The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “Hey, handsome,” I say tersely.

  I swear I can hear him smiling. “Hey yourself.”

  Down the hall, Nacho starts prancing this direction like he’s the front of a parade, Mom and Dad following. “Jeremy, I have to go.”

  “Wait,” he says. “I didn’t actually make you mad, did I? We can come up with a real code word if you want.”

  “No,” I say, softening. “But I can’t talk. Just . . . text me like a normal person from our generation.”

  I hang up right as everyone descends upon the couch.

  “Everything okay?” asks Mom. I must look dazed.

  “Yeah,” I say. “But . . . I have to pee.” I jump up and hurry to the bathroom, closing the door and pulling up the voice mail settings on my phone. My stomach flips as I listen: “Hey, it’s Gretchen. Leave a message.”

  “That was way too close,” I whisper, clearing my throat as I hit record.

  “Hey, it’s . . . me,” I say. “Do the thing.”

  Satisfied, I save the message and return to the living room. As Mom hits play, I swaddle myself back up. I have a newfound respect for Sandra Bullock pulling off her fake identity as long as she does in this movie.

  My phone vibrates during her big coming-clean speech. It’s a text from Jeremy. How about we write at the club on Saturday? I can open early and we can stay for the show after. Meet there at 6?

  Sure, I type under my blanket.

  Three little dots appear, then vanish. I think I might be holding my breath. Finally, the text pops up: It’s a date.

  Nine

  The That-Was-Easy Montage | An agent of acceleration for any process that takes long. Like finding love, or getting good at stand-up comedy. Could someone cue the music?

  I woke up cuddling a composition notebook this morning, pencil scribbles and cross-outs imprinted lightly on my cheek. I got a second wind after the movie last night and stayed up late, trying to write that list about myself, like Jeremy suggested. (Defective Mainer, shiny-person adjacent, crushing on my oldest friend, youngest of three, middle child if you count Nacho . . .) It was fun at first. Then really hard. The jumping-off points were all there. But I never really . . . jumped.

  I figure today I’ll try thinking my thoughts out loud, even if it’s mostly nonsense. I talk softly into my phone, the recording app rolling, as I move from class to class.

  After PE: “What kind of sociopath invented dodgeball?”

  After art history: “Did women spend the whole sixteenth century with one boob out?”

  After math: “Okay, but what is a sine? Like what is it?”

  “Hey, Gretchen,” says Annika when I reach her locker. She’s wearing a lacy white dress with some kind of army coat over it. “Shall we dine?”

  “Yes,” I say, slipping the phone into my pocket. I look beyond her and flinch: Sam’s coming this way. Annika starts to close up but I stop her, pulling the locker back to hide behind.

  “Gretchen?”

  “Just keep blocking me,” I whisper. Sam and I haven’t said a peep to each other since the Hanoi House, and I’m way too sleep-deprived to act normal around him right now.

  “Hey there,” a voice says—Sam’s voice. I wince. “You do realize I saw you before, right? Which means I know you’re there now?”

  “Stupid object permanence,” I mutter.

  “Well, that,” he says. “And the bottom half of your body is showing.”

  I step out and lift my eyes to his, almost startled to find so much humor and warmth still crackling between us. With all the distractions these past couple days, I kind of hoped my feelings might finally start to fade. But no.

  “Look . . .” Sam glances at Annika, who seems quite comfortable staying for this private conversation. “I didn’t mean to be a jerk at dinner. I think maybe I’m . . . stressed about moving or something.”

  “You weren’t a jerk,” I say. Because he wasn’t. Not really.

  “Anyway . . .” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’m throwing a party at my house on Saturday, while my mom is up at the cabin. It won’t be anything huge, not the sort of thing you hate. You should come.” The invitation seems genuine, which in another moment might make me consider subjecting myself to a high school party. But that’s also my writing night with Jeremy. And I can’t miss that. No way.

  Sam turns to Annika, still watching us. “You could . . . come too. Annika, is it?”

  “You’ll know the name one day,” she says, completely serious. “But I’m hosting a jam session with some of the wind ensemble peeps that night.”

  “Right,” he says through a puzzled grin. “Well, what about you, Gretch?”

  “Sorry, I have plans.”

  He levels me with a look. “Come on. Hen’s away. Carmen keeps posting about how buried she is at school. And Annika here just told us she’s busy. Doesn’t that pretty much leave me?”

  “Yeah, normally,” I say. Then I frown, because—mean.

  “Sorry,” he says, walking backward into the crowded hall. “You know what? Do your thing. But the door’s open if you change your mind, okay?”

  “Okay,” I call after him. “Thank you!”

  I hear myself. Thank you?

  Annika locks up and comes to stand beside me as I watch him disappear. “Was it me or was that weird?”

  “It was weird,” I say. “Come on. Let’s go eat.”

  “Cool ranch?”

  Ethan holds out his open Doritos to me on the beanbag chairs. I take a chip and talk to it. “Oh, ranch. You’re so cool.” Ethan gives me a look, like, not your best, and I chuckle to myself. “Can you tell I’m sleep-deprived? That’s two nights in a row.”

  “What’s keeping you up so late?” he asks, taking the class of 1987 from the pile on the floor.

  I finish chewing and dust my hands clean. “I . . . can’t say.”

  “Okay . . .” he says, eyes on his page.

  “Well, it’s just you two for the rest of today,” says Natalie, coming over to us with her satchel backpack on, a coat draped over the crook of her arm. “Some guys from the chess team invited me to be a guest at their big banquet tonight. How could I say no to that? It’s going to be fit for a king. Or a rook! Get it?”

  I smile, having to hand it to her. The girl’s got dad jokes.

  “I can get some quotes for you while I’m there, Gretchen. Actually, I’ll take the film club, too. We’ve got a screening this weekend. Something French and existential. And I can interview the BSU kids next time we meet—Black student union,” she clarifies. “It’s a pretty small group, so it won’t take very long.”

  “Thanks,” I say, meeting her little smile.

  Her eyes narrow. “But you were going to send me the ones you’ve done so far, right?”

  “Right,” I lie. I’ve still made zero progress on that assignment. “I just have to . . . type them up.”

  “Oh, also, before I forget,” she says, doubling back. “It’s my birthday soon and my dad said I could reserve a table at his restaurant, invite friends for a big dinner—on the house, of course. It’s mostly sushi and small plates—it’s really good. Can I add you two to the reservation? Say yes.”

  “Obviously yes,” says Ethan, looking at me. “Trust me. You want to go. His food is, like, world-famous.”

  “Wow. I didn’t know that.”

  “You’ve probably seen him on food shows and stuff,” he says.

  “It’s actually how he got his start,” says Natalie. “He was like, one of the OG chef personalities, before that whole industry blew up.”

  “So awesome,” says Ethan, shaking his head.

  “Not to brag, but Bobby Flay was at my fifth birthday party,” she says, making me chuckle. “It’s actually how my parents met before they came up here. My mom was his producer.” That seems about right—Natalie would have cool parents like that. “Anyway. Speaking of my birthday. We’ll have so much fun. Please say you’ll come, Gretchen.”

  “Um . . .” I gue
ss there’s no reason not to. “Okay.”

  She claps her hands, then pulls it together. “Sorry. I’m an only child and was raised to believe my birthday should be a national holiday. It’s too late to change my personality, but on the plus side, it will be super fun and fancy, and you’ll be so well fed, I promise.”

  “Sounds great,” I say.

  She tosses Ethan the keys. “Make sure you lock up so Mr. O doesn’t freak out?”

  “Yep,” he says.

  “Now, get to work, you two!” she calls over her shoulder.

  When the door closes behind her, Ethan and I resume our task in silence, marking images we like with little neon sticky notes. At today’s meeting, we all decided we wanted the anniversary issue to be more than a highlight reel. So on top of write-ups on Marnie James and the other Notables, we’ll be dedicating a whole spread to Randos of the Century! (Okay, Natalie nixed that title suggestion, but that’s the basic concept.) Ethan had the idea of splicing together senior photos from different years to make them move through time. An ode to untold stories, as Natalie put it.

  Plus, I thought it’d be fun to watch the hairstyles evolve.

  I shut the class of 1952, another yawn overtaking me.

  “Okay,” says Ethan, setting down 1997. “You haven’t slept in two days and you won’t say why. . . .” His brows shoot up. “Wait, weren’t you with Sam on Wednesday night? Actually, yeah—he totally bailed on us to hang out with you.”

  I cough a laugh. “Uh, we hung out for like an hour, and all we did was argue. Trust me. He doesn’t—” I blush. What am I saying? “It’s not like that with us.”

  Ethan nods, a look of understanding flashing across his face. “But you want it to be?” I stare at him. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have . . .”

  I’m too stunned to speak for a second. But then my shoulders slump, the words coming out small: “Am I that obvious?”

  “No,” he says quickly, the beanbag under him crunching as he sits up straighter. “I just . . . saw how you reacted to those snow angel shots I took over break, the ones of him and Natalie? Not that they even mean anything. I have no idea who he likes. He never talks about that stuff.”

  I try to slow my breath, a heady rush swooping in. Oh my God. Did I really just admit that I like Sam? To his friend? This is why people need sleep!

  “Hey.” He works to catch my gaze, his expression amused but not unkind. “I won’t tell him, okay?”

  “Thank you.” I breathe out, swiftly reaching for a new yearbook.

  He frowns and takes a volume, too. “Are you gonna tell him?”

  “Don’t think so,” I say, thumbing through 1963. “I briefly considered it over break. But I’ve mostly returned to my senses. I’m me, and Sam is . . . Sam. He’s like . . . Mr. Prom King or whatever.”

  “Maybe,” says Ethan. “But that doesn’t mean he wouldn’t . . . I mean, people might not notice right away, but you’re definitely . . .”

  “What?” I ask, unable to keep from smiling a little as he trails off.

  “I’m just saying, it’s not like you’re some gross troll.”

  “Oh, wow.” I laugh. “That really means a lot, Ethan.”

  “Sorry,” he says with a wince. “I’ve been told my pep talks kind of suck sometimes.”

  “Is that what this is?” I grin at him. “Though, I don’t know. You are weirdly making me feel better right now.”

  “Well, then you’re welcome,” he says as we go back to skimming pages. After a minute, he breaks the silence again. “Hey, are you going to Sam’s party tomorrow?”

  “Uh, no.” I place a sticky note on a large bouffant. “I have important plans. And anyway, parties make me feel like I’m going to die of awkward.” Ethan glances up from his page, seeming once again amused by my struggle. “What?” I say. “I just hate how blasé everyone is at those things. Like, ‘Oh, this? This is just a regular Saturday night for me, over here with my extensive knowledge of casual sex and alternative uses for Adderall.’ Aren’t we still too young for that? Did you know we don’t even have a fully formed prefrontal cortex yet?”

  “I . . . think I knew that,” he says, blinking back at me. “But you seem to have a very good brain, Gretchen. And I don’t think anyone’s opting for an Adderall sex party at Sam’s house if that’s what you’re worried about. I could text you and tell you what the vibe’s like. In case you want to come by after . . . whatever it is you’re doing.”

  I consider this, turning to a new page. “Oooh, beehive!”

  Ethan leans in to look as I add another sticky. “Wow. That is some seriously vertical hair.” He holds up 1986. “I stopped flagging the funny ones in here. It’s literally all of them.” We add both books to the To-Scan pile and grab new ones. “So what are these important plans tomorrow?”

  “Um . . .” I look at him, biting my lip. Oh, what the hell? “I’m actually meeting a guy—not from school. He’s very cute but possibly a douche? He also used the phrase It’s a date when we were texting, but I don’t think it’s a date.” I come a little closer to study Ethan’s face, like maybe he has some answer to this Boy Code.

  But he just says, “How do you know him?”

  “That I can’t tell you,” I say, pulling back again.

  He grins. “You’re a tough nut, Gretchen. If I guess correctly will you tell me? Maybe . . . you’re both really into polka dance. Or no. You’re in a lawn gnome–carving club. Yep.” He nods himself along. “You just get together and carve gnomes.”

  “That’s a real thing, you know,” I say. “It’s like a whole subgenre of YouTube. My dad got weirdly into it one summer.”

  He laughs. “Anyway, I’ll stop harassing you. You are entitled to your secrets, Gretchen.” He tosses a yearbook down onto the carpet and stretches his arms overhead. “Should we pack it in?”

  “Yeah.” With a yawn, I place a sticky note on a Farrah Fawcett, then close the class of ’77.

  When I get up to my room, I dive into bed and reach for my list, scrawling out, Parties make me feel like I’m going to die of awkward.

  I shiver and slap the notebook down. “Dad, it’s like five degrees in here!”

  “It’s not that bad!” I hear from somewhere in the house. “Just add a jacket!” I roll my eyes, and scribble, Daughter of a thermal despot!!! on the next line.

  My phone buzzes in my backpack on the floor and I get up to dig it out.

  For a second, I’m confused by the message: Pretty good! It’s from Henrietta, a follow-up to the How does it feel to be back? I texted her forever ago.

  “Good talk, Hen,” I grumble.

  A few rows down is the unanswered message I sent to Carmen—a meme of Justin Bieber saying, Hey girl, I belieb in you, since I knew she was swamped with school. Maybe she felt it didn’t require a response. Sam’s comments about my social life hit hard today. What will next year look like, with him and Annika both gone, too?

  I look around my room—all these pictures from growing up. It’s all so different now. All going away. I crawl back into bed, and scrawl out, People keep leaving. And I keep standing still.

  There’s a knock, and I stuff the notebook under my pillow.

  “We’re taking off,” says Mom, letting herself in. She pauses in the doorway, a funny look on her face. “You sure you’ll be okay by yourself all weekend?”

  “I’m sure,” I tell her, getting up and following her down the stairs. It takes three trips for Mom and Dad to load the car, and when they finally start backing out of the icy driveway, I wave Nacho’s little paw from the front step.

  Once the car disappears around a corner, I shut the door and head straight for the thermostat. Then I move to the sound system, pulling up William Onyeabor’s “Fantastic Man” and cranking the volume.

  I get a rush as the music starts. I have no predictions for this weekend. Only question marks. And that’s a good thing, I think.

  “Woot, woot, Friday night!” I say to Nacho, setting him down. “You ready for t
his?” He yips his response as the groove picks up: Tell me, tell me, please tell me how I look. . . .

  I twirl, my whole body relaxing. And for a while, all around the house, Nacho and I go full Hugh Grant from Love, Actually.

  Ten

  The Classic Love Triangle | He is cute! Oh no, he’s also cute! . . . Actually, yeah, that’s pretty much it. The plot that launched a thousand rom-coms.

  Two buns—check. Glasses—check. High-heeled booties—ow, but check.

  I step inside the empty club and catch my breath, having just sprinted from my car through the snow. It’s weird to see this place with no people in it. Beneath the harsh overhead lighting, I’m more aware of the rather small, knitted black crop top I have on under this jacket. I bought it two summers ago in the spirit of I could be this person and then never removed the tags until tonight.

  I shrug it off. Doesn’t matter. I’m Sabrina tonight, I remind myself.

  I went with ripped black jeans to complete the look because (A) I’m not trying to be a cartoon character who wears the same outfit every day and (B) I still haven’t gotten around to googling how to wash leather.

  “You made it,” says Jeremy, stepping out from the back. It’s honestly a little silly how attractive he is, and for a flash, all thoughts of Sam are temporarily suspended.

  “I have my notebook,” I say, my voice coming out hoarse. “And I started my list. But I don’t have many jokes yet.”

  “That’s okay,” he says, pulling down two stools from the bar. “Show me what you’ve got.” I sit and hand him the notebook, my place bookmarked with a pencil. “Shiny-person adjacent?” he says, glancing up at me.

  “Oh,” I say dismissively. I didn’t actually give much thought to him reading these. “It just means the people I hang out with tend to attract more attention than I do.”

  “Wow.” He gives me the once-over before returning to my list. “Guess I need to meet these friends of yours.”

  I blush but lift my chin, feeling I should put some distance between us. “May I remind you that I am three years your elder?”

  I know it’s a lie, but the boy needs to slow his roll.