Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah

by David Levithan

  “Stop it, guys!” I yell. “Seriously, stop it.”

  I expect Frederyk to grab for Caspian, but instead he’s trying to get Johan’s wrist in a choke hold, so Johan will let go. Then I realize this makes sense—in any tug of war, Caspian’s going to lose.

  “STOP!” I say, louder. But no one is listening to me. I switch tactics and yell, “JOHAN!”

  Now he hears me. He looks in my direction, and Frederyk takes this moment to get in a blow to Johan’s stomach.

  “No!” I call out, and before I know what I’m doing, I’m standing over both of them, pulling them apart. Frederyk regains his senses and recoils. Johan remains sweaty and disheveled beneath me, Caspian still scrunched in his hand.

  “Give him to me,” I say.

  Subway Boy shakes his head, and he’s not really Subway Boy anymore. He’s this stranger in my apartment. Which makes me sad.

  He says, “I was fine indulging his…whim while the sock was being pleasant. But not if he’s just going to use it as a mouthpiece for meanness. We have enough of that from actual human beings nowadays.”

  I look over to Frederyk to see what his response will be. He just holds out his hand—not the Caspian hand, the other hand—imploring.

  “You have to give him back,” I insist. “I’m sure he’ll behave better now.”

  “Whose side are you on?” Johan asks.

  And I say, plainly, “In this case, his.”

  “Fine.”

  He hands over Caspian as if it’s the only gift he’s ever going to give me. I offer him my free hand, but he stands up on his own.

  “I was only trying to help,” he tells me. “I thought you’d appreciate that.”

  “I do,” I say. “It’s just that Frederyk—”

  “—is crazy?”

  “That’s not nice.”

  “Okay, Mum. I’m sorry. Shall I go?”

  No.

  No—

  I—

  “No! I want you here.”

  “I guess I’ll go back to the table, then. You can stay here and preside over the tearful reunion.”

  If Ilsa were saying this—or, God forbid, KK—the words would be corrosive, combative beasts. But the way Johan says it—he’s hurt. I’m not the only Subway Boy who realizes things have derailed.

  I try to think of a Parton song to bring him back, but my thoughts are more Dalí than Dolly at the moment.

  “I’ll be there in a sec,” I say.

  “Okay,” he replies. Then he leaves me in the hall, Caspian in my hand.

  “Here,” I say to Frederyk. He takes the sock from me and puts it back where it belongs.

  “Thank you,” Caspian says quietly.

  Frederyk looks like he’s prepared for me to be angry, for me to lash out at him for ruining everything. Which maybe he has. But maybe if it could be ruined this easily, it wasn’t worth having, anyway. I don’t know.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him—Frederyk, not Caspian.

  “That was very close,” Caspian observes. Frederyk nods.

  I am still looking Frederyk in the eye. “You have to be nicer,” I say. “You can’t just shoot his mouth off. I’m not saying what Johan did was right—but you have to know that we all wanted to do it. Except maybe KK.”

  At the mention of her name, Frederyk blushes and looks away.

  “No,” I say. “You can’t possibly like KK.”

  Neither Frederyk nor Caspian denies it.

  I press on. “And did you think the way to her heart was through her spleen? Were you being obnoxious to impress her?!”

  Caspian nods.

  “Bad strategy?” he asks.

  “For the rest of us, absolutely. For KK—probably worse. She doesn’t want some amateur version of her. This is New York—there are plenty of guys who fit that bill. KK’s not-very-deep, not-very-dark secret is that she finds her routine as tedious as the rest of us do. When you think you’re the most interesting person in the room, you’re never interested in anything else. So your best shot—your only shot, really—is to be even more interesting than she is. You were doing well until you stooped to her level.”

  “I really messed it up, didn’t I?”

  “Not necessarily. She hasn’t left yet.”

  “I mean for you. I really messed it up for you.”

  The hurt look on Johan’s face surfaces in my mind, and I try to shove it away.

  “It’ll be fine,” I say. But everyone in the hallway knows how empty those words can be.

  Caspian can’t look me in the eye. He’s just staring at the ground. And then I realize…Frederyk has put his hand down.

  “I appreciate you taking my side,” he—Frederyk—says. And in an instant, I see how hard it is for him to say it.

  “It’s okay,” I tell him. Then I reach out, take Caspian by the chin, and move him so he’s looking me in the eye, too. “I don’t know exactly what it’s like, but…I know what it’s like. Our tribe has to stand up for one another, right? Because there are plenty of people who don’t know what it’s like at all.”

  I have already done so many things wrong tonight. But this, finally, feels like something right. There isn’t anything more to say.

  “Let’s go back,” I tell them.

  Ilsa’s laying down of the law must have worked—or maybe people are so afraid of conversation at this point that the lasagna seems the better option for their mouths. Whatever the case, dinner’s well under way, and is being consumed with gusto.

  “Where’s Maddy?” I ask.

  “A hawk came in the window and carried her away,” KK replies.

  “But don’t worry,” Parker quickly adds. “We still have the cookies.”

  I look over to Johan, who turns away the second I make eye contact. Then I look to Ilsa, who’s seen the whole thing.

  “Here,” she says, passing over the lasagna. “Don’t be one of those hosts who doesn’t have a chance to eat.”

  I sit down. Frederyk, who followed me in, remains standing.

  “Excuse me,” Caspian says. “May I have everyone’s attention?”

  “By all means!” KK trills. “The sock has the floor!”

  Frederyk takes a deep breath, then Caspian continues.

  “I did not mean to disrupt this party, or to scare away the cookie-bearing girl. This is the first time I have been invited to such a dinner, and in trying to figure out how to behave, I behaved the wrong way. I understand this now, and it will not occur again.”

  “Please sit down,” Ilsa says. “These things happen all the time.”

  Both Parker and Jason raise their eyebrows at that…but neither says a word.

  “Here.” KK takes Frederyk’s plate and puts some sushi on it. Then, as an afterthought, she separates one of the rolls off to the side—for Caspian, presumably.

  “Thank you,” Caspian mutters. Frederyk sits down.

  KK launches into a monologue on how she had to try at least a dozen sushi chefs before she could find one that could deliver a decent California roll after midnight, California time. I find it hard to imagine something I care less about, but it does give the rest of us an opportunity to dig in without bearing any of the weight of the conversation.

  When she’s done, it’s Jason who picks up the mantle.

  “This is really good,” he says, gesturing to the lasagna with his fork. “Thank you, Ilsa.”

  Ilsa looks momentarily confused. “You know I had nothing to do with the lasagna, Jason,” she says.

  “And the salad! You’ve perfected your recipe, Ilsa.”

  She eyes him wearily.

  “You’re teasing me—is that it? It happens that Sam is an excellent cook. There’s no need for me to contribute.”

  “Oh, but you always manage to contribute, don’t you? There isn’t a situation, big or small, that doesn’t require the contribution of your opinion. Sam’s cooking, Sam’s boyfriends, Sam’s future, Sam’s life—your opinion is the only ingredient you can provide, isn’t it? Just
a little dash of poison for any occasion.”

  I jump in. “Jason. This is not why I invited you.”

  Ilsa waves me off. “No, it’s okay. It’s been months since Jason’s graced us with his presence—but how refreshing to know he’s still an expert on your life and family!”

  “It’s all about figuring out the patterns. People like you are sudoku for armchair therapists.”

  “Fuck you, she’s a Sunday crossword,” KK contributes. Then she adds, “I happen to be very good at crosswords.”

  There’s a booming noise from outside that shushes everyone.

  “Was that thunder?” Jason asks.

  “Or was it a bomb?” Parker says.

  He’s not joking.

  There’s another sonic burst.

  “Like God clearing his throat,” Li says.

  A torrent of rain is unleashed. Our windows are open, and the wind blows through, making the tablecloth a ghost about to lift.

  “It’s just a summer storm,” Ilsa says. “That’s all.” I stand up to close the window, but Ilsa tells me, “No, don’t. I like it like this.”

  I’m worried about the rain coming in, about rugs getting wet, wood getting warped. But I don’t want everyone to know the extent of my agitation. I want to cover it up. So I sit down.

  “It’s only a matter of time before the city drowns,” Li says.

  “Excuse me?” KK seems personally offended by this fact.

  “I don’t mean tonight. Or even in the next few years. But eventually, the oceans will rise, and everyone in this city will need to find a new place to live. I’ve seen it.”

  “You’ve seen it?” Jason says.

  “I know it sounds strange, but I’ve always been a little bit of an oracle. Or at least I’ve had oracular dreams for as long as I can remember. After Hurricane Sandy, this one became more pronounced. Seeing the water rise in the streets. Everyone forced to evacuate. It always makes me so sad. And angry, too.”

  “Well, thank God I live on the top floor!” KK chirps.

  “And where do you think all of the electricity and drainage and water for that apartment comes from—the air?” Parker asks.

  I shudder.

  “I’m not saying this to be scary,” Li continues. “I just don’t see any point in ignoring the inevitable. If we talk about it, at least we have a chance of navigating it.”

  “I wish that’s how it worked,” I say. I don’t mean to say it. That is, I don’t mean to say it to anyone but myself. But I’ve said it out loud.

  “What do you mean?” Johan asks.

  “It’s nothing,” I say. “Never mind.”

  “No,” Ilsa says. “Tell us.”

  You’re trapping me, I think. But I don’t say that out loud. They’re all looking at me.

  I—

  I—

  “I’m just not sure talking about things makes any difference. I mean, when something’s worrying me, I think about it and I think about it and I think about it, and I don’t know that any of the words I think change the situation at all. I just get lost in it more.”

  “I’m not talking about thinking,” Li says. “I’m talking about talking.”

  “What’s the difference?” I ask.

  It’s Caspian who answers. “The difference is that when you’re talking, there’s usually someone else in the room, and the hope is that the other person can help you understand it more. Or you can help each other understand it more.”

  “I grew up in a house where there was a lot of thinking and not much talking,” Johan says. “Believe me, there’s a difference.”

  “Well, I grew up in an apartment where there was a whole lot of talking and not much thinking,” Jason says. “At least, not until the divorce. And, let me tell you, that’s no fun, either.”

  Ilsa’s attention is still on Li.

  “Do you think there’s hope?” she asks. “I mean, for the future.”

  And maybe it’s Czarina’s caftan, or maybe it’s just the eerie wind rushing around us, but as she prepares her response, Li truly does look oracular.

  “Of course there’s hope,” she says. “There’s always hope. We have an endless capacity for hope. We just tend to lock that capacity down.”

  “So we’re not just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic?” Parker asks.

  “Wrong question,” Li replies. “My point isn’t about deck chairs. Nobody cares about the deck chairs. What I’m saying is—there comes a time, long before the accident, when you decide how many lifeboats the Titanic should have. That’s what we need to do—in many ways, it’s the only thing we can do. Make sure we have plenty of lifeboats.”

  Is this why I’m so scared of what comes next? When I stay here for college, Ilsa will be the only lifeboat left with me. And she leaks. She doesn’t mean to, but she leaks when I weigh too heavily on her. I need more lifeboats. But at the same time, many of my lifeboats are in this room right now, and I’m still scared. I really wish my mind would stop being such a contradictory jerk to me. Because how can I feel that the future is way too big for me to change it and at the same time feel that if I make the smallest wrong move, I’m going to cause permanent damage?

  “Can you see specifics about the future, too?” Caspian asks Li.

  “There’s a difference between an oracle and a fortuneteller,” she replies. “Sorry.”

  Caspian shakes his head. “No, no, no—I don’t want to know my future.”

  “I imagine it all goes down the tubes,” KK informs the sock. “You should’ve known that from the moment you were knit.”

  “There’s no need for that,” I tell her.

  KK laughs. “Since when did you become such a defender of footwear?”

  “Caspian is not a sock.”

  “What is he, then? An oracle, too?”

  “Caspian is CASPIAN.” I have no idea why I’m shouting at her. “And if you’re not going to treat him like everyone else, you can go back up to your own apartment and order all the sushi you want.”

  KK’s eyes sparkle. “But I am treating him like I treat everyone else, don’t you see?”

  Ilsa, of course, backs her up. “She has a point.”

  Jason sighs theatrically, looks at KK, and says, “You’re awful.” Then he turns to Ilsa and says, “You’re not much better.”

  “Stop,” I tell him.

  “Why are you defending her?” he replies.

  There have to be thousands of answers. I just can’t think of one at the moment.

  But it’s not like I even have a chance.

  “Why are you still in love with him?” Ilsa accuses.

  “Ilsa,” Parker says in a voice you’d use with a bear that’s picked up a toddler.

  “I really like the lasagna.”

  At first, I don’t even know who’s spoken. Then I realize it’s Johan.

  He goes on.

  “When I was a kid, my mom did this thing with lasagna—she would use alphabetic noodles to spell out messages for us, usually in the bottom layer. So we had to eat it very, very carefully. Usually we’d be rushing through dinner—I have four brothers—but when it was lasagna, you would have thought we were excavating a dinosaur. Sometimes she’d make it so each of us got a word, and we’d have to wait until everyone was finished to see what the sentence was. You have to keep in mind—this was a totally rigid household. Everything was run with military precision. So when our mom would do this, it was almost like…I don’t know. Like there was an underground. A rebellion. So, you know, I can’t eat lasagna without thinking of that.”

  I have no idea why he’s telling us this. And then I realize he’s telling us this to shut everyone else up. And I feel…grateful.

  “My mother did that with sushi,” KK chimes in. “She’d have the sushi chef write messages with soy sauce on the inside of the seaweed wraps. Things like Eat the rich and Die banker die. Come to think of it, maybe it wasn’t my mother telling him to write those things. I’m kidding, of course.”

 
When none of us laugh, KK sticks her tongue out. Then she says, “Fine. Be that way. In the meantime, I believe my dear friend Ilsa has a big announcement she wants to make.…”

  nine

  ILSA

  Poor, sweet Sam. He’s the only emotionally stable person at the table. Or, as usual, he’s trying too hard to be.

  KK smells blood. She gets like this. When there’s the chance for a massacre, she immediately wants more, before the knives have even officially come out, or before the sock puppet gets flushed down the toilet. She needs an infusion of rapidly escalating high stakes that result in complete carnage, jam-packed within a short period of time. She watches too much Shondaland and Game of Thrones. Forgive her.

  She wants me to make the announcement about my new living situation so she can witness the fallout: Sam wailing about me moving into his beloved room at Czarina’s, and then him losing it at me for keeping my plans secret for so long. Jason G-C gloating that I am in my beloved brother’s bad graces. Parker betrayed that I would unsettle his best friend. Johan hastily putting his Dollygurines back in his violin case before they’re used as battle props. Li Zhang stress-eating the entire lemon tart Sam prepared for dessert.

  I’m not playing KK’s game. I evolve at staring-at-a-crackling-fire-on-the-TV-monitor pace. I’ll tell Sam when I’m ready, not when KK is ready.

  But I do have an announcement. “Time to lock up the phones.” I should have done this as people arrived. The storm is getting bigger outside Czarina’s epic-view windows, and I can already see how the rest of the night will go. It will be lost to Instagram postings of lightning over Manhattan’s skyline and gales falling on the unlucky people in view down on the sidewalk. Or worse, snaps of Sam’s woeful lasagna. Better to remove the phones entirely. That might be the best we can salvage from this meal.

  “Refuse,” says KK. “Absolutely not.”

  I stand up and grab her phone out of her hand before she can move it from my reach. “I love you so much, KK.” I place a kiss on top of her head. I know I’m the only person who finds her adorable, but someone’s got to, dear neglected bankers’ daughter.

  Czarina insists that no one have their phone at the table when she invites the family to dinner. I follow her lead and retrieve from the foyer the small lockbox she keeps for phones. I return to the dining table and circle around it with the open box for our guests to deposit their phones in. I place KK’s in there first.