H AYLIE B UTTERFIELD WAS THE only person in the dorm I knew from home. Her family lived just a few blocks away from our cul-de-sac, in a palatial house with a circular drive and small fountain in front, their mailbox hidden inside a statue of a lion. When Haylie and I were very young, we had almost been friends. She had a castle-shaped playhouse in her backyard that was three stories high, made with real wood, with glass windows and a spiral stairway down the middle. Also, incidentally, Haylie was nice. So whenever her mother called my mother and asked if I wanted to come keep her daughter company, I was always ready to go.
Haylies mother, Pamela Butterfield, was a runner. Even in cold weather, we would see her pushing Haylies bundled-up little brother in a jogging stroller with quick, even strides up the hill past our house, her ponytail bobbing over a wool headband. The kid has little pedals in there, my father said once, smiling at his own joke. Lazy woman, making the boy do all the work.
Pamela Butterfield and my mother were friends, or at least they had been, when Haylie and I were little. According to my mother, they spent long days at the country clubs kiddie pool, comparing pediatricians and sleep deprivation while they held us under our armpits and bobbed us gently in the water. Haylie and I went to the same toddler tumbling class, the same ballet class, the same Spanish sing-alongs at the library. We were in the same Girl Scout troop, and my mother was our troops leader until my grandmothers failing health took up too much of her time. When Haylies little brother was born, Haylies mother resumed the daily routine of a stay-at-home mom with a small child; but my mother was just beginning her long journey into the world of elder care. And after my parents canceled their membership to the country club, we couldnt go to the same pool. But my mother and Pamela stayed friendly. If Pamela was running by when my mom was backing out of the driveway, they would stop to talk, both of them saying they would get together soon, to have coffee maybe, when they werent so busy.
By the time I was in junior high, Haylies little brother and his friends were playing in the castle, and Haylie and I had drifted apart. I wasnt exactly a pariah in high school, but by seventh grade, Haylie had risen to the top tier of the social order. Shed always been cute, with the kind of face that looked feminine even with her auburn hair cut short all around. But in ninth grade, she made three major changes: she went out for track and made the varsity team; she let her hair grow past her shoulders; and she started wearing lip gloss. All of a sudden, she was legendary. She dated seniors. There was a rumor that a scout for a modeling agency had spotted her at the mall and given her his card, saying to call if she grew even a few inches taller.
My first and only boyfriend in high school had been in love with Haylie Butterfield. He told me this several months after hed broken up with me; to be fair, when he was breaking up with me, I had agreed to just be friends, and I suppose friends can tell each other whom they are in love with. But I remember that the moment he whispered Haylie Butterfield with so much reverence and ridiculous hope, I instantly lost all respect for him. Having a crush on Haylie seemed so unimaginative.
Jealous much? hed asked.
Maybe. At the time, it was hard not to to be. Not only was she a beautiful track star, her grades were as good as mine. Her father was an executive at a utility company, and her future seemed to hold every potential: Id heard her talking to a guidance counselor about applying to UCLA and Yale. Still, she hadnt done anything to deserve my resentment. She was pleasant enough when I saw her in the hallways. Almost everyone liked her. She made the Homecoming Court sophomore and junior year. And senior year, several months after her father was arrested for embezzlement and tax evasion, Haylie was elected Homecoming Queen. Maybe people felt sorry for herher fathers name had been in the paper every day for months, and everyone knew her parents were getting divorced and the house was being seized and her little brother was in the hospital with a stomach ulcer. But it may have just been Haylies beauty and charm, undefeated, trumping everything.
Shortly after that, she disappeared, and so did her mother and brother. Their house was on the market before the end of spring. My mother tried to call, but by then, the number was disconnected. My mother left a note in the mailbox inside the stone lion. She never heard back. Someone bought the house who didnt have any kids, and they tore down the play castle to make room for a fire pit and patio. I didnt actually see the castle go down, but the next time we drove past their house, my mother and I saw jagged pieces of it sticking out of one of those big portable Dumpsters parked on the street. Its sad, I said, and my mother nodded, saying nothing. She was quiet the rest of the day.
Much to my surprise, two years later, after the implosion of my own family and home, Haylie Butterfield resurfaced, as a resident of my dorm. I didnt recognize her at first. In high school, shed worn pastel cashmere sweaters and sometimes matching accessories for her hair. She wore small pearl earrings that she said had belonged to her grandmother, and the only time I saw her wearing makeup was at prom. The first time I saw her in Tweete Halls elevator, she was wearing black leggings, a black skirt, and a black cardigan with a tightly cinched belt, and also spike-heeled boots, even though it was still early fall and maybe eighty degrees outside. Shed cut her hair chin-length and dyed it black.
I had to squint at her a good five seconds before I could be sure it was her. She wore red lipstick that made her skin look very pale. She was still beautiful, maybe more so, just in a different way.
Haylie?
She turned. She did not look happy to see me. It was as if Id popped a balloon by her head.
I go by Simone now, she said.
What? I asked. I wasnt trying to be a jerk. I really just didnt understand.
Simone. Its my middle name. Its what I go by now. There was no hint of friendliness in her voice, though I was certain that she recognized me. Thats what you should call me, too. She spoke quietly, and with a tight, fixed smile, though the other two girls in the elevator were speaking to each other in what sounded like Korean, and they did not appear either concerned with or aware of what we were saying.
Ill try, I said. I didnt know what else to say. II might mess up a few times I laughed, stupidly. since Ive known you almost my whole life.
She didnt laugh. Her red-lipped smile was still. Try hard, she said. When the doors opened, she stepped out and glanced back over her shoulder. If you dont think you can manage it, thats okay. You dont need to call me anything at all.
The next time I had a desk shift, I looked her up on the roster. She was listed as a freshman, with a hometown that I had never heard of. That was all I could find out: for the last two years since her fathers arrest, while Id been in college, she had been doing something else.
The next time I saw my mother, I told her about Haylies dyed black hair, the dark clothes, and, of course, the new name. I didnt believe Simone was really her middle name. It seemed to me I would have heard her middle name at some point, and if it were really Simone, I would have remembered.
I dont know if I can do it, I said, pulling wads of newspaper out of our old drinking glasses. We were in my mothers new kitchen; I was helping her unpack. It would be like you all of a sudden telling me I should call youSuzie, or something, instead of Mom.
My mother, lifting her big Crock-Pot out of the bottom of the box, listened with a somber expression. I wonder what happened to her mother, she said, and she looked over my shoulder and out the window, as if she hoped to see Mrs. Butterfield running up the street in front of our house, though we were in my mothers new apartment, three flights up, nothing to see outside but the side wall of another building. She turned around slowly, looking back at the empty boxes scattered around the floor. Give her a break, honey, she added. Think of what shes been through. Her father is in jail. Everything changed for her. If the poor girl wants to be someone else, let her be someone else.