The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  I can’t wait to get back to that club.

  “Hey, do you have a lot of homework?” asks Mom. “We could watch another movie tonight. . . .”

  “Oh, um.” I dry my hands on a towel. I need to get out of here soon, but I still haven’t landed on a solid-sounding excuse. “I’m . . . going to Sam’s,” I blurt out, immediately wishing I’d gone with something else. It’s hardly believable, with him so absent lately.

  But Mom just smiles fondly. “Aw. Tell him to come to our house next time. I miss him.”

  An hour or so later, I’m back to changing in my car, laughing and cursing my tight pants before giddily sprinting through the cold. Once inside, I peel off the suede jacket and drape it on a barstool. As I hop up to sit, Ted starts pouring a ginger ale from the soda gun without even having to be asked. I search for a quip about how I’ve finally found my Cheers. But then I stop, because actually at this bar, nobody knows my name.

  “Did you see your picture out front?” says Dolores, coming up from behind me. “Lookin’ feisty, huh? By the way, I have you on first tonight.”

  I almost choke on my soda. “Wow. First is soon.”

  “You’ll be fine,” she says, already off to check in with the rest of the comics. Jeremy walks in, and she rushes up to him, saying something in his ear. He nods, his eyes landing on me, prompting a weird little squirm. Good lord he’s attractive.

  “You ready?” he asks a minute later, taking the stool next to mine.

  “Yeah,” I say, clearing my throat. “Although . . . Dolores just said I’m going first.”

  “Ah,” he says. “It can be tough breaking in the audience. But on the plus side, you’ll have less time to be nervous, right?”

  I nod, telling myself to stay calm. “When do you go on?”

  “Second to last. Which means the crowd will either be nice and warmed up or super bored and ready to leave.” I laugh, glancing at my phone as it lights up.

  Huh.

  Sam’s calling me. That’s weird. He usually texts. I should probably ignore it. . . .

  Jeremy starts to say something, but I put one finger up, unable to help myself. “Hello?”

  “Hey,” says Sam, though it’s hard to hear.

  I plug my ear, trying to block out the chatter. “Uh . . . one second.” I lean in to Jeremy, and whisper, “Be right back.” Throwing my jacket on, I hurry for the door, immediately blasted by cold. I round the corner into the alley, rubbing one arm for warmth. “Hey! I only have a minute. What’s up?”

  “You tell me,” says Sam, a smile in his voice. “I hear we’re hanging out tonight.”

  “Aw, crap,” I say, making him laugh.

  “Are we having a good time at least?”

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t think it would . . .”

  “Don’t worry, I covered for you,” he says. “If the moms are comparing stories, I said we were both going over to Natalie’s. Since that’s where I’m headed now. Figured keep it simple.”

  “Oh! So you’re hanging out with Natalie tonight?”

  “Yeah, she invited me over to her house to play video games. I think it’s just us. Should be fun.”

  “Super fun,” I spit back like a total weirdo.

  “So . . .” he says after an odd beat. “What’s got you sneaking around? Do you have like a secret boyfriend or something?”

  “No, nothing like that,” I say, a bit bothered by how unbothered he seems by this possibility. Does he really not remember that moment in the yoga studio? Could I have made the whole thing up?

  “By the way,” he says, “and then I’ll let you go. . . . I heard you were the life of the party the other night. Sorry I was so indisposed. I think I wanted to take my mind off everything, but I learned my lesson.”

  “Huh. I was wondering about that. Was it the mom-boyfriend trip thing?”

  “Please don’t make me barf . . . again. But yeah, kinda.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Just promise from now on you won’t drink your feelings like that? It’s, like, literally the textbook thing you’re not supposed to do.”

  “I remember,” he sighs. “You paid very close attention to that unit in health class.”

  I laugh, sort of. “I’m just saying. I know the past few years have been hard for you. And . . . I don’t know. I guess I used to assume when you got all party-hardy like that, you were doing your whole fakey, cool-guy thing. But that night, for the first time I thought, what if he’s just sad?”

  The other end goes quiet for a second. “Okay, back up, Gretchen. What’s with you calling me fake? I don’t know why you’re so stuck on this idea. We’ve been over this. I like parties. I like people. I’m a social guy.”

  “I guess I don’t remember you needing this much validation when we were growing up. Sorry . . . I have to go.”

  “Wait, no. What does this have to do with validation?”

  “I mean, I’m just spitballing here. But think about it . . . Your dad moves out in eighth grade, then we start high school, and it’s like, all of a sudden, you need everyone in the world to like you. I am merely positing that those two things could be related. Because you didn’t need a million friends before.”

  “Okay, but you’re forgetting that people change, Gretch. They have to. Or they’ll fucking suffocate.”

  Now I’m the one who goes quiet.

  “And, even if you are right—even if I was pretending, or . . . wanted a fresh start. So what? Haven’t you ever wanted to reinvent yourself a little?”

  “Yes,” I say, looking down at myself. Obviously yes.

  “You know what, yeah. This is interesting to me, Gretchen. Tell me your plan. Are you going to stay exactly the same for the rest of your life? Do you really want to be that boring?”

  I’m winded for a second.

  “. . . I didn’t mean that,” he says. There’s a hint of remorse in his voice, but I can hear a coldness too. “I just really regret calling you, to be honest.”

  I swallow, hard. “Well, then I’ll hang up, Sam.”

  I click the button.

  And burst into tears.

  “There you are!” I whip around to see Paula poking her head out from the side door. I swipe at the makeup under my glasses and her face falls. “We were all looking for you. You’re supposed to be on right now.”

  I scrunch my eyes shut. Fuck fuck fuckity fuck. This is really not my night.

  “It’s okay,” she says quickly. “Dolores made Jeremy switch places with you. Between you and me, you’re getting a way better slot now. I hate opening. Just tell me you have something good planned.”

  I shrug, sniffing. “Just some stuff about my life and . . .” I laugh. “Unrequited love.”

  “That have anything to do with the call you were just on?”

  “What gave it away?” She smiles gently as I let out a big breath.

  “You all right?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I say, shaking it off. “Although, I don’t know. Maybe I’m too much of a mess tonight. I probably shouldn’t go onstage like this.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Paula walks over to take me by the shoulders. “Use it.”

  I nod, meeting her eyes.

  “It’s the beauty of comedy,” she says. “We turn our pain into joy. Not that I should be helping you. We are still mortal enemies, after all.” I laugh as she slings an arm around me. “Come on. Let’s get you inside. I’m freezing my vag off out here.”

  Dolores’s voice sounds far away from my place offstage. The moment is almost here. I close my eyes, clench my fists and unclench them. I hear hushed conversations, smell beer-soaked wood.

  “Give it up for Sabrina Martin!”

  For half a second, I think, Who? But then I snap to attention, tapping my two little buns and pushing the glasses up my nose. I rush the short flight of steps and adjust the mic. It’s a fun, boisterous crowd, energized by the feel-good acts that came before me.

  “Hey, everybody.” The boom of my voice is just as shocking as i
t was that first night. “Thank you . . .” I say, looking out at the cheering crowd. “Wow. Really. Thank you. You’re seriously cheering me up right now. I just had a fight with my friend Sam, who I think I’m in love with? And he’s definitely not in love with me back. . . .”

  Someone in the crowd lets out an Aww.

  “I know,” I say, deadpan. “How dare he, right? It’s ironic because I’ve always hated that one nice guy in the rom-coms who’s all, ‘No fair, you friend-zoned me!’ And the girl is like, ‘Because you’re my friend?’”

  I laugh lightly as the room goes quiet—not bad quiet, though. It’s weird, but I can tell the difference now. “Speaking of rom-coms, I’ve been feeling lied to lately. I watched so many growing up that I always assumed heartbreak would be this . . . almost charming rite of passage? I figured when the day came, I’d just sort of . . . cry adorably into some ice cream, maybe sing ‘All By Myself’ into a hairbrush. But soon after that, the pain would be gone and my love life would be all worked out—forever.”

  I hold back a smile—this seems to work if I play it a little grouchy. I can feel the audience warming up, the laughter trickling in.

  “I guess love life is sort of a big phrase for whatever it is I’ve experienced so far. One thing you should know is: I’m a lurker. I lurk.” That gets a laugh. “Before Sam, if I liked someone, I pretty much just . . . watched them. Not in, like, a binoculars-outside-your-window kind of way. But if we were in the same room, I would be on the other side of that room. Talking to the person? Interacting with them?” I shake my head. “Yeah, that never occurred to me.”

  I think muscle memory must be kicking in from all my practicing, time skipping forward, my consciousness almost fading to black before I’m spit out into the present again, with all its sharp edges, my mouth still running somehow.

  “It’s funny that we dwell so much on ourselves when it’s not like we get to choose our personalities. Like, I obviously wouldn’t have chosen to be the lurker girl.” I hunch over and put a fist to my hip. “‘What attributes are you looking for, little lady?’” This is my higher-power impression, apparently.

  “‘I guess . . .’” I pretend to think about this. “‘Can you give me stress sweats, verbal diarrhea, and maybe like a really strange, unnerving stare for when I’m standing in the corner at social events?’”

  For a second, I look down at the mic in my hand, hit with the sensation of free fall. Holy shit, I am doing this. This is happening. . . . But then I remember: I’m protected. I’m Sabrina.

  “Think about it,” I hear myself say. “Like, if someone goes, ‘Aw, you’re such a cool person!’ should you really thank them for that? Or is it more like, ‘Yeah, man, pretty sweet. Luck of the draw, am I right?’”

  Another happy murmur gives me a rush.

  “So the way I see it, there are only two possible explanations for why I am the way I am. One, I got some rare awkward gene that no one else I’m related to has. Or two, it’s . . . all my family’s fault.” That gets a laugh.

  “I’m the runt of the pack, youngest of three kids. We always had extended family around. Which was all very fun and wonderful—truly—but . . . everyone was a lot. So when I came out last, I sort of feel like all my relatives just collectively went, ‘Can you be less?’”

  Another rumble makes me smile.

  “It has to be pretty common among third children. Parents are so precious with their firstborns. Everything is a miracle. With second kids, parents have the benefit of experience—maybe they’re a bit wiser, a bit more patient. . . . And then the third kid comes and they’re like, ‘Wait, we have another one of these?’”

  A married couple in the front row laughs a bit too hard at this. “You two totally have a bunch of kids, don’t you?” I say, drifting over to them. The wife nods, still cracking up. “Okay, I’ll be curious to see how your negligence compares. Let’s discuss how me and my siblings all learned to ride bikes, shall we?”

  I quickly explain the breakdown of our bicycle education—same as I did for Jeremy. “But I get it,” I say, pacing the stage. “My parents were tired. And they already had two whole children who were turning out fine. There was nothing more I could do to get their attention. ‘Mom! Dad!’” I say, switching my voice to kid me, waving a hand overhead. “‘I’m gonna test my bike out on this enormous hill. . . . It has a highway at the bottom.’” I pretend to squint, checking for a reaction. “‘And a shark tank!’”

  The rumble of the crowd is growing. It feels amazing.

  Then I notice the blinking light.

  “Oh, dangit, they want me out of here.” I wedge the mic into the stand, eyeing the married couple in front. “Anyway, I’m sure your youngest children will be fine. Just make sure you help them out with their therapy bills.” I give a quick wave. “Thank you, Portland, you’ve been great!”

  As Dolores and I trade places on the stage, she makes a muscle with one arm and Paula practically has to catch me at the base of the steps. I just did that—a real, solid set. “You were great, Ms. Mortal Enemy!” I hear, in a daze. “Isaiah and I are taking off now but we’ll see you next week!” I glide over to the bar as Dolores introduces the last act. I think Isaiah waved from the crowd as Paula hugged me goodbye. I don’t entirely know; I’m still floating. A new voice starts up as I sit, and a ginger ale appears in front of me, breaking through the fog. “Nicely done.”

  “Thanks, Ted,” I say, blinking up at him. “You know, my cousin really should have called you.”

  Grinning, he leaves me to my soda, and I half listen to the voice at my back.

  “A lot of people think I’m one of these bizarro Gwyneth Paltrow Goop ladies. And . . . okay, I’ll admit, I have bought a few of her products. What? They have vitamin packs that return you to your high school metabolism!” I smile to myself. She’s walking the line between self-aware and ditzy in a way that really works. “Seriously, nothing brings you back to that level of fitness. I didn’t even get there when I was doing my teacher training in Barthhhelona.”

  I sit up straighter. Why does that sound familiar?

  “Anyway . . . shoot. I really was going somewhere with this. My brain, you guys. Laugh all you want. Mercury really is in retrograde!”

  I turn around to look. “No. Way,” I whisper. It’s Amber from Keep Calm Yoga, now in jeans instead of spandex.

  Jeremy walks up to me as I watch her, my mouth agape. “She’s a funny one, huh?” he says. “Although, wait, were you here for her set last week?”

  “Uh . . . nope,” I say, too stunned to string words together. “So. She’s . . .” I clear my throat. “She’s in the Comithon? She’ll be . . . here? Every week?”

  “Yes,” he says strangely.

  I wonder if she watched my set just now. Could she have recognized me from the day we met at the yoga studio?

  “Easy, girl,” says Jeremy. “Don’t get jealous. You’re both very cute in different ways.”

  “Can you shush?” I say. If I weren’t so flustered I’d be more focused on how obnoxious that was.

  “I’m just saying you can take her. . . .”

  I swat at him like a fly in my ear. Why why why did I have to talk about Sam again tonight?

  I tell myself to breathe as the audience laughs.

  “Look, a part of me realizes it’s ridiculous,” Amber is saying. “But that’s what it is to be human, right? We see Gwyneth chopping vegetables on the cover of a cookbook, and we think, ‘Maybe making smoothies with chia seeds really will bring out my inner earth goddess.’” She lets out a long sigh, looking deep in thought. “Oh right!” She snaps her fingers. “I remember the thing now. So when I was really in my Goop phase, my boyfriend would get so mad whenever he saw my credit card bill. To be fair, I was the tiniest bit behind on rent, but I kept telling him I was doing it for us! Like, Goop sells these pyrite crystals that are good for money stuff? All you have to do is close your eyes, hug it to your chest, and say, ‘I program this pyrite crystal for financial
success.’” She shrugs. “Anyway, when I got a job it totally started working.”

  Jeremy and I both laugh out loud in unison.

  “Okay, that’s my time,” she says to the audience.

  “I should go,” I say immediately.

  “Wait,” says Jeremy. “Don’t you want to stay for the voting results?”

  “Eh, it’s fine. I have an early morning and . . .” I realize Amber is walking straight toward us. Oh God. It’s like my feet have been glued to the floor.

  “Jeremy, right?” she says as she comes over. “I don’t think we’ve properly met. Nice job tonight!”

  “Thanks. And you . . .” He rests a hand on her arm. “You were terrific.”

  “Thank you.” She pats the hand touching her before smoothly removing it. “I’m Amber, by the way,” she says, turning to me. “Amber Bernhardt. You were great.”

  “Thanks,” I say plastering on a smile as I reach out to shake her hand. “You too. I’m Sabrina.”

  For a moment we lock eyes and she tilts her head. “Have we met?”

  “I don’t think so,” I say, hoping to communicate mild, unconcerned confusion.

  She pulls back to look at me. “You’re giving off a familiar aura. I like your vibe. Are you a Libra?”

  “Um.” I frown. “Yeah, actually.” She nods like that explains it.

  “Well, this has been a fun night,” I say, gearing up for a graceful exit as the lights above us go from bright to brighter. People are filing out, leaving marked ballots in a basket by the door.

  Amber sighs contentedly. “Wasn’t it? That Isaiah guy is hilarious. And what’s her name—Paula? Also, I hear the icky dude is gone now. Oh, hold up.” She looks past Jeremy, calling out, “Haru, right? You’re so funny!”

  The deadpan sushi chef joins our cluster. “Thanks. You too. All of you.”

  “Have you been doing stand-up long?” asks Jeremy once we’ve exchanged proper introductions.

  “I did the circuit in San Fran for a while,” he says. “But then I got the offer to come to Portland. It was sort of a dream job, so I took it. I was happy to find this club.”

  “I have to ask,” says Amber. “Is all your stand-up about fish?”