The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  He laughs. “My apologies. Now what’s this defective Mainer line about?”

  “Oh,” I say. “It’s about how I hate being cold. And how I’m convinced I missed out on some kind of gene that makes you rugged and outdoorsy.”

  “That could be good,” he says, scratching at his jaw. “Who’s Nacho?”

  “My mom’s Pomeranian. Or my brother, as I’m supposed to call him. I’ve been dethroned as the baby of the family.”

  “That’s funny,” he says matter-of-factly. “How many siblings are there?”

  “Three,” I say. “Well, four if you count Nacho.”

  He laughs. “Okay, well, family’s always a good place to start.”

  “Do you talk about your family a lot in your act?”

  “Well, no,” he says. “But we’re kind of an unfunny family. It’s just me and my dad. My mom walked out on us when I was little. She”—he makes quotes—“‘wasn’t a kid person.’”

  “Yeesh,” I say, feeling the air go out of the room. “I’m so sorry, Jeremy.”

  “See? Extremely unfunny. But I’m fine, really.” Despite his smile, I can still see a flicker of sadness there—which is unnerving for all his unrelenting irony. “I’m fine,” he says again. “We all moved on in our weird little way. She’s even quasi in touch now. . . . Now that I’m not a kid, I guess. Anyway, tell me about your family story. I want the whole childhood vibe.”

  “Well,” I say, thinking a minute. Talking about my relatively easy life seems borderline inappropriate after that. But he seems to really want to know. “Like I said, I’m the youngest of three. And my cousin was always around too, since our moms are twins and are still totally codependent. So it’s sort of like I have two big sisters, though they’re both really busy now. Hen lives far away, and Carmen is—”

  “Maybe you should start with childhood,” he says, stopping me there.

  “Okay, yeah,” I say. “Basically, there was always a ton going on growing up. And I guess I’d say the vibe was . . . chaotic happy?”

  “That sounds nice,” he says.

  “It was. With all that activity around you all the time, you can almost just stay still and enjoy it. Like listening to the ocean or something.”

  “And what was your role in all the activity?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say.

  “Were you the troublemaker, the golden child . . . ?”

  “Neither,” I say. “Though you pretty much just described my brother and sister. I was more the one who floated along. My mom and dad got less strict over time. And basically abandoned all of their parenting standards.”

  He laughs. “Such as?”

  “Like . . . take extracurriculars. My parents made my brother play soccer and learn percussion. They got my sister into dance, and even got a special tutor for her when they found out she was ‘gifted’ at math. But me? I . . . got the remote.”

  Jeremy looks up from skimming the list. “You’re telling me you never did a single thing outside of school?”

  “I mean, I know they put me in karate at some point, but it didn’t take. I just wanted to play and do my own thing. And I really did like TV. It’s why I’m so into comedy. Still. They could have pushed me a little. I’m headed straight for middle management over here with my total lack of skills. Meanwhile my brother’s a lawyer. And my sister’s probably going to, like, cure cancer or something someday.”

  Jeremy bobs his head, tossing the notebook down onto the bar. “Do you feel like there was something about you that made them treat you differently, or was it just that you came last?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “Can those things even be separated? My siblings were probably more work than me. My brother was this popular athlete, with a bit of a rebellious streak. My parents were so terrified the whole time he was in high school. I swear they’d pelt him with condoms every time he walked out the door. My mom would be all, ‘Get consent!’ and my dad would be like, ‘Wrap that rascal!’”

  Jeremy taps the page between us. “You should probably write that down.”

  I nod, scrawling. “Wrap . . . that . . . rascal. . . .”

  I sigh and drop the pencil. “And then there’s my sister. Who’s a total peach but . . . has a lot of feelings? My parents have always been delicate with her, ever since she was little. I remember them getting choked up when she came out, even though they didn’t care about that kind of thing. You could tell they were just scared—that the world was going to be that much harder on her. Of course, my dad went out and got a mini rainbow flag for the corkboard of his woodshop. And my mom immediately joined, like, every LGBTQ ally group in the state of Maine.”

  “They sound sweet,” says Jeremy.

  “They are,” I say. “And it’s not like they don’t love me or anything. It’s more like they assume I’m always fine. Which I guess is fair. I mostly am fine.”

  Jeremy frames the air with his hands: “The girl who was mostly fine.”

  I smile faintly. “I actually just remembered something that might work for a set. . . .”

  “Let’s hear it,” he says, reaching over the bar now to pour us each a water.

  “It’s about how we all learned to ride bikes,” I say, doing my best to ignore the very nice, boy-scented torso in my face.

  He lowers back down onto his stool, handing me a glass and waving me along. I clear my throat. “So my brother learned first,” I say. “I remember watching him out there with my dad. We’re talking hours of practice—serious technique analysis. Later, it came time for my sister to learn. It was the same thing. Similarly thorough training, but with a lot more padding. And then one day, not long after that . . .” I sip my water, frowning slightly. “I remember getting it in my head that it was my time to learn. So I taught myself.” I can see it now—falling down and getting back up again; the scrapes along my knees. “And that’s what I did. It was just me. Figuring it out on the street by our house while everyone was busy. If I even had a helmet, I very much doubt it was strapped under my chin.”

  “Aw,” says Jeremy. “That’s a little sad. But, like, funny-sad. You’d need to add some jokes.”

  I roll my eyes, the slight tightness in my throat letting up now. “I know I need jokes, Jeremy.”

  He grins, reading down the list again. “Still crushing on your oldest friend, huh? Any developments there?”

  I sigh. “Just more overall confusion.”

  “Well, what about someone else?” he says. “Any . . . new handsome fella you’ve got your eye on?”

  I hold his gaze a moment to confirm it, and yep—he is absolutely referring to himself right now. What must that be like, walking through the world with so much confidence?

  I make a show of thinking it over, taking a drink from my water. “Nope. No one comes to mind.”

  “Mike Birbiglia,” I say.

  “Chris Rock,” says Jeremy. “Jim Gaffigan, Jerry Seinfeld . . .”

  “John Mulaney,” I add, counting off. “Ali Wong, Dulcé Sloan . . .”

  “Bill Burr, Wanda Sykes . . .”

  I snap. “Kumail Nanjiani. Great stand-up and he cowrote The Big Sick, which is, like, a modern-day Nora Ephron film. Seriously, I’ve never identified so strongly with a fortysomething-year-old man. Oh, also Fortune Feimster . . . and Ronny Chieng . . . and Tig!” I say, clutching my heart.

  Jeremy clutches his heart, too. “Oh, Tig.”

  I think we could go on trading faves like this all night, but the show is starting soon. Leaning forward on my stool, I make the universal gesture for hit me, and Ted comes over to fill my ginger ale.

  “I think you may have to cut her off soon,” says Jeremy.

  “I’m just excited,” I tell them. “A real Saturday night show!”

  “Yep, this is the big time,” says Ted, the overhead lights flickering briefly. “Or at least slightly more big-time than Wednesdays.” There are waiters taking orders in the audience, drink trays resting on hips. The whole operation feels more professi
onal—like everything’s been kicked up a notch.

  Abruptly, music starts booming from speakers, and Dolores steps up to greet the big, boisterous crowd.

  The first comic hails from New Hampshire, by way of Sweden, and has lots of feedback for stupid Americans. It’s pretty much the whole set, and it totally works.

  “He has such a clear thing,” I whisper to Jeremy, leaning in. “Like every joke is pretty much dumbass Americans through the eyes of a Swede.”

  Jeremy nods. “A thing definitely helps.”

  “Shoot,” I say. “I need a thing!”

  The next comic spends most of her time talking about sex. She’s graphic, unapologetic. Clever but not exactly inventive. “You don’t think she’s funny?” whispers Jeremy, noticing my face.

  I hesitate. “She’s a little . . . vagina-y? It feels too easy. Like talking about vaginas is just automatic comedy.”

  “It works for Ali Wong.”

  “Yeah, but Ali Wong is, like, a master of vagina comedy.”

  “It’s true. You never get bored hearing about Ali Wong’s vagina.”

  “Okay, I think we’ve said vagina too many times,” I whisper. And I laugh at myself, as this woman onstage works for my approval. Because, man, is it easier down here as the critic.

  After a while, we get too carried away for commentary.

  There’s something so dizzyingly great about laughing with other people, strangers mostly, all of us packed together. The comics keeping coming, each one funnier than the last. Topics include recycling, changing tires, aliens, and shitty reality TV. It seems pretty much anything can be a worthwhile subject when approached from the right angle, with some particular voice, or humanity brought into the mix.

  The jokes don’t always land, but when they do, it’s magic. I can tell Jeremy feels the magic, too, from the focused look he has now—watching the stage so fiercely, like he’s soaking up every second. Meanwhile, the twitchy feeling in my limbs is back, like I’m craving that mic to my lips again, eyes on me, people listening, feeling connected to the room. Knowing that someone out there might actually know what the hell it is I’m talking about—might even feel delighted by it.

  I wonder if this means I’m secretly an egomaniac.

  Jeremy too.

  Or maybe we’re just honest.

  Maybe everyone needs a spotlight now and then.

  When the house lights come up, Jeremy declares he better go help close. “But that was fun,” he says as I hop down from my stool. “You feeling pumped for Wednesday?”

  “So pumped,” I say teasingly.

  “Let me know if you want to brainstorm anymore.”

  “Yeah, I’ll see how far I get.” We look at each other a hair too long. Long enough for me to notice that his eyes are ocean blue—not sky.

  “Sabrina! You get that headshot for me?”

  “Oh shoot,” I say, whipping around as Dolores walks over to us. “I completely forgot. But I’ll . . . figure something out, I promise.”

  “Okay,” she says, eyeing Jeremy. “You planning on working anytime soon? And shovel the walk, will you? I’ve done it enough times today. Fuckin’ snow’s gonna be the death of me.”

  “Always busting my balls, this one,” sighs Jeremy, heading for the back. “I’m going, okay? I’ll see you later, Sabrina.”

  “Okay, yeah. Bye,” I say with a feeble wave.

  “Really don’t forget it this time,” Dolores says to me as I push open the door. “And please try to be funny Wednesday!”

  “Thank you for that,” I call over my shoulder. “No pressure or anything!”

  Hey, this is weird, I type out as I slide into my car. But I need a photo of myself. How much would you charge for that sort of thing?

  It’s a questionable move on my part, but I can’t think of another option.

  I’d say you qualify for the friends and family rate, Ethan replies after a minute.

  Oh yeah? And what would that be?

  Dunno, he says. Maybe like a sandwich?

  I laugh. I think I can swing that.

  Cool. Want to meet me at the café when I’m out of work tmr? We close at 3 on Sundays.

  I send a thumbs-up, but see he’s typing again. After a beat, a long message comes in: Also, I forgot to update you about the party. I don’t think you’d die of awkward. It’s not that crowded, and Natalie is literally doing a one-hundred-piece puzzle with some of the football guys at the kitchen table. Sam is easily the tipsiest person here and that’s only because he’s a lightweight. Just saying, the night is young!

  More typing . . .

  Anyway putting my phone down now. Gotta get in on this puzzle action!

  And some more . . .

  P.S. I just told Sam we’re texting and he seems to really want you here.

  My heart lifts, sort of, and I groan. “Now what am I supposed to do with that?” I toss my phone aside and glance at the clock—not yet midnight. I’m still wide awake, hopped up from the show and seeing Jeremy.

  I hear the name like a girlish swoon inside my head: Jeremy . . . It’s vaguely mortifying. But how else does one respond to a grin like that? And those eyes . . .

  I sigh.

  Sam also has great eyes. Not to mention the cheek dimple. And then there’s the matter of how it feels to make him laugh. The swoony voice comes back: Sam. . . .

  “Ugh!” I say to the empty car, shaking off my ping-ponging thoughts. I feel like I should be in a PSA or something: This is your brain on boys!

  Clutching the steering wheel with both hands, I breathe in and out, trying to imagine what it would feel like to step into that party tonight.

  I don’t really want to go home. And what about Jeremy’s advice last week, about making the material come to me? Treat life like an experiment, he said. Walk toward the awkward moments, not away. It’s a pretty freeing concept, if you think about it. Maybe tonight is simply . . . research in the field?

  “Oh, fine,” I say, pulling down the mirror. I take the buns out of my hair and shake my waves free, kicking off boots and reaching around for the Chuck Taylors I tossed in back, in case my blisters got too bad. Without the heels, the outfit isn’t that wild. I remove the glasses and use a tissue to wipe the makeup from my eyes and lips, until it’s not quite gone but softer—at least halfway back to Gretchen.

  I nod to myself and put the car in drive. “Worse comes to worst, it all goes in the act. . . .”

  “Oh, hey, you came,” says Natalie when I let myself into Sam’s apartment. She’s looking bright and cozy in her cashmere cardigan, the same red as the plastic cup in her hand.

  “Hi, Natalie,” I say, already jolted by the vibe in here as I slip off my jacket and hang it on a hook. I turn around.

  “Whoa,” she says, stepping back. “Gretchen. Look at you!”

  I shrug, feeling more exposed now in this tiny shirt than I did twenty minutes ago. “Yeah, I don’t know,” I say, wrapping my arms around my middle. “I, uh . . .”

  Ethan walks up to us and does a double take. “Dang, Gretchen. How was gnome carving?” Natalie’s confused frown makes me laugh, but neither of us bothers to explain. “No Sasha and Lexi tonight?” he asks her.

  Natalie sighs. “Nah, they bailed.”

  “Sam’s over there, by the way,” Ethan says to me, gesturing to what appears to be a Sam-sized lump on the couch. “He was asking for you earlier, but he’s not in the best shape anymore. He kind of . . . threw up on our puzzle.”

  Ethan and Natalie share a somber beat of silence. “We had just lined up all the edge pieces,” she says.

  Sam’s living room feels strange like this, the lights dimmed and furniture rearranged. There are maybe twenty people in here—manageable, I guess. But still a lot.

  “I need a refill,” says Ethan, pointing back toward the cooler across the room. “I assume you don’t want anything, Gretch?”

  “I’m good, thanks.” He leaves us there and I look at Sam again, still dead asleep. . . . Hopefully not
dead-dead. “You’re sure it’s not alcohol poisoning, right?” I say, turning to Natalie. “I paid very close attention to that unit in health class.”

  “He had four high-percentage beers on an empty stomach,” she says reassuringly. “Not the smartest move, but he’ll be all right.” I bob my head, heart sinking a little as he begins to snore. I don’t know why exactly, but I have a feeling this wasn’t the fun kind of drinking tonight. Maybe it has something to do with his mom being off on her couples’ weekend—a glimmer of next year when he’s gone. Sam’s already learned from his dad how quickly old lives can be replaced. I’m sure this can’t be easy.

  “Don’t worry,” says Natalie gently. “We’ve been checking on him.”

  “Okay,” I say, looking around. I’m surprised to catch a few senior guys openly staring at us—or maybe just her. She notices, too, rolling her eyes a little, and I cover my middle again, just in case.

  Natalie seems amused by how jumpy I am. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m not really in the business of standing out.”

  “Yeah, well,” she sighs. “It’s never been much of a choice for me.”

  “Natalie!” Dick Grody yells over several people’s heads. He’s carrying a plate on upturned fingers like a cater-waiter. “Want a Jell-O shot?”

  “I’m good!” she calls back with a laugh, right as a few girls slip into the party, taking off coats and instantly pulling her into a conversation. Somehow, I’ve positioned myself just outside their circle, but it feels too late to take a step closer.

  This seems about right: me just standing here like a houseplant.

  I’m getting that skin-crawly feeling I hate, and with Sam passed out, there’s no real point in being here. Why did I say yes to this again? Jeremy’s carpe awkward advice seems so patently ridiculous now as my mouth goes dry, gaze drifting longingly to the front door. How to leave a place when you’ve only just walked in . . .

  I startle as Natalie appears at my side. “You could try holding a Solo cup,” she says under her breath.

  “What?”

  “You know. Jack and Coke, hold the Jack? That’s what this is.” She swishes the brown liquid in her hand. “In my case, it’s because I have an early morning. I actually do drink, but only as of this year. Before that, I held a lot of these cups with soda in them at parties.”