Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah

by David Levithan

  ALSO BY RACHEL COHN & DAVID LEVITHAN

  Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist

  Naomi and Ely’s No Kiss List

  Dash & Lily’s Book of Dares

  The Twelve Days of Dash & Lily

  ALSO BY RACHEL COHN

  Very LeFreak

  Gingerbread

  Shrimp

  Cupcake

  You Know Where to Find Me

  Beta

  Kill All Happies

  ALSO BY DAVID LEVITHAN

  Boy Meets Boy

  The Realm of Possibility

  Are We There Yet?

  The Full Spectrum

  (edited with Billy Merrell)

  Marly’s Ghost

  (illustrated by Brian Selznick)

  Wide Awake

  How They Met, and Other Stories

  The Likely Story series

  (written as David Van Etten, with David Ozanich and Chris Van Etten)

  Love Is the Higher Law

  Will Grayson, Will Grayson

  (written with John Green)

  The Lover’s Dictionary

  Every You, Every Me

  (with photographs by

  Jonathan Farmer)

  Every Day

  Invisibility

  (written with Andrea Cremer)

  Two Boys Kissing

  Another Day

  First published in Australia by Allen & Unwin in 2018

  Copyright © Rachel Cohn & David Levithan, 2018

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or ten per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to the Copyright Agency (Australia) under the Act.

  Allen & Unwin

  83 Alexander Street

  Crows Nest NSW 2065

  Australia

  Phone:(61 2) 8425 0100

  Email:info@allenandunwin.com

  Web:www.allenandunwin.com

  ISBN 9781760293857

  eISBN 9781760635923

  For teaching resources, explore

  www.allenandunwin.com/resources/for-teachers

  Cover design and illustration by Kirby Armstrong

  To my Bubbe and my Bebe grandmas

  —RC

  To Grandma Grace and Grandma Alice

  —DL

  CONTENTS

  one ILSA

  two SAM

  three ILSA

  four SAM

  five ILSA

  six SAM

  seven ILSA

  eight SAM

  nine ILSA

  ten SAM

  eleven ILSA

  twelve SAM

  thirteen ILSA

  fourteen SAM

  fifteen ILSA

  sixteen SAM

  seventeen ILSA

  eighteen SAM

  nineteen ILSA

  twenty SAM

  twenty-one SAM & ILSA

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  People need, demand fantasy. I try to help them do this for a little while, to help them forget work and problems and enjoy, vicariously, a folderol of fun, good music and fancy dress. I give them a little recess from the humdrum.

  —LIBERACE

  INVITATION

  WHAT: Recess from the Humdrum! Dinner Party

  WHO: Sam & Ilsa

  WHEN: May 16, 8 p.m.

  WHY: Last dinner party at Czarina’s Palais de Rent

  Control! Sad face!

  Also, Liberace’s birthday.* Sequin face!

  WHERE: Sam & Ilsa’s grandma’s** (map attached)

  WEAR: Garish***

  *If you don’t know who Liberace is, we don’t know how you got invited to this party. But you can ask Mr. Google if you need help.

  **Don’t worry, Czarina is out of town and will leave us alone for the evening!

  ***Ask yourself, WWLW: What Would Liberace Wear?

  one

  ILSA

  My brother is way too obsessed with our grandma’s sex life.

  “I think Czarina has taken a lover,” Sam says, holding out his hand to me. “Spatula. Stat.” My job is to maximize the chef’s surgical efficiency by passing him the gadgets he requests. I hand him the spatula. “That’s an egg-turner spatula. The spoon spatula, Ilsa,” he says, like it’s so obvious. “Observe!”

  I look at his bowl, filled with cheese and spinach. Seems like any old spatula could work in that bowl, but if it were up to me, we’d order takeout from Zabar’s and not bother with DIY cooking at all. Sam’s an amazing cook. But all that work! No, thank you. He gets me for a half hour as sous-chef, and the rest of the meal is on him. My job is planning fabulousness, not catering it. I should have been the gay man, not my twin brother.

  I hand Sam the spoon spatula. “What makes you think Czarina has taken a lover?”

  “She’s gone to Paris three times in the last six weeks.”

  “She’s a fashion buyer. That’s her job.”

  “There’s something different about these trips. I feel it. Did you notice how…nice she seems when she gets back? It’s upsetting.”

  “What are you really upset about? That she’s been nice, or that she took Mom and Dad and not you to Paris with her for the weekend?” I love when Czarina goes away and lets us use her apartment. Then I get to be the queen of her castle, and not have to share Sam with her.

  “That’s the thing! She never takes Mom and Dad anywhere. Says they’re bourgeois bores.”

  “I love ’em, but they kind of are.”

  “Don’t be bitchy.”

  “Don’t ask me to be anything other than who I am.”

  Sam laughs, then raises an eyebrow at me. “Aren’t you just a little concerned? Czarina even said we didn’t have to leave her bedroom door locked. Of all the dinner parties she’s let us host in her apartment, her one and only strict rule has been”—and here Sam mimics Czarina’s gangster-worthy growl—“ ‘no teenage miscreants shall miscreant in my bedroom.’ ”

  “Yeah, that’s why she always shows up during dessert, despite saying she was taking a night out to go to the symphony, and even when she’s locked away all the liquor. The control freak can’t take our word for it that we won’t let anyone in her bedroom or break into her booze.” I reconsider what I just said, and then amend my statement. “I mean, take my word for it. She knows Sam the Saint won’t break her rules.”

  “Not true. Remember the party when #Stantastic wanted to see Czarina’s vintage Dior gowns?”

  “You texted Czarina and got her permission to go into her closet. That’s not rule breaking.”

  “#Stantastic had a beer!”

  I let out a sigh. “Scandal.”

  What constitutes legit rule breaking? Perhaps that party two years ago when Parker and I jimmied our way into Czarina’s brandy collection and then ended the party making out on her bed, with the bedroom door locked so no one else could get in. Best aperitif ever. Miscreants, and proud! Czarina was in Milan, so I knew for a fact she wouldn’t be barging in. My parents say I’m too reckless, but even I know not to expose myself to Czarina’s in-your-face wrath. I know exactly how that brutal wrath works, because it’s the primary trait of hers I inherited. That, and we both look good wearing almost any shape of hat.

  I aspire to be more like Czarina in ways other than being wrathful. I’d like to be a heartbreaker, rather than the one left
heartbroken. The boss of any situation. Like Czarina, I want to travel the world and have wild affairs, but with the security of a grand Manhattan apartment as home base. (Insert the sounds of my parents’ cynical laughter here.) Unlike Czarina, I don’t aspire to wear bright-colored caftans and chunky jewelry as my signature look. Aside from dinner parties, I’ll be content with the more humdrum look of skinny jeans and extremely cute tight shirts.

  Sam counters my sigh with his own. It might be our only twin thing: supportive sighing. “I can’t believe this is our last party here. I can’t believe she’s finally leaving this place.”

  Where Sam and I live with our parents—a few blocks away, in a bland Manhattan apartment that’s, typically, too small, with an office alcove converted to a third bedroom that Sam uses—is the real humdrum. Czarina’s abode? Spectacular. Our grandmother lives in a gorgeous apartment in a historic building called the Stanwyck, on the Upper West Side of Manhattan. It’s a huge two-bedroom apartment with a dining room and a study big enough for Sam’s piano, and views of the city skyline and the Hudson River. (Anyone who feels bad about Sam getting the crap office alcove for a bedroom at our parents’ apartment should know that Czarina’s spare bedroom is basically a shrine to Sam—decorated with his music awards, photos of Sam at every recital since he learned to play piano, and the most comfortable bed in the world, picked out by Sam. The duvet on the bed—also chosen by Sam—might as well be embossed with needlepoint hand-stitched by Czarina, announcing: SAM! SAM IS MY FAVORITE!)

  Czarina has experienced a good but not lucrative career, so no way has she had the income to support this type of Manhattan real estate. By New York City real estate standards, she’s a pauper, but she’s lived like a queen, all because when Czarina was a young, broke fashionista, she moved in with her grandparents, into their rent-controlled apartment. And she never left. Hers was the only apartment in the one-hundred-unit building that didn’t convert to condo. (Thank Czarina’s bulldog lawyer.) Her building is now basically 99 percent rich people, and Czarina. She’s the 1 percent at the Stanwyck.

  Or, she was. After twenty years of buyout offers, Czarina finally agreed to leave her palace. All it took was an extra zero at the end of the financial settlement—before the decimal point. She basically just won the lottery. She’s been married five times, and we thought she’d won big when she divorced the Brazilian taxidermist. That settlement was nothing in comparison; she used most of the windfall from that sicko, preserved-moose-head man’s money to splurge on a baby grand piano for her Virtuoso Sam, and on a fancy oven for her Chef Sam, so her precious grandson could wow her guests with his amazing meals and music ability. Tonight, I get those all to myself.

  I should be mad that Czarina chose my brother over me as her favorite, but even I will acknowledge that Sam is a better person than me. He’s everything I’m not. Patient, kind, sweet, talented. I would choose him if I was Czarina, too. To be honest, it’s a relief that Sam’s the star in the family. Being the fuckup bitch is the role I know. I fit into it like anyone’s favorite pair of jeans.

  I notice the furrow between Sam’s eyebrows and the tightening of his forehead. Pre-party jitters. “Where’s the spiralizer?”

  “What’s that?”

  “A utensil to spiralize veggies. I thought I might thread in some zucchini to the—”

  “Don’t. Your menu is perfect as is.”

  “You used the good silver to set the table, right?”

  “Yes. The table looks beautiful. I even fancy-folded the napkins.”

  “The—”

  “Yes, the good ones that Czarina brought back from Dublin. I promise you don’t need to halt your cooking to do a last-minute inspection of the dining room. The table is set, the decorations are up, and the cardboard Liberace table centerpiece looks better than a flower arrangement.”

  “Candles!”

  “Done.”

  “Set out the dessert plates and silverware on the buffet.”

  “Done.” I need to stop him from a deeper descent into anxiety about the state of the dining room. “Give me a hint about someone you’ve invited.” Sam’s bedroom—er, the guest room—is spread out with my sequined halter tops, feather boas, plaid-patterned polyester bell-bottom pants, and flapper dresses. How can I know the best costume for our party if I don’t know who the guests are?

  “No. You know the rules. You choose three people, I choose three people. The mix is a surprise—to us, and to them.”

  “You’re going to dress like Ray Charles again, aren’t you?” I love my brother’s classic suit and tie, of course—but he always wears the same thing. I want to see my brother wearing a sequined cape or a star-spangled-banner leisure suit with beads hanging off the arms. I want him to shake things up for once.

  “Yes,” says Sam. “But I’ll be enjoying the gift of sight. May he rest in peace, Brother Ray.” He pauses, and then says, “Please promise me you didn’t invite KK.”

  “I promise,” I say.

  I totally invited KK!

  My guest list:

  Kirby Kingsley: Heiress, party girl, my non-sibling BFF. No one likes her besides me. But it’s not a party without Kirby. She lives in the Stanwycks’ penthouse apartment, with panoramic views of Central Park to the East River, and midtown and uptown to the Hudson River, and probably God, too, if you point their telescope straight up through the glass dome in the ceiling of the atelier room.

  Li Zhang: My chem-lab partner. Great at board games. Great conversationalist. Never shows up to a party without a gift of beautiful boxes of sweets from Taiwan for the hostess. Should be invited to every party.

  Frederyk Podhalanski, aka Freddie: The wild card. He’s an exchange student from Poland, living with a family on the Upper East Side. I met him when I was with KK, watching hot guys play basketball in Central Park. Tall, blond, muscled, deep blue eyes, uncomplicated. I’m pretty sure Freddie’s the guy I’ve been looking for—the one who will break my brother’s heart.

  My brother still hasn’t recovered from not getting into Juilliard. He goes to Fiorello LaGuardia High School of Music & Art and Performing Arts, only a few blocks away from Czarina’s Palais de Rent Control. Sam should have been thrilled not to get into Juilliard. Too fucking close for comfort! He did get into Berklee College of Music, in Boston. A whole new city, new adventure, and a prestigious music school, too! But no. My brother opted to go to Hunter College next year, to stay close to home, to play it safe.

  Even though I think he should have opted for Berklee, Sam really, truly wants Juilliard, so I want it for him, too. Next year, he’ll reapply. Sam should have gotten in. The solution: Sam needs to drop out of his safety zone and go wild for the wrong guy. He needs a recess from the humdrum stream of predictable boys he dates. My brother’s heart needs the distraction of infatuation with someone out of his league. To be clear, Freddie’s not in a better league than Sam (no one’s in a better league than my brother). It’s just a different one. I’ll call it the League of Ridiculously Beautiful Guys Who Aren’t That Bright and Who Will Give My Brother Exactly the Fun Distraction He Needs Before Dumping My Brother When They Realize My Brother Is Too Smart and Good for Them. My brother needs a pointless, pleasurable fling with someone gorgeous and easy.

  When Freddie inevitably dumps Sam, the pain will be sharp, but quick. Pain is what makes all the greats great. Known fact. So if pain is what it takes to bring Sam to that pantheon, then I have just the dinner party to give him that necessary shock to the system. It will be a welcome pain compared to the kind Sam inflicts on himself from overthinking and overstressing. And Sam will have loads of fun along the way. You’re welcome, brother.

  Like Sam, I also experienced the pain of not getting into my first-choice school, or any of my top-tier choices! I applied to the Sorbonne, the University of Tokyo, and that fancy one in Scotland where Prince William met Princess Kate. But I had no real shot at them. No matter; I don’t speak French or Japanese, and let’s be real, who even understands Scottis
h people when they speak? I also didn’t get into my second-tier schools—NYU, Skidmore, Fordham. And that’s awesome. Because now I can hoard all that money I saved babysitting the many little critters who live in the Stanwyck, and not waste it at Quinnipiac University, which is somewhere in Connecticut, I’m told. (I visited but have since tried to forget the experience, because I was basically forced by my parents to go.) It’s the only school I got into, and my parents were so relieved, they enrolled me for the fall. I can’t even pronounce the school’s name. Please.

  “Are you sure Czarina hasn’t taken a lover?” Sam says. I’ve got to set him free from attachment to her apron strings, too. When she finds out I broke the leaf on her dining room table when I was setting it, she’ll lose it at him. At me, too, of course. But I’m used to it. Sam the Saint is not. It will be healthy. For both of them. Maybe in my future travels I will check out old Freud or Jung’s universities in Austria or wherever, because I obviously have huge potential as a psychoanalytic genius.

  “Of course I’m not sure!” I say. “She could be bonking every Frenchman with a croissant for all I know!”

  “Because every Frenchman has a croissant, right?”

  “Oui! Don’t you know that’s what the French Revolution was all about? Life, liberty, le perfect flaky croissant.”

  “Tongs,” says Sam.

  “Frenchman torture method?”

  “No. Hand me the tongs so I can pull out the strips of lasagna from the boiling water.”

  I hand him the tongs. “That’s a whisk, Ilsa.” He reaches over me to grab the contraption known as tongs. “And I’m telling you, Czarina has taken a lover in Paris.”

  “You just want to say ‘taken a lover.’ ”

  “Guilty. You know me too well.”

  Maybe Czarina has taken a lover in Paris, but that’s not the reason for her trip. She thinks we don’t know, but I know. Czarina likes to be secretive, but she has no idea what a browser history is, and that she should clear it regularly. Our grandmother is in Paris because she bought a small apartment and plans to retire there, in a little studio with no bedrooms for me or Sam. (Unfortunately, this knowledge came at the cost of also learning that Czarina really likes browsing photos of Sean Connery as James Bond wearing barely-there swimmer briefs. And she loves porny fan fiction devoted to that most hirsute of the Bond men.) (I’m going to throw up just thinking about what I’ve seen in her browser history.)