The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  My eyes adjust, right as the boy who took my ID earlier steps inside.

  “. . . Sabrina Martin.” The name feels strange on my lips, but when I look down at myself—teetering in tall boots, the shiny pants glowing in the light—I have to suppress a laugh. I sure as hell don’t feel like Gretchen Wilder.

  I scan the room for Carmen again before my gaze falls on the crowd. Everyone looks so eager to listen. It’s actually really nice. “Whoa, this is weird,” I say, my voice the only sound in the room now.

  I take in the silence—a waiting void. It’s strangely enticing.

  “I mean, I can . . . keep you guys company for a minute, if you want.” I hear a woo! ring out from somewhere and grin. “Oh, um. Thank you?” The quiet stretches on again and I shake my head. “Sorry. Guess the old . . . cat got my tongue?”

  I wince at how cheesy I sound, but then I think of Sam. I tug the mic out from the stand, smirking a little as I walk to the lip of the stage. “So, um . . .” I clear my throat. “Where do you guys think that expression came from? Cat’s got your tongue?” I’m already picturing it. “Do you think, like, during the Roman Empire, a cat took out his little paws and just—rrraire! Grabbed hold of someone’s tongue? And then some guy walking by with those leaf thingies in his hair was like, ‘Hey, check it out, he can’t speak! The cat’s got his tongue!’ And then everybody else was like, ‘Oh whoa, that has a nice ring to it.’ And then someone else was like, ‘Hey, we should make that a thing.’”

  I stop for a gulp of air, abruptly startled by this moment. What am I doing?

  But I hear a little laughter from the audience, and my body begins to thrum. I shake my head, looking out plainly at everyone. “Anyway, I’m not a historian. But it seems like that’s probably what happened.”

  The crowd quiets down again, and I shrug. “That’s a game my friend Sam and I play.” Even saying his name out loud like this makes my heart hurt a little. But it also feels . . . good. “Drunk etymology, I guess you could call it? Sam’s really funny. And smart, and nice. And freaking hot now, which for me is sort of terrible . . .” I look up, almost sheepish. “I’m pretty into him, if you all can’t tell. Not that any of you need to know this.” A few people in the front row look up at me with curiosity, and I bite my lip. “Maybe this is weird, but . . . Do you all mind if I get this out? I’m kind of working through a thing here.”

  I interpret a few smiles up front as a yes.

  “Okay, so . . .” I sigh. “Can I just say, falling for a friend is not as fun or adorable as it is in the movies?” Another small laugh gives me a strange, heady feeling. I’m oddly detached from myself, but also right freaking here. “I feel like such a cliché. I seriously keep imagining that I’m trapped inside a rom-com. Every morning I wake up, like, ‘Did it happen? Do I work at a women’s magazine in New York now? Has the lonely-at-Christmas montage started?’”

  Another happy murmur.

  Another head rush.

  “Except so far, nothing is quite following the rules. He’s my oldest friend, yes. In theory, we could be a total Harry-and-Sally situation. But when I look back, I’m not sure this was always meant to be our story. One day he got, like, annoyingly good-looking. And a little more distant, maybe. And apparently that is what’s doing it for me now.” I laugh, baffled. “Am I the kind of person who likes unattainable? Is this a reflection of my own crappy self-esteem?” I pause, looking out again. “Can you guys tell my mom is a women’s studies professor?”

  “Hey, tha’s my cousin!”

  I look toward the back, hearing giggling, and wave Carmen over. “Carmen! This is your slot!” She and Hen keep stumbling, their arms around each other. With a shriek, they fall back into the ladies’ room, the door swinging behind them.

  I hear muttering: “This night is just one disaster after the next. . . .” Dolores hops up on the stage, taking the mic from me and clipping it into the stand. “Sorry I left you on for so long,” she whispers, leaning in. “Someone slipped on our walkway, but I don’t think they’re gonna sue. Fuckin’ snow. I swear I never stop shoveling.”

  She looks at me, and I realize that’s my cue. “Well, um . . .” I start to leave, then double back to lean into the microphone. “Thank you, Portland!”

  My blood is hot with adrenaline as I round the corner of the building. I stop to press my back into the cold brick, barely even noticing the snow as I catch my breath. Is this what it feels like to come down off a roller coaster? One summer when we were little, Mom, Aunt Viv, and Gabriela took us all to Palace Playland, an amusement park in Old Orchard Beach. Planted firmly on the ground where I belonged, I watched Sam line up for his first-ever ride. When he found me after, I remember he had this dazed look on his face, like he’d just glimpsed the lifetime of thrills awaiting him. He looked a little woozy, actually, and yet somehow, all he said was “I wanna go again.”

  I think I get that now.

  “Hey, it’s you.”

  I startle and look over. The cute door guy has come out through a side exit, holding a big see-through bag of clanging bottles.

  “It’s me,” I say, with a weird little wave. He grins under the streetlight, and I get a better look at him: the beanie over sandy hair, and muscly build under his T-shirt. When he takes a step closer, I can see that his eyes are blue and curious, and there’s a bit of stubble on his face. Works at a bar equals too old, I tell myself. But wow.

  He dumps the bag and walks back to me. “I, uh . . . liked your set.”

  I scoff. “Set might be too strong a word.”

  “You definitely had something. It was rough but . . . promising.”

  “Oh, uh . . . thanks?”

  “I’m Jeremy, by the way,” he says, a bit of snow catching on his beanie.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say. “I’m—”

  “Sabrina,” he interrupts. “I remember. Your friends call you Sabrina?” For half a second I falter, fingers flying to the buns in my hair.

  “Oh, haha,” I say, blushing. But I steady myself, letting the eye contact stretch on. He crosses his arms and leans into the wall next to me, just a smidge closer than necessary. It feels almost like a game of chicken—all the looking at each other—but I don’t falter. In fact, I’m smiling. What in the world? a little voice says. I think Sabrina might be flirting right now.

  “So this Sam guy’s really got his hooks in you, huh?” he asks.

  “Uh . . .” It dawns on me that I just told a room full of people how I feel about Samuel. And now I’m playing eye chicken with this dude. What the effing eff is happening with me tonight? I clear my throat. “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “Well, love life stuff usually makes for good material,” he says. “I’d do more of that next week if I were you.”

  I frown, confused, right as Dolores pops her head out the side door. “Jer, you’re on the set after next.” She nods at me. “Also, I’m not one to kick people out of my friendly establishment, but I think your little girlies have had enough.”

  “Crap,” I say. “Sorry. I’ll go get them.” We follow her through the side entrance and down the narrow hall. “So, wait,” I whisper to Jeremy. “You’re a comic?”

  “I consider myself more a student of the universe,” he says. “But for now, comedy is my preferred filter through which to observe.”

  I laugh but stop short—he’s being serious. And maybe I’m imagining it, but I think I catch Dolores roll her eyes as she stops at the opening to the main room. She sighs. “Listen to this guy . . .” I tune in to the set just long enough to deduce that the dude is telling cringey jokes about mail-order brides. The audience is silent. “He’s lucky voting doesn’t start until next week. This was the trial run while I get organized.” Dolores shakes her head, turning back to me. “Look, I’m not taking sides, but I’d like to see another girl really kill it up there. We get more than enough of this . . .” She gestures toward the stage. “. . . charming perspective. And I heard from a couple people that you had some good momen
ts. Just prepare more next time.”

  I blink at her, then Jeremy. “Okay, I think there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  She frowns. “Did you not know you were entering our Comithon?”

  “Your what now?”

  “It’s a new thing we’re trying to attract more people on Wednesdays,” says Jeremy. “Our slowest night.”

  “He says our though he has no real affiliation with this place,” says Dolores, patting his face. “Just some kid who never seems to leave us alone.”

  “You’re very hurtful,” he says before meeting my eyes again. “Anyway, Dolores here thought we’d fill more seats if we turned open mic night into a competition. For six weeks, the group of us who showed up tonight will be the gladiators. And starting next Wednesday, we’ll be getting ranked by the bloodthirsty plebes. It’s all very degrading.”

  “Please, you love it. And not for nothing, the winner gets a paid Saturday slot,” she says to me. “Which is generous considering how broke we are.”

  “That might be because you haven’t updated your drink prices since the nineties,” sighs Jeremy. “As a business student, I can tell you the numbers don’t add up.”

  “I thought you were a student of the universe,” I say innocently.

  “Huh.” Jeremy narrows his eyes. “Sabrina’s a little feisty.”

  “Wait,” says Dolores. “I thought your name was—”

  “No,” I say. “See, I’m not Carmen. She’s the one who signed up for the slot. And I’m pretty sure even she didn’t know this was a formal thing.”

  “Well, whatever your name is, think about it,” says Dolores. “It’s a sweet gig. On top of the regular slot, the three comics with the most votes get a chance to open for Marnie James when she comes here on her tour.”

  “Seriously?” I say. “I love Marnie James.”

  “We’ll film all three sets on the last night,” says Dolores, nodding. “Then I’ll send the clips to her, and she can take her pick.”

  “That’s so awesome! She went to my high school,” I say, as if that’s some kind of accomplishment. Marnie James might not be a celebrity-celebrity. But she’s definitely a Portland celebrity. My freshman year, everyone was buzzing when she got her first Netflix special. As I watched, I remember thinking she had a no-frills cuteness about her, opting to sit up on a stool for most of her set, in a pair of simple jeans and a T-shirt, her plain white Keds swinging, brown hair messy in a ponytail. The humor was honest, and intimate. When it was over, I had the feeling that I knew her.

  “It’s like you know her,” Jeremy says under his breath, and my eyes snap to his. There’s a lot going on in those eyes—blue and excitable, a little devious.

  “Exactly,” I say.

  “Well, by some fuckin’ miracle she’s agreed to come here,” says Dolores, the expletive seeming to extinguish whatever spark just flickered between us. “Please no one tell her what a shithole this place is. I’m pretty sure she only said yes because I grew up with her uncle. Anyway, you almost ready, Jer?”

  “Uh, yeah,” he says, handing me his phone. I’m surprised to see a new contact on the screen: SABRINA with an upside-down smiley face and a microphone emoji. “Give me your number?”

  “Wow, Jer,” says Dolores as I search for a response. “That was bold, even for you.”

  “In case she decides to come back!” he says defensively, a little less smooth as he meets my eyes. I wouldn’t say he looks embarrassed, though. His expression is self-aware and silly, with an eyebrow quirk that must do wonders with the ladies.

  “What?” he says as I continue to study him. “I can give you some stand-up tips.”

  “That’s actually not a bad idea,” says Dolores.

  “Oh,” I say. “I mean . . . wait, what?” I catch a glimmer of my sister’s peachy waves by the main door. She and Carmen aren’t so giggly now. They look sort of like sad, lost puppies. Hen spots me and waves, while Carmen stares off into space.

  “Shit,” says Jeremy. “I should go clear my head in the office for a second before my set.” He looks at the phone in my hands. I guess it’s now or never.

  “Oh, what the hell?” I say, typing in my number. He grins as I give it back to him, and walks off without saying goodbye.

  “Nice to meet you, too!” I call after him.

  “All right, I gotta put this audience out of their misery,” says Dolores. “But maybe I’ll see ya.” She nods her goodbye, heading for the stage, and I frown as I catch a final glimpse of Jeremy, disappearing into the back.

  “What a weird-ass night,” I mutter as I weave through the crowd.

  “I think I need to hurl,” Hen says matter-of-factly when I reach her.

  “I, too, need to hurl,” says Carmen beside her.

  “No, no,” I say. “Just take deep breaths.”

  Out in the street, I buckle Hen and Carmen into the back seat, brushing off fresh snow before slipping inside the car. “Tonight was exactly what I needed,” Hen murmurs as I start up the engine.

  “Same,” sighs Carmen, her eyelids beginning to lower.

  “Yeah,” I say, driving off. “Me too.”

  Within minutes, I hear snores. And blessedly, no one hurls.

  Four

  The Morning After | An uncomfortable period of regret or confusion, often following a one-night stand or some other kind of funny business.

  I’m disoriented when I wake up. Too much light in my face. I’m on the futon in Hen’s window nook, I remember, as I prop onto my elbows. Down in the yard, the snow has settled, reflective in the clear morning. Hen and Carmen are passed out on the bed, breathing with mouths open, limbs draped every which way.

  I frown—the carpet is buzzing—and pick up my phone with a swipe. It’s almost noon.

  On the group text, Aunt Viv has shared a photo of Uncle Arvin twisting back in an apron, their counter covered in ingredients. My husband requires the whole kitchen to make his famous kare kare. Coming to yours to help prep!

  We caved and got party horns for the kids again. Please don’t kill us, says my brother William.

  Look who’s ready! says Mom, below a photo of Nacho, our new maniacally happy Pomeranian, dressed in a sparkly jacket.

  My God, he’s like a doggy Elton John, says Gabriela, adding heart eyes. P.S. Dessert and drinks didn’t feel like enough so I’m also bringing feijoada. It’s a stew. Samuel’s favorite!

  I sit up. Think of Sam’s hand on my cheek. That happened. And now he’s coming here for the party tonight. I imagine us watching each other steadily, the whole room counting down from ten. . . .

  More texts pop up on my screen, this time from a number I don’t recognize.

  Thought about it, and you should definitely do the competition with us.

  It’s Jeremy, by the way.

  Seriously, it’ll be fun. You’ll be a star.

  I blink a moment, more events from last night returning. And then I laugh out loud. “Shhhhhh!” hisses Carmen before letting out a groan. Ah yes. The demon tea.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, getting to my feet. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror and freeze. I still have traces of the Sabrina makeup around my eyes, my hair a little curly from the buns. “Whoa,” I say back to myself. Until this moment, last night felt like a wisp of a dream. The kind you tell a reluctant listener about, like, I was trying to open a door, only I couldn’t because my hands were bananas?

  Except right now, I really do have banana hands. Metaphorically, that is.

  “What is it, Gretch?” croaks Carmen.

  “Nothing,” I say reflexively.

  I highly doubt she and Hen even remember my odd blip onstage last night. I barely thought of it myself after we left, too concerned with getting them inside unnoticed. I knew they had no chance of pulling off sober if intercepted by my parents. Luckily, Mom and Dad were asleep by the time we tiptoed in, Hen tripping on the stairs and Carmen snort-laughing while I shushed them up to bed.

  In the mirror, I glimps
e Hen stuffing her head under a pillow, her words coming out muffled: “You did this to us, Carmen. I really hate you.”

  “Understandable,” says Carmen, slinging an elbow over her face.

  I smile before my reflection pulls me back, a strange, pleasant warmth spreading over me as I return to thoughts of last night. It still doesn’t feel possible. I stood in front of a crowd and talked about Sam. I gave my number to a stranger. I had a freaking alias.

  “Yoo-hoo! Earth to Gretchen!”

  “Hm?” I turn around.

  “Coffee run?” Carmen murmurs pitifully. “Please?”

  “Sure,” I say, snapping out of it.

  “You’re an angel,” she sighs. “Will you get me a pumpkin spice latte? They really are good, and I’m too hungover to care about being basic right now.”

  “Our true colors are really showing here,” says Hen, peeking out from her pillow. “Make that two PSLs, please.”

  I park my car and step out into the crisp sunny air, relieved to see no sign of Sam. Willard Beach Coffee is right next to Keep Calm Yoga, among the short cluster of businesses along the otherwise residential street. I pause on the sidewalk, squinting past all the hanging plants in the window. I think I’m relieved. I’m wearing plaid pajamas under this coat. And I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. Still, I have this urge. Like I want something to happen already.

  I keep getting flashes of that spotlight last night, that fizziness in my limbs when my voice first crackled through the mic. I felt like I’d stumbled into some low-gravity free fall up there, calm and exhilarated at once. In a way, it was effortless. Thoughts in my head turned to words said aloud. Until I felt lighter. Freer. Braver.