the annals of theater. An exclusive!
And, yes, the rumors have been flying about the reason for Remy’s sudden exit. Everyone is sorta wondering, sorta whispering about an inappropriate relationship between Remy and the teacher. People come up to me, their faces squished in fake sympathy, to ask: “Is it true? Did you know about it? How long has it been going on?” But I cut them off with a look and they pretend to be staring at their term papers.
It’s not like Remy’s image is sullied. If anything, it is enhanced. That’s Remy for you. Somehow everything disgusting and depraved looks good on her. On anyone else it’s gauche; on Remy it’s chic. Even the overdose.
But then, no one knows about that. No one but me.
Of course I haven’t heard from her. I am vanquished. I am back on the other side, looking in. I am not cool anymore. But who am I kidding? I was never cool. I was never that person. I was always just a dork from the sticks. And maybe I proved my mother right. Maybe all this was too much for me to even begin to comprehend, considering where I’m from.
But regardless, I have a ticket to Hamlet tonight. I’m going to sit through this goddamn play and get it over with. I’m sure it will be terrible.
I’m sure I will absolutely hate every minute of it.
I’m sure I will not long for Remy from a dark corner of the auditorium during act one, scene five. Nope. Not one bit. Why would you even ask me that?