The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  Haru shrugs. “Pretty much.”

  “Huh,” I say, smiling at him. “I kind of love that.”

  The med student, Lakshmi, pops into our circle then, with the British Baking guy at her heels. “Just wanted to say great job, everyone. I wish I could stay, but I have to be back at the hospital in like—” She checks her watch with a wince. “Eight hours.”

  “It’s past my bedtime, too,” says the British Baking guy with a kindly smile. “I’m Bill, by the way.”

  “And I’m Lenny,” says Lenny, walking up with the ukulele case on his back. “Anyway, sorry, dudes. My lady waits, so I’d better scoot.”

  Dolores comes over then. “So you all know, I’ve added your pictures to the website and Jeremy suggested I also get your social media name thingies. . . . What do you call them?” She snaps her fingers. “Handles! Send them to me?”

  The others nod at her as I freeze in place. How did I not prepare for this? “Actually . . .” The words tumble out: “I don’t . . . do social media?” It’s hardly a lie, considering how little I’ve touched my accounts lately. “I try to stay off the grid,” I go on. “To get in touch with myself and just . . . really be present, you know?”

  “Oh my God yasss,” says Amber, throwing back her head. “It’s so important to disconnect. I talk about it all the time on my Instagram.” I laugh, then stop short. It’s extremely hard to tell if she’s in on her own jokes.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter to me,” says Dolores. “This technology stuff is not my area. I just figured out emojis, and now people keep saying I’m using them wrong.”

  “You texted me peach eggplant eggplant the other day,” says Jeremy teasingly. “With a question mark.”

  “I heard you were bringing takeout from that Middle Eastern fusion place,” she says. “I like their grilled peach baba ganoush!”

  I think they’re still talking now, people cracking up. But I’m barely listening, the gravitational pull of my phone growing stronger as my heart begins to thrum.

  “I’ll be right back,” I blurt out before slipping away.

  In the hall by the exit, I check over my shoulder, quickly pulling up Instagram and then searching the name Amber Bernhardt. Her account is among the first to pop up. Apparently there’s a huge demand for her sexy, bendy poses, with captions like Self love, y’all. I sigh with relief when I check—Sam doesn’t follow her, which is lucky because he tends to follow everyone. But even if he did, there’s been no mention of the comedy club in her posts. Must not fit the brand.

  I bite my lip, thinking. I’m not worried about my own account. It’s private, and not the kind of thing someone might randomly stumble upon. But what about Sabrina’s? How did I never think to check?

  I pull it up—public but modest. It’s a little sad, actually. She hasn’t posted lately, her grid still peppered with glimpses of Carmen. She’s even got a group shot with me and Sam in it, twinning as Dwight Schrutes at that haunted house on Halloween.

  Guess she hasn’t Marie Kondo–ed yet.

  “Okay . . .” With a wince, I type her name into the search bar, then exhale, just scrolling through Sabrina Martins now. There must be hundreds, meaning even if someone were to go searching for me, they’d have to weed through a lot of profiles before coming across this girl with the two little buns. “Wow,” I mutter. “Thank God her last name wasn’t, like, Dusseldorf or something.”

  “What’s that?” says Jeremy, making me jump. “Sorry.” He slows his approach. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” I say, catching my breath. “Guess I’m still jittery from being onstage.”

  “How’d you feel about tonight? I thought you were pretty decent up there.”

  I narrow my eyes at the word decent. I think he’s being self-aware, doubling down on that ironic douche persona he’s got going on. Still, it’s a bit much. “Yeah, yeah,” I say, leaning into the wall to look him over. “Meanwhile I still haven’t seen your act. How do I even know you’re a comic? This could all be a ruse.”

  He grins. “A ruse, huh?”

  “Yes,” I say, lifting my chin without breaking eye contact. “I’ve seen no evidence. Prove to me that you’re a comedian, Jeremy. Tell me a joke!”

  “Okay . . .” He thinks. “What’s the difference between a musician and a large cheese pizza?” I blink. “A large cheese pizza can feed a family of four.” I pout at the tragic nature of the punch line, then laugh. “It’s not mine,” he adds quickly—honorably, I suppose. “I heard it somewhere.”

  “Well, you still pass the test,” I say. “Although, I don’t know. You want to be a comedian, right? Isn’t telling that joke sort of a glass house situation?”

  “Not if I make it big,” he says, the coy smile returning.

  “I see. And do you think tonight’s set got you any closer to fame and fortune?”

  “Maybe. I just talked about an ex. It’s possible I came off like an ass.”

  “You do that sometimes,” I say, making him laugh. “Then again, I mocked my mostly functional, very nice family for a lot of tonight. But I’m telling myself all’s fair in love and comedy.”

  His knits his brows, one corner of his lips hiking up. “I agree.”

  I glance at my phone, noticing the time. “I really do need to go.”

  “Wait,” he says, sidestepping me. Now we’re standing close. “How about another writing session this weekend? Saturday?”

  “Sure,” I say, feeling a surprise nip of excitement.

  “Maybe a café in the afternoon? Do you know that place Willard Beach Coffee?”

  “No, not there!” I blurt out, smooth as always.

  “Okay . . .” he says strangely.

  I try to appear casual as I consider an alternative. The café is obviously a no-go. But I don’t love the idea of going to any public place in my Sabrina getup. And I can’t exactly invite him over to my house. . . .

  “How about your dorm?” I say suddenly. When his eyebrows shoot up, I realize that may have come off as suggestive. It wasn’t my intention, but the thought actually gives me a slight thrill. I think I like being the forward one, even if it was sort of an accident this time. My mind flits to Sam, but I remind myself that he’s off with Natalie tonight. And if he’s not a library book, neither am I. Also, Jeremy really is just unnervingly good-looking—and has a very nice mouth, I’m noticing. It’s actually slightly open right now, like he’s not quite sure how to respond.

  “Uh . . . sure,” he says finally. He clears his throat. “My roommate’s usually out, so we’d probably have the space to ourselves. To work,” he adds, respectfully. Which I do appreciate.

  “Okay, cool,” I say, a flush coming over me. We look at each other, an unspoken question crackling between us: Is this a date? It’s sort of fun not knowing the answer. So I just smile and brush past him, calling out, “Good night, Jeremy!”

  Thirteen

  The Is-This-Love? Sequence | Head in the clouds. Heart singing. Magic in the air.

  The first to the lunch table, I plop down and start eating a PB&J, my mind quickly conjuring up the dank interior of the Chuckle Parlor, the spotlight, the applause, even the gut-wrenching silences. I thrill at all of it, trying to recall the moments that worked last night. I should venture out more with my material next week. And talk less about Sam. I’m sick of him.

  Across the cafeteria, he’s gone so far as to trade seats with Ethan, his back to me now. What a butthead. As my eyes begin to narrow, Ethan looks over, smiling faintly. I wonder if Sam told him about our fight.

  With a sigh, I do a sweep around the caf. At the Mathletes’ table, Deb is feeding Pete the Service Iguana some kind of leafy green instead of his usual tater tot. Maybe he’s on a diet. Meanwhile, the ever-thirsty Mr. Radcliff is talking the ears off a bunch of lax girls in the hot bar line. Sitting alone, I don’t feel as inconspicuous as usual. Abruptly, the skin-crawly feeling sets in. Where is Annika?

  I imagine the spotlight returning—this time shining down on me
from the cafeteria ceiling. Of course, no one is actually looking at me. I’m inconsequential enough around here that no one bothers to judge. Still, to be safe, I put in my earbuds, hitting play on Marnie James.

  “You can start to develop a very Hobbesian view of people in New York,” she’s saying, “with everyone jammed into tight spaces and honking their horns. At first, I worried I was growing numb to people. But then one night . . .”

  I mirror her smile as I gobble up my last few bites. I like this part. “I was walking home when I crossed paths with this woman carrying a pizza box. And as she passed, I realized I felt so . . . happy for her.” The camera cuts to the audience, looking amused, if a bit puzzled. “It dawned on me that it wasn’t the first time I’d felt this way. This was a pattern. Every time I saw someone carrying a pizza box at night, this little voice in my head would start saying, ‘Yeah! You go eat that pizza!’”

  I laugh under my breath as she touches her heart. “And then I’d picture it. Maybe the person was bringing the pizza home to someone they loved. Or maybe they were going to get inside and devour the whole thing by themselves, which: also awesome. I was honestly thrilled to know this about myself—that I could feel such unbridled joy for someone I would never know. And then I thought—wow. Are there strangers out there, feeling happy for me whenever I’m about to eat pizza?”

  “My life is over,” I hear faintly.

  “So I guess pizza is my love language. . . .”

  “Gretchen!”

  I hit pause and take my headphones out, looking up at Annika’s horror-struck face. “Wait, what?”

  “My life is over!” she repeats, piling her backpack and oboe onto the table before plopping down in a huff. “It’s the Juilliard audition. My dad’s work is making him travel the same weekend as my slot. I asked why he can’t just tell them no, but he says if he gets fired for insubordination then I definitely can’t go to Juilliard. So, I’m like, ‘Can’t I just go alone?’ And he’s all, ‘I don’t know how I feel about that,’ even though the whole point is that I would be living there alone in like eight months anyway.”

  “Okay . . .” I say, shaking my head. “Let’s slow down. Can’t you reschedule?”

  “I tried, but I just got an email back saying they’re all booked. It’s this or wait another year. Or I go somewhere else. Which my dad actually seemed kind of cool with on the phone just now! Can you believe that? I’m not trying to be dramatic here, but if I don’t at least take a shot at living out my dreams, I will die.”

  From the look on her face, I know better than to laugh at that. “All right, deep breaths. What can we do?”

  She sighs. “Well, my dad already booked the train tickets and the hotel, so I can keep trying to convince him that I’m responsible enough to go on my own. Or . . .” She looks at me, a glint of excitement in her eyes. “I could suggest bringing a friend?” It takes me a second to realize she’s talking about me. “You’re always complaining about how you never leave Maine. And this would be a free trip. Completely paid for already. And I think it would at least partially assuage my dad’s fears. Like, if we got lost, or needed to quickly mace some creeper following us, at least we’d have each other, right?”

  “Maybe don’t bring up the mace or the creeper to him, but I see your point,” I say, my heart racing all of a sudden. This feels like a sign after watching Marnie—I want to go to the place where strangers feel happy for each other over pizza. And all the rom-coms have obviously added to my New York curiosity. Sometimes, I imagine living there as an adult, high-powered and chic in Manhattan, or funky and free-spirited in Brooklyn. Either way, a handsome architect would be just around the corner.

  “So are you in?”

  “Yes!” I say immediately. “So incredibly in. I mean, I’ll have to ask. But my parents aren’t exactly strict these days, so I’m sure I can convince them.”

  Annika lunges across the table to hug me and I let out a startled laugh, my arms squished weirdly at my sides. Annika is not a practiced hugger, and it shows.

  “Okay,” she says, pulling back and looking around. “I’m too excited to eat. I’m gonna go practice. You’re the best, Gretchen!”

  In a flash, she swipes up her things and goes.

  “Have you talked to Sam today?” Natalie asks me, breaking our working silence and prompting Ethan to glance my way.

  We each have laptops open, three points of a beanbag triangle. “Nope,” I say, pausing from my Marnie write-up. I brace myself. “. . . Why?”

  “I invited him over last night,” she says, telling me what I already know. “But he seemed . . . off. We played video games for like an hour, didn’t talk much. And then he left.” She crinkles up her nose. “It kind of sucked.”

  “Oh,” I say, unsure if I should feel happy or guilty or what. I am genuinely disturbed by the disappointment on her face, though. What the hell, Sam? Are you just making everyone miserable now?

  “Did he say anything to you?” she asks Ethan.

  “Sorry, no,” he says, looking up from typing.

  “I’m sure it’s not you,” I tell her, frowning now. “He gets kind of moody once in a while. Especially with family stuff. I’m guessing it’s a weird time for him, getting ready to move away and everything.”

  “Of course,” says Natalie, abruptly sympathetic. “That totally makes sense. And I probably got ahead of myself. I realized the other day that his dad’s new place is right by Columbia. Meaning we wouldn’t necessarily have an expiration date if something started between us . . .” She laughs weakly. “Maybe he’s not even interested.”

  I open my mouth, then close it, almost wanting to help her. It’s like Sam is two people to me right now—my Sam, and the guy my friend likes. “I . . . really couldn’t tell you,” I say finally. “We’re not actually super close anymore.”

  “Oh.” She seems sincerely sad to hear that. “I’m sorry.”

  I shrug, cheerful as I can manage.

  “So what’s on the agenda for today?” says Mr. O, popping back in from the teachers’ lounge, his mug of tea refilled. “In other words, show me you’re on track so I can feel good about leaving?”

  Natalie smiles, pulling out her checklist. “Well, we should probably discuss how we want to present the Notables. And if we are going to do the usual superlatives . . .” She smirks my way. “Then I guess we should put out the call for nominations pretty soon.”

  “Actually, I had another idea,” I say, prompting Mr. O’s nostrils to twitch, lips pursed at the ready. “Just hear me out!”

  “I reaaaally wanted to go home, Gretchen,” he says, dragging a rolling chair to the edge of the carpet to sit up above us.

  “Okay,” I say, setting my laptop aside. “What if . . . we made a superlatives page that read more like a Mad Lib? Then people could fill in the blanks and assign themselves and their own friend groups to the categories, rather than having the same five most popular kids get voted in for everything—no offense, Natalie.”

  “None taken,” she says happily.

  “It’s just that democracy can get a little boring. And why not leave it open-ended? I keep thinking about that line under Marnie’s senior picture. Where she calls herself the girl least likely? Now she’s this total surprise, right? And it’s a nice thought. Like, I bet most of the people on our Notables list had no idea what was coming.”

  “Except for the milk carton guy,” says Ethan. “That guy knew he was headed for greatness.”

  I laugh. “Anyway, it just kind of stuck with me. Wouldn’t it be nice to tell people: ‘When you get out of this place, when you go start your real life, you’re most likely to be . . . whoever the hell you want to be’?”

  “You just got deep on us,” says Natalie, bobbing her head. “I like it. And there’s something really nice about that—having that chance to define ourselves. I mean, who in high school is actually quite what they seem?”

  Ethan smirks a little. “Got any weird surprises for us, Natalie?”
>
  She thinks. “I mean, I have a couple death metal songs on my phone—for when I need to really let out my rage in the car.” She heaves a sigh and I crack up at her. “Right in there between Drake and Ethan’s long lost cousin, Britney . . . What?” she says as I abruptly frown.

  “Oh, well, it’s occurring to me . . . if we try the whole Mad Lib format, there’s a serious possibility people will just write butthole for every blank space. Best butthole . . . Most likely to butthole . . .”

  Mr. O chokes on his tea, and I brighten. I knew he thought I was funny.

  “The butthole issue aside, it’s a cool idea,” says Ethan.

  “I agree,” says Natalie. “Let’s definitely play with it.”

  “Look at you all cooperating as a team,” says Mr. O, getting up. “I think this means I can leave.”

  “Yes, be free!” says Natalie, waving him away. When he goes, she perks up again. “Hey, speaking of Marnie, I meant to tell you guys. I was talking to one of the chefs from my dad’s restaurant the other night and he said he’s in some competition to open for her when she comes to Portland. Cool, right?” For a moment, I just freeze. “Anyway, I was thinking, we should go see her when she’s here. Maybe we could even try to get an interview with her for the retrospective.”

  “Oooh, good idea,” says Ethan. “I wonder if she’d let me take her picture. How sweet would that be for my portfolio?”

  I gape at them, my brain scrambling to catch up.

  Natalie knows someone from the show?

  But then it clicks: Haru. I almost have to laugh. Because of all the high-end Japanese restaurants in Portland, of course he works for the one owned by her dad. It’s not enough that I just narrowly avoided a catastrophe with Amber. I know we live in a small city, but come on.

  Also, six degrees of separation my butthole.

  “I wonder if we can buy our tickets yet . . .” I hear Natalie say faintly.

  “No!” I shout. Real smooth, Gretchen. I clear my throat. “I mean. I doubt we can . . . I’m sure you have to be twenty-one to get into a place like that.”