“I have a list here of notable alumni that you can work off of for inspiration,” Mr. O says, moving right along as he reaches back for a stack of papers on the table. “Maybe you can choose a few you’d like to highlight.” He hands us each a stapled copy, names and accomplishments listed by year. I guess only men were notable until around the class of 1946. History can be a real bummer sometimes.
“Poet, physicist . . .” I leaf through the printout. “You’ve got to be kidding me. Former chairman of L.L.Bean?”
“Hey, that’s pretty big-time,” says Ethan. “Have some Maine pride.”
“Oooh,” says Natalie. “This guy invented that little plastic circle you pull out when you open milk.”
“You know what? I take it back,” I say. “This is going to be riveting.”
“Huh,” says Ethan, coming closer to the page. “Highly decorated president of the Republic of Lithuania. Are we sure about this one?”
We meet eyes and laugh.
“Oooh! Marnie James,” says Natalie.
I get a tiny thrill at the name, feeling the warmth of that spotlight again. I’ve been having these moments a lot today. Right before I remember Jeremy’s Why not? text still sitting on my phone. I didn’t respond in the end, maybe because there were too many answers.
I’m not Sabrina Martin.
I’m not twenty-one.
And even if you put those pesky details aside, I’m still not some big, charismatic performer type. I might have my silly moments in the right company, but in no universe will you ever hear people say, “You know. Gretchen. The funny girl.”
“Okay,” I sigh, snapping out of it. “So what now?”
“Now I go home,” says Mr. O, tossing a set of keys to Natalie. “But Julie from the library very graciously lent us this cart of yearbooks.” He gestures to the ancient wheelie thing near the doorway. “This literally contains a hundred years of history, so please don’t forget to lock up.”
When he goes, the three of us stand over the library cart.
“Well, we’re obviously including Marnie, right?” says Natalie, eyes darting between Ethan and me. “Yes, right? Say yes.”
“Definitely yes,” I say, grinning at her. “I freaking love Marnie James.”
“Oh my God, same,” she says reverently.
“You know, I’ve never actually seen her stuff,” says Ethan.
“Really?” says Natalie, pulling out her phone and typing something. She waves us over and soon, we’re all huddled around the screen, where Marnie James paces the stage in her white Keds, jeans, and a T-shirt. Her first special.
“It was a big change, coming from Maine to New York. The sheer number of people you come across on any given day was a shock. Sure, in Maine you might pass another person while you’re snowshoeing to the gym.” She grins. “Just kidding. People in Maine don’t go to the gym.”
“Hehe, Maine joke,” says Ethan, looking up at me.
“The catcalling here is a little out of control,” Marnie goes on when the rumble of the crowd dies. “Though I guess that’s not so much a New York problem as it is a man problem.” She laughs. “You ever notice the kinds of words men use to describe having sex with women?”
I smile, remembering this bit now. Marnie drops her voice low and gives a masculine tick of the jaw: “‘Hey, man. You pound that pussy last night?’ ‘Oh big time,’” she says, being the other guy. “‘Fuckin’ shredded it, bruh.’” I can feel Natalie biting back her reaction alongside me as Marnie levels the audience with a look. “Can you imagine if women talked that way about guys?” She leans forward, flopping her wrist like it’s time to gossip. “‘Hey, girl. You break that dick last night?’ ‘Oh you know I did,’” she says, being the friend. “‘I snapped that dick in half.’”
Natalie and I burst out laughing, right as Ethan says, “Um, ow.” The camera cuts to a close-up, and you can tell Marnie is enjoying the mixed reactions to her joke.
Ethan shudders again.
“I guess we shouldn’t get sucked in,” says Natalie, hitting pause.
“You’re right,” I say, though I could happily stand here and watch the whole thing. “Ethan, this is your homework. Watch her stuff and tell us what you think. She’s actually rarely this crude. I’m pretty sure that’s her only joke that’ll make your junk hurt.”
I freeze, feeling my cheeks go hot. Did I really just mention Ethan’s junk to him? But he laughs. “She’s actually coming to Portland soon,” I go on, recovering quickly. “As part of her new tour.”
“Very cool,” he says. “Are you some kind of comedy buff?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say, shrugging.
Natalie gives me a brief, skeptical look and goes back to reading Mr. O’s printout. “Sam says you are. He also told me your Dwight Schrute impression is excellent.”
“False,” I say immediately. “I do an okay Dwight Schrute impression.” I hear her on a delay. “Wait. Sam was talking about me?”
“Well, yeah . . .” says Natalie, as if I should know what she’s implying. It’s so awkward when people do this—just assume you’ll know exactly how to fill in their very obscure blanks. I try to summon the powers of deduction.
Sam has talked to Natalie about me.
Ergo, Sam and Natalie have been having “talks.” (Booo.)
But also ergo, the subject matter has been me. (Yaasss!)
“I wonder if I’ll ever be notable,” says Ethan with an unbothered shrug.
“Your odds are better than mine,” I tell him, snapping out of it.
Natalie rolls her eyes. “What are we even saying with lists like this? That most human beings aren’t . . . of note? That doesn’t seem right.” She frowns down at the cart. “Anyway, I’ll look for that milk carton guy.”
“I’ll take L.L.Bean,” says Ethan.
“And I’ve got Marnie,” I say, already crouching down to find her year. I flip to the Js, and there she is: teenage Marnie James.
She looks so . . . regular. A ponytail and ill-fitting sweater. The slightest hint of an acne scar on her chin.
I have to read the quote under her picture twice. Then I laugh.
“Who was she again?”—most of you. Just kidding, it’s fine. I don’t mind being the girl least likely.
“Huh,” I say.
“What?” says Ethan, coming over to look.
“Nothing.” I peer down at her little smirk. “Just . . . not what I expected.”
Six
The Big Night | The one that everything changes. And so begins the heart-stopping, head-spinning, whimsical adventure.
When I pull into the Hanoi House parking lot, I see no sign of Sam’s car. I sigh. “Way to be the early dork, Gretchen.”
I lock up, bristling in the cold, and tell myself it doesn’t matter. He asked me here. To dinner, which is not a thing we do. The restaurant itself is nothing new. Sam’s parents used to bring us here when we were little, until we got old enough to come ourselves with bikes, and later cars. But we came for lunch. Always lunch.
The moment I step inside, I take in the happy smells, struck by how romantic it is in here at night—all dim and cozy, with frosty windows and string lanterns everywhere. It’s funny that such a familiar place can give you such a different feeling in the right light. I half wonder if Sam intended this to be some kind of metaphor.
Or maybe he was just craving Vietnamese.
“Oh, hey, we’ve missed you!” says Linh, the owner, warmly. “Come. Your favorite table is open.” She leads me to a booth in the window and I slide in, stomach doing somersaults as she pours two waters and leaves.
I watch the time on my phone. Two minutes, three. Finally, I grow too restless, and slip in earbuds to resume Marnie James’s first special—the one Ethan, Natalie, and I started the other day. I’ve been watching it in pieces, in moments of angsty downtime.
“It seems like men keep having kids later in life these days,” she says in my ear. “In New York, they’ve taken it to a whole
new level. Now, when I’m walking down the street, I like to play this game I call: Dad, or Grandpa?”
I smile as the audience murmurs their approval. “I’ll spot a dude coming toward me in his Babybjörn. He looks young from far away, trim in his little hoodie and cool sneakers. But as I get closer, I’ll realize it’s basically Clint Eastwood dressed as a tech bro.” She bugs her eyes out, as if startled. “Oh God. Grandpa. Grandpa! Then I get a little closer and—gah!” She squints beyond the camera, tilting her head. “Great-grandpa?”
I laugh, feeling myself relax against the booth. It’s still weird to me that Marnie James is a real person. She walked the same high school halls that I did, apparently with similarly little fanfare. And here she is in my palm—larger than life now. In a couple months, she’ll be headlining at the Chuckle Parlor, and every comic in the place will be kissing her Keds-adorned feet.
It hasn’t escaped me that it’s Wednesday, as in the next night of the competition. I feel an odd sort of melancholy when I picture it now, all of last week’s comedians, psyching themselves up as they walk back into that club.
“Hey,” says a muted voice. I look up, pulling out headphones.
Sam’s hair looks wet from a shower. I melt, swallow, then remember to speak. “Hi.”
“You know what you want to order?” Linh asks as he slides in across from me.
“Uh, yeah.” I clear my throat, skimming the menu quickly. “I’ll have a small beef . . . pho,” I say, stumbling slightly as I decide to pronounce it the correct way.
“And a large one for me,” says Sam.
When she goes, I blink a few times, still pondering the interaction. “Are we saying foe or fuh now? I know technically it’s fuh, but saying it properly still kind of makes me feel like a douche.”
Sam laughs, loud, and my chest swells. “I think it’s a balance,” he says, pulling off his coat and settling back. “Take my mom’s new yoga instructor you met the other day. She loves talking about her teacher training in Spain, and I’m convinced it’s just an excuse to lisp out Barthhh-elona in the middle of a sentence. To me, that’s unacceptable.”
“I mean, it does sound kind of awesome,” I say. “Who, me? I just got back from Barthhh-elona. If I ever manage to leave Maine, I will totally drop stuff like that into sentences.”
“No way,” he says. “Anyway, it would be different if you said it.”
“I see,” I say, feeling we’ve arrived at some larger truth here. “So it’s more of a nail-in-the-coffin sort of trait. Like, if the person already irritates you, then overpronouncing foreign words mostly serves as reinforcement?”
“Yeah,” he says hesitantly. “But I mean, at the same time, don’t just give up and say foe. Maybe it’s a matter of holding opposing truths in our minds simultaneously?”
I nod wisely. “I think the Dalai Lama said that.”
We smile.
“So . . .” Sam strums his fingers along the table, and I imagine filling the drawn-out silence with the freakish chatter inside my head. (Do you like me??? Tell me what’s in your brain!!!) I nearly crack up from thinking about it. But now Sam has a weird look on his face. “Okay.” He breathes out. “Maybe we should clear the air about the other night.”
I tense up. “What do you mean?” I highly doubt he’ll buy this innocent act. But I have to know what he’s thinking before I say any more.
“I’m not totally sure . . .” Sam says carefully. Is it possible he’s waiting to know what I’m thinking? That’s the problem with romantic declarations, right? One person always has to go first.
Should I go first???
“It kind of seemed like . . .” He shrugs, eyes locking in with mine. “Maybe you were mad? Because I left the New Year’s party?”
“Oh,” I say, a strange mix of relief and disappointment flooding me. “No. I was just . . . You know how I am about sticking to traditions. Carmen recently brought it to my attention that I don’t like change.”
“Well, that is true,” he says, with an odd little laugh. “So we’re good?”
“Golden,” I say, pushing past the rising ache. Did I imagine that moment in the yoga studio? But he touched my cheek! And he was talking to Natalie about me!
“Hey, speaking of Carmen,” he says, pulling me back. “I meant to ask after the party. What was the deal with her and Hen? They were like zombies all through dinner.”
“Well, we got a little wild the night before. We went out to some bars.”
“You. Went to bars?” He looks genuinely shocked, which I kind of like.
“We had fake IDs,” I say, holding my chin up.
“Huh,” he says. “Carmen, I can see. But you and Henrietta?”
“Hey, Hen’s a college girl now. And what are you trying to say about me?” He doesn’t have to know I only had water. Just then Linh arrives with the food, and we make space for two piping hot bowls of pho, adding Sriracha and squeezing limes.
“Oh hell yes,” says Sam, diving in.
In seconds, my mouth is blessedly full of noodles. “Ermergod dis is gerd.”
“So ferging gerrrrrd,” Sam says, making me choke on a laugh.
“Well, I’m glad you’re not mad.” He breathes out, breaking for a swig of water. “It’s so weird with this move looming over everything now. I want to soak everything up and see as many people as I can. But my mom’s right. I should be better about making time for y—”
I gape, and he winces.
“That came out wrong.”
“Sam . . .” I frown a minute, leaning forward across the table. “Did you have me over last week because your mom told you to? Wait.” My heart sinks. “Is that why we’re here now?” He looks resigned, and I cough a laugh. “Oh my God!”
“Well, I’m sorry, but you don’t make it easy,” he says. “I get invited to lots of things you could come along for, but you refuse to ever be in a group. It has to be you and me. All the time.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s because you hang out with douchebags, Sam.”
“That’s not true,” he says. “Is Ethan a douchebag? Is Natalie?” I shake my head no, feeling suddenly small. “I know for a fact they both really like you. And I’m sure other people would too, if you ever, like, tried. At all.”
“I’m not a people person,” I say, swirling my spoon through red-tinged broth.
“Why?”
“I don’t know,” I say, sounding completely childish. It’s something I’ve never been able to properly explain to him—how when a group grows too big, or I’m talking to someone who doesn’t know me well, I start to feel like I’m on display, and suddenly it’s as if I can’t access my real self. This low-lying fear is always there—like when the moment comes, I’ll say the wrong thing. Or, possibly just as bad: not say anything at all. “Anyway, don’t change the subject. You’re pity-hanging out with me.”
“I’m not!” he says.
I sink back into the booth, covering my face. “God, this is embarrassing.”
“Come on, Gretch. It’s me. You should never be embarrassed around me. Yes, I want to do my own thing sometimes but . . . hey.” He waits for me to peek out at him, through a slit between my fingers. “You’re still my best friend.”
The words should be nice. A good thing. But all I want to do is cry.
“You too,” I say, picking up my spoon again to let the broth dribble into my bowl.
“I guess I don’t get it,” he says after a minute. “I know the real you. You’re awesome. But it’s like, the older we get, the more you . . . I don’t know. Shrink, almost? It kind of bums me out, honestly.”
“Well, this might be hard for you to understand, Sam, but for some of us, high school is something to survive. Not . . . savor every moment of like it’s the pinnacle of glory.”
“So you’re saying I’m gonna peak in high school?” There’s an edge to his voice, but he’s smiling again. “Jeez, Gretch. Tell me how you really feel.”
“Ugh!” I laugh, rolling my eyes. “I
didn’t say that. Although, you could probably tone it down with the whole high school golden boy act.”
“What act?” he says.
I drop my spoon to make two finger pistols and point smarmily to invisible hallway people. “Hey, buddy! . . . How’s it hangin’, bro?”
“Oh, come on. Stop,” he says. “I don’t do that.”
“Uh, except, you totally do.”
For a moment we just stare at each other, tense but still joking around, I think. A part of me wants to tell him there were other places I could have been tonight—one in particular he wouldn’t believe. I wasn’t afraid up on that stage last week. And I didn’t shrink, thank you very much.
I think of Jeremy’s text. Why not?
And for the first time, instead of a list of nots, I hear it a different way: Why not?!?
I pull out my wallet, Sabrina’s ID still nestled in the clear pocket. Everything else I need is right there at home. “I have to go,” I say, not quite believing myself as I throw down cash.
“What?” Sam looks confused as I slide out of the booth. “Wait. Gretchen—”
“We’re good,” I tell him. “Really. I’ll just see you at school.”
Three whole minutes. That’s how long it takes to wriggle into a pair of tight leather pants behind a steering wheel. Mom and Dad weren’t home when I dropped by, but changing under that roof still felt risky to me.
“How did Carmen even do this?” I say into the rearview mirror now, adding eyeliner, some blush, and the super-bright lipstick she let me hold on to for touch-ups. Normally, my makeup regimen stops at concealer over blemishes, and maybe a bit of tinted Burt’s Bees if I’m feeling frisky. But I think I’ve pretty much pulled this off.
I heave a sigh, heartbeat quickening. Across the street, a crooked sign blinks above the door: The Chuckle Parlor.
“Okay, okay, okay . . .” I whisper, yanking on Sabrina’s boots before sliding into the cropped black jacket. The words cycle through my head as if on a news ticker: This is so weird. . . . I am so weird. . . . And yet, I’m pulling hair ties from my wrist to form two little buns before securing them with pins.
The Girl Least Likely Page 6