“Huh?”
“What would you do? questions,” he says, apparently repeating himself. “I used to ask them all the time as a kid. You know. What would you do if I shaved off my eyebrow? What would you do if I stripped down naked in the middle of this Olive Garden? And instead of a breadstick—”
“Okay, I think I get the concept,” I say, stopping him there.
He laughs. “Basically, when I got into stand-up, I started acting on those impulses. The scenarios have evolved—I haven’t defiled any Olive Gardens or anything,” he clarifies quickly. “But if I get a curious itch, I just kind of . . . scratch it. It’s quite liberating with dating. If I put myself out there and wind up humiliated—great. I get a story out of it. And if I find myself in some train wreck of a relationship, I can talk about it in my act. Which means it won’t have been a waste, even when I’m forced to self-destruct.”
“What does that mean?”
He shrugs. “I guess I haven’t really mastered the mature breakup yet. I usually find some creative way to expedite the process. Once I got a girl to break up with me by overusing the word yeppers.”
“I think any use of the word yeppers is an overuse.”
“Yeppers, it is,” he says. “When it hit me how wrong we were for each other, I just started working it into sentences. She dumped me within a week. And then I got a bit out of it: Can your love withstand the yeppers test?”
“So . . .” I frown a moment. “Before you self-destruct, do these girlfriends come to your shows and watch you talk about them? Isn’t that weird?”
He teeters a bit. “I . . . usually don’t mention my comedy at the start of a relationship. Or at all, sometimes. It’s just easier to keep those parts of my life separate for when all the crashing and burning starts.”
“Yeesh,” I say. “You are cynical.”
“And you’re not?” The corner of his mouth hikes up, eyes twinkling playfully. “Do you believe in the fairy tale?”
“Maybe not the fairy tale,” I say. “But I think I believe in the rom-com. Maybe with a few added tweaks for plausibility.”
“Yeah, I can’t say I’ve ever really watched those.”
“You should give them a try. It could help with all the nihilism. They make you feel . . . good. Hopeful.”
“Oh yeah?” he says, still grinning at me. “How so?”
I bite my lip, considering this a moment. “Maybe it’s just a nice thought to hold on to, you know? That someday, somehow, another person will choose you—just you. Parents divide their attention among siblings. Friends have other friends. But with that kind of love? Love-love?” I shrug. “You’re it. And that person is it for you. Well . . . unless you’ve got some kind of polygamy situation worked out.” Jeremy smiles, and there’s that ding! again. It’s highly annoying how much it ruffles me. “Anyway,” I say, shaking it off. “It’s just fun to wish for, I guess.”
“So the wishing itself is fun?”
“Yeah, kinda,” I say. “I think they call that optimism. You should try it some time.”
Jeremy holds my stare for just a moment too long, and I feel a bit of heat start to pool around my jawline. But then he frowns and gets up, going around the bar. “Can I, uh . . .” He clears his throat. “Can I offer you a nightcap on the house?” He doesn’t wait for my reply—just pulls two wet glasses from a crate. “You know what? I’ll join you for one.”
“Up-up-up, no you won’t,” says Dolores, appearing from the hall with a basket full of papers marked Votes. “We don’t serve minors in this establishment, thank you.”
I flinch at the word minors. Does she know?
“Did I hear him telling you the yeppers story?” she asks, tossing the basket onto the bar. “You’ll have to forgive my godson. Thinks he’s friggin’ Daniel Day-Lewis over here. Very method with his comedy.”
“He is a student of the universe,” I say, and he winks in a way I somehow don’t hate.
I feel a spike of dread as Dolores looks over the voting sheets audience members filled out before leaving. I don’t particularly want to know what they thought of me. She squints, moving the slips of paper forward and back to click in with her reading glasses, one after the other. “Ha! See?” she says. “The lowest possible points, from . . .” She cycles through a few more. “Yep. Basically the entire audience.”
My stomach dips. “Yeah, I get it. . . .”
“What? No, not you,” she says, dropping the voting sheets back into the basket. “Somehow you weren’t the worst one tonight. I’m talking about that asswipe who’s fond of saying ‘me so horny’ and complaining about his imaginary wife.”
“Oh, Bad Kevin James,” I say, somewhat relieved.
“That feels like an affront to the real Kevin James,” says Jeremy. “Mall Cop, anybody? But I see what you mean. God, that set was excruciating.”
“I agree,” says Dolores. “Which is why I told him not to come back. I should have done it last week. Or more like years ago, if you think about it. He was not the first Bad Kevin James to walk through this place.”
“Wait,” says Jeremy. “He’s really not coming back?”
“Nope,” says Dolores. “He wasn’t happy about it. And he seemed to think I owed him a debate on the first amendment. I’m like, sorry, guy, but it’s my club, and you weren’t pushing any fuckin’ boundaries for Christ’s sake.”
“Ah yes,” I say. “A man talking about titties. So brave.”
Dolores sighs. “I wrestle with these questions a lot. And it’s not an exact science. From what I’ve seen, if you’re funny enough, and you’re coming from an okay place, most audiences will stay with you even if you cross a few lines. Or at least do that thing where they laugh but worry they’re going to hell. What this guy couldn’t understand was that on top of being just a completely out-of-touch prick, he wasn’t fuckin’ funny!”
“Well, one less person to compete with,” says Jeremy. “Works for me.”
“We saw him storm off,” I say.
“Oh, he was ripshit,” says Dolores, shaking her head. “On his way out, he goes, ‘What would know you, bitch? Women aren’t funny!’” She chuckles to herself. “What a fuckin’ baby.”
I must look stricken, because Dolores reaches out to cover my hand with hers. “You know that’s a load of crap, right? You weren’t funny tonight because you’re new at this. And because you didn’t prepare anything. It had nothing to do with your jiggly parts.”
“Aw,” Jeremy says to me. “Your first Dolores pep talk.”
“Oh, before I forget,” she says, ignoring him. “I need a headshot from you, Sabrina. Yours is the only one I’m missing. Bring it to me next week?”
“Um. Okay . . .” I say, frowning. I’ll worry about that later. “Also, I just wanted to apologize about my set. I didn’t actually plan to—”
“She’s taking this seriously now,” Jeremy interrupts. “She’s even wisely requested my tutelage.”
“I’m accepting a few tips,” I clarify.
Jeremy looks hopefully at Dolores. “What do you say? Round of beers to celebrate?”
“Uh, no,” she says. “Though Sabrina, you can help yourself to a pint if you like, since you’re one of us now.” I blink as she walks off, even more confused than I was before.
“Wait . . .” The realization hits on a delay as I slowly turn to Jeremy. “So . . .” I scoff at him. “You’re under twenty-one?”
“Eighteen,” he says, a tiny smile pulling at his lips. “What’s it to you, Sabrina?”
“I—” His flirty tone catches me off guard. “But if you’re a minor, how do you work at a bar?”
“The laws around that are surprisingly chill in Maine,” he says. “At eighteen you can even bartend. Though you technically can’t taste the drinks.” He laughs. “That was actually Ted until about a month ago.” I nod slowly, my brain still catching up. “Anyway, I mostly just bus tables and help around here. And I only check IDs when someone needs a break. Honestly, Dolores is
n’t much of a stickler for rules. I thought she’d have eased up on the beer policy by now,” he adds, before raising his volume. “If this were Europe, it’d be legal!”
“Well, we’re not in Europe, are we?” she yells back from another room.
“So you’re eighteen,” I repeat, mostly to myself. Eighteen as in barely older than me. As in completely appropriate . . .
But then I frown. Because wait a minute. He thinks I’m twenty-one. And yet here he’s been acting all superior since we met! I’m actually kind of offended. Even if he does know more about stand-up than I do, shouldn’t he be asking for sage life advice or something?
I am his elder!
“So where were we?” he asks, piercing my silent rant.
“Hm?”
“With your set. Maybe you should talk about that Sam guy again next week. That was nice and pitiful.”
“Hey,” I say, reaching out to swat him. “You’re a jerk.” I’m smiling though. Because somehow, I’ve hardly thought of Sam at all tonight.
“For the record, I’m not a jerk,” says Jeremy, meeting my eyes. “Well, not all the time.”
I nod as a yawn takes over. I’m exhausted. Is it late?
I freeze, reality whooshing back. Because it’s Wednesday—a school night. And oh yeah, I’m not actually a twenty-one-year-old college girl who casually closes down bars. “What time is it?” I say, not waiting for Jeremy’s response as I get my jacket and slip my arms through the sleeves. “God dammit. I completely lost track of myself.” I pat down my pockets, looking for my phone. What if my parents are freaking out? Maybe I could say I went to Sam’s house after dinner and fell asleep?
But when I look down, the spinning in my head comes to a halt. I have no texts, no calls. Jeez, Mom and Dad. You could worry a little.
“Everything okay?” asks Jeremy.
“Oh yeah,” I say. “My, uh . . . roommate. She doesn’t like it when I stay out too late. I should go.”
“Well, I’m around if you need any help this week,” he calls after me as I head for the exit. “Maybe a writing session one night?”
“Oh,” I say, stopping at the door. “Yeah, okay . . .”
“Good,” he says. “I’ll look forward to it.”
I breathe a laugh, nodding vaguely. And with that, I step out into the cold—back to my car and my real life.
Eight
The Perfect Cover | I mean really. Who hasn’t been an incognito journalist or a fake fiancé at some point? Just make sure you don’t fall in love. . . .
“Did we not watch Love, Actually this year?” asks Mom, scrolling through movie options. Dad sips a beer between us, his ridiculous hat flaps up, our communal bowl of buttery home-popped popcorn resting on his stomach. He’s already got a piece stuck in his mustache.
“We watched it at Carmen’s house at the start of break,” I say.
“Without me?” Mom looks wounded. “You girls know how much I love complaining about the creepy parts.”
“Sorry,” I say through a yawn. “But holiday movie season is over.”
“Oh, I disagree,” she says.
Dad pauses between handfuls. “Please pick something I can at least mildly tolerate.”
I grin at Mom. “Dad loves Love, Actually you know.”
“Do not,” he says.
I wedge myself deeper into the corner of the couch, pulling my fleece blanket around me. “Christmas Eve-Eve, two years ago. I saw a tiny tear come out of that eye when the little kid was drumming to the Mariah Carey song.”
“Well,” he concedes. “That part is adorable. I also like the scene where Hugh Grant dances. What can I say? The man has charisma.”
I smile through another yawn, eyes glazing as Mom gets swallowed further into the streaming-options sinkhole. It was after one when I got home from the club last night, and even after I crawled under the covers, I was too twitchy with adrenaline to sleep. Looking at my parents now, I still feel like I got off too easily. Mom even left a sticky note on my door: We went to bed early. Hope you had a good time with Sam!
It’s sort of funny. My parents definitely enforced curfews for Hen and William at my age. And none of us would have had the same experience tiptoeing in last night. My brother, once something of a troublemaker, would have come home to a speech: How could you be so irresponsible?! While Henrietta probably would have received a hug before anything else: Thank God you’re all right! We were so worried!
But with me?
I laugh.
They didn’t even wait up!
“While You Were Sleeping,” says Mom like she’s taking a gasp of air. “That will satisfy my holiday craving without going full Christmas Prince or whatever.”
“Fine,” sighs Dad, though I know for a fact he thinks Sandra Bullock is hilarious.
“Hey, before I forget,” says Mom, sitting back. “We’re going up to Viv and Arvin’s cabin to ski for the weekend. Gabriela’s bringing her new guy.”
“Wow,” I say. “They’re getting kind of serious.”
“Sam isn’t going, understandably,” says Mom. “I take it you don’t want to either?”
“Nope. Still hate winter sports . . . and sports . . . and winter.”
“Well then, the house is yours,” she says with a laugh. “Don’t throw any ragers.” She and Dad share a look like she’s just said something hysterical. So maybe that’s why they didn’t wait up for me last night. They’re too secure in what a huge dork I am.
I level them both with an eye roll as Mom hits play, the snappy opening credits assuring us that This will be an everlasting love! It’s a classic, and I want to watch, but my lashes are growing heavy, the edges of my vision fading fast.
When I open my eyes again, a lonely Sandra Bullock is struggling to pull a Christmas tree through a window while her cat looks on. You will find love, I want to say. Someone tell her! We all know the end!
The next time I stir, Bill Pullman is showing her his rocking chair. If I’ve learned anything from these movies, it’s that you always, always marry the guy who can make a rocking chair.
I smile, wishing I had a pen and paper to write that down. That feels like a joke, or the start of one. I guess I write jokes now. . . .
My eyes flutter shut again, and I see myself on that stage last night. It’s weird I feel this happy, considering how badly my so-called set went. I normally embarrass more easily than this, reliving every word, every misstep, regrets like white-hot lumps lodged stubbornly in my throat.
It’s actually bizarre.
I bombed last night, but the impulse to replay it—to agonize? It’s . . . gone.
And I want to keep it gone.
Because with comedy, I think you have to suck—and I mean utterly, soul-shatteringly suck—if you ever want to not suck. People say fortune favors the bold. But now I wonder if it just favors those who don’t know how bad they suck. In which case, it’s more like, Fortune eludes the self-aware, or . . . something.
I’m getting all deep now.
And I honestly can’t tell if I’m asleep or not.
Hehe, that’s weird.
I am an amorphous brain!
And getting weirder . . .
I’m in a dark void now, walking in a slow circle around the girl with the two little buns, the red frames. A sleep-tinged delirium brings clarity, like a tide rolling toward my feet.
I’ve found a glitch in the system. A hall pass made of black leather and suede. As Sabrina, I can suck to my heart’s content.
And Gretchen can go unscathed.
“Gah!” I wake to Nacho catapulting toward me, the throw pillow on my lap saving me from his stabby paws.
“Were you asleep, Gretch?” says Mom, her face falling. “Aw. You okay?”
“Yeah, sorry,” I say, rubbing my eyes. “Just tired.”
“While we’re paused, we need more popcorn,” says Dad, getting up.
Mom takes Nacho from my lap and lifts him up. “Hello, my good boy. Did you wake your sister
up? Did you not want her to miss the movie? How sweet are you?”
“Yes, he’s very considerate,” I say, grinning. It’s amazing how happy he looks in Mom’s arms.
“We should do something special for his birthday next month,” she says. “Throw a big bash. And there should be a theme. I’ve been lamenting our family’s lack of religion. This week, one of the other dog moms from the park is throwing her Boston terrier a bark mitzvah.”
I snort, and Mom’s big goofy smile looks so much like Hen’s. It’s another way they’re alike: Mom can laugh at herself.
My phone starts buzzing on the coffee table then. “Jeremy,” says Mom with a frown as she hands it to me. “Do I know this Jeremy?”
“No,” I say, extremely awake now. Why is he calling me?! “He’s . . . from school. We have a project. But I’ll let it go to voice mail.”
“Okay,” she says, eyeing me strangely. “Well, I need a kombucha.”
I watch Mom get up and go as the buzzing continues in my hand, my own words sort of echoing in my head: I’ll let it go to voice mail. “Omigod, voice mail!” I almost drop the phone as I flinch and hit the button. “Hello?”
“Hey,” says Jeremy. I catch my breath, tempted to remind him that we are not, in fact, in a 1990s rom-com right now. Who calls people on the phone? “I was just wondering about our writing session this weekend. When’s good for you?”
“Oh,” I say, peering down the hall to make sure Mom and Dad aren’t coming back yet. I guess it’s good they’re going out of town. I won’t have to worry about tripping over backstories. “I’m . . . pretty free.”
“Cool, cool . . .”
I strain to listen: Mom and Dad rummaging around, the fridge door opening and closing. “Do we need to decide this now?”
“My bad,” says Jeremy, a hint of mischief in his voice. “I just assumed you’d want to pin me down. My weekends fill up fast. Wouldn’t want to miss your chance.”
“Hmm,” I say. “Can we come up with some kind of code word for when you’re being the worst?”
He laughs. “How about . . . Hey, handsome. Although, no, that won’t work. What about all the times you want to say that to me sincerely?”
The Girl Least Likely Page 8