I guess this is a postplay, meet-the-cast-and-drink-iced-tea-or-apple-juice-type thing. There are also crackers and cheese and a few grapes in case you forgot to eat your fruit today. Everyone is milling around in the foyer, marveling at this magnificent interpretation of Shakespeare. There are lots of scarves involved. I think a scarf was a requirement to get in, along with a ticket. The moms and dads look around, searching for their precious little geniuses to exit backstage and be adored. That’s the one thing about parents. You could throw up on a piece of construction paper and they’d call it art. But then when you do something really good . . . I mean, they might as well fly up into the sky on a rainbow hot-air balloon.
Looking out at the sea of bashful kids and parents, I suddenly miss my dad. I think about all the times, all the little dumb activities I did, how he would always be standing there, after, proud as punch. “Oh, Cakey-pie, that was wonderful! I’m so proud of you!” And it didn’t even matter what silly thing it was or if I fell on my face. He was just there. Like the sun and the moon and the stars. Constant.
Maybe that’s what it is with Remy. Maybe her mom or dad, maybe they just kinda left out that part. Maybe they weren’t there enough.
Or who knows, maybe they were perfect.
And maybe that didn’t even matter.
Maybe we’re just programmed. Preordained since birth to be this way or that way and never, ever to change.
One thing is for sure. Remy’s parents are decidedly absent right now. And that is an incredible, unforgivable crime after what I just witnessed.
But out she comes anyway. She comes out from backstage, and there’s a commotion, a sigh of approval, a collective gasp. A circle of heads surround her, bobbing up and down, kind words and assurances. I see she has also observed the scarf rule. A vaguely ethnic-looking scarf adorns our fledgling starlet.
And now she looks through the bobbing heads, directly at me.
I freeze, hoping to God she doesn’t somehow express her disdain in this oh-most-horrible public forum.
But that’s not what happens.
Remy parts the crowd like the Red Sea and comes directly to me, stands in front of me. There she is in all her postshow glory. You would never believe the last time I saw her she had tubes stuck up her nose and an IV in her arm.
She tilts her head to the side. “Proud?”
This doesn’t even begin to cover it. I can feel tears prickling at the corners of my eyes. “Oh, Remy, I . . .”
She hugs me.
I accept.
“That was . . . That was incredible. Seriously.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, can’t you tell? Look at everybody. They don’t know what to do, it was so amazing.”
She blushes. (I guess people do that now.) “Thanks. It was cool, right?”
“And you were heartbreaking. I practically cried or whatever.”
“I bet you stuck with ‘whatever.’”
We smile at each other, both a little gun-shy.
Then Remy goes first. “Listen, Willa. I’m really sorry. I fucked up. I shouldn’t have lied to you. About the meetings. About everything.”
I let it all out in a whoosh. “I’m sorry, too. I was totally panicked and scared and I didn’t know what to do.”
“It’s okay. Besides, you basically saved my life.”
“Maybe.”
“I think definitely.”
“Well, I’m really sorry they found out about Humbert Humbert. I shouldn’t have called him. I don’t know what I was thinking—”
“They would have found out eventually. Don’t worry about it. I sort of think maybe that was kind of the point.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. At least that’s what my therapist says.”
Therapist? I think. Well, how about that. Not just for the commoners, after all.
We stand there for a second.
“Do you miss it here? At Pembroke?”
“No.”
Ouch.
“But I miss you, Willa. I really do.”
Okay, I can put my heart back.
“Really? Oh my God, I’m so glad you said that. I thought you hated me. I mean, I wouldn’t blame you. I mean. God, I sound lame.”
“I never hated you. Are you kidding? And I’m okay now. I mean, I’m actually going to two meetings a day, if you can believe it.”
“Wow, Remy.”
“So, you know, even though I blew off Pembroke, I hope we can still hang out. Like, we can still go to Paris . . .”
“Wait. Paris? Really?”
“If you want to. Fuck yeah.”
The bobbing heads are coming toward us now—more admirers angling for chat with the superstar.
“Well, I better not keep you from the adoring throngs.”
She smiles and hugs me again. Unusual behavior for Remy. Almost normal. She is immediately enveloped when I step back. Elated masses all talking excitedly over one another.
How can I help but be proud of her? All of that underbelly—a piece of the real, vulnerable her—suddenly on display for the world to see. Everything shimmery that makes Remy unlike the rest of the humans—the stuff for which I was an audience of one—now they see it, too.
And it’s not just about her parents and that she’s related to this president or that scientist or that well-known novelist. It’s that there’s something there, something in her, something effervescent that will just give you a dress or steal a golf cart with you or whisk you off to Paris for the summer. Something giving and vulnerable and fierce and delicate all at once.
And I love everything about it—about her, from the smudge-eyed tears to the forcible move into my room. From the beautiful Ophelia to the eye rolls at the meeting in the depressing church basement.
I love everything about her.
And now I could fly up into the stars, all the way past the Big Dipper and through Orion’s belt, that she’s back. We’re back. And last but not least, I’m back. Because I get to be the person I am when I’m with her instead of the person I was when I got here.
Even though my dad is a thousand miles away, I have a feeling like I’m tucked in tonight. With a few kind words and everything in its place and the sky not falling.
And I’m about to leave the castle, walking on this excellent canopy of air, when something catches my eye.
Remember how this place was a scarf-a-thon? Well, there’s something on the ground at my feet.
This is Remy’s scarf. Remy’s vaguely ethnic scarf. It must have fallen somewhere amid the uncharacteristic warm embrace and huddled masses.
In any case, I have no idea when exactly I’m going to see her again, since she’s never coming back to Pembroke, so obviously I should just return it to her now. Simple.
Except I can’t see her anywhere. She’s completely swallowed up by the crowd.
No problem. I was supposed to be in this little show once upon a time, so I remember from rehearsal where the dressing rooms are backstage. I’ll just tuck this scarf into Remy’s stuff. Good deed for the day. Maybe I’ll even leave her a little note alone with it—something funny but heartfelt, but funny.
Right?
I find the door leading to the backstage and push through it. Ah, yes. Two dressing rooms below, for the guys. Two above, for the girls. You have to go up a winding staircase to get up to the ladies’ dressing room. I guess that’s so the boys don’t peek in.
There is not a blessed soul around. Everyone’s too busy chatting over apple juice. Maybe they spiked it.
There’s a janitor on the other end of the hall, but he’s got his earphones in and is having a good old time without my interference.
I walk down the hall to the dressing room, and there it is, all of Remy’s stuff. I would recognize that embroidered purse from Istanbul anywhere. There’s probably only one on the planet. Also, it’s gigantic. I mean, I’m sure I could fit inside it. Good, she hasn’t left yet. I’ll just leave the scarf.
Yep, I can just put this here. In her purse.
Except.
There is something else in her purse. Something new. It’s not a new shade of lipstick or a brand-new gold compact or a new set of eyeshadow. It’s not a key chain or a wallet or a vile of perfume. No, no.
It’s a kit. Have you seen one of these? I haven’t. Except on TV. On Law & Order.
If you watch Law & Order, you’ll recognize the kit.
It’s a little black bag, like a toiletry bag. Quite simple. And if you open it, which I do . . . There, look. It’s got a spoon, it’s got a little bottle of liquid, it’s got cotton Q-tips, and, of course, it’s got a couple of carefully placed syringes. All safe and snug, strapped in with elastic bands.
It’s a fucking kit.
Well, it’s a good thing Remy is going to two meetings a day, isn’t it?
My vision clouds over.
And this is me wanting to not see this thing in my hand.
This is me wanting to never see anything again.