Natalie frowns. “I think Haru said something about different-colored wristbands that night? Since she has such a big teen following?”
“Sweet,” says Ethan. “I’ll look it up. What’s the comedy club?”
“The Chuckle Parlor,” she says, grinning. “Quite the name, huh?”
I feel like I’m watching the world’s most banal car crash as I crawl over from my beanbag and Ethan types out c-h-u . . . on his computer.
I can’t seem to say anything. Can’t seem to stop him. The homepage loads, and there we are: three rows of headshots, with me right in the center.
It’s the photo Ethan took.
And someone else’s name . . .
“Hmm.” He closes the laptop. “Looks like maybe you do have to be twenty-one.”
“Oh. Damn,” says Natalie, already focused on her screen again, back to work.
Ethan holds my stare meaningfully. “Can you help me with something in the hall?” With a single nod, I get up and follow him out, shutting the door behind us. We walk several paces before he says, “Now’s the part where you give in and tell me what’s going on, right?”
Groaning, I lean into a locker, then slide down to sit on the cold floor. “Okay, okay . . . Ever since winter break, I’ve sort of been . . . doing stand-up comedy under an alias. Happy now?”
“Kind of, actually,” he says, looking pleasantly intrigued. “But . . . why the alias?”
“Well, I didn’t plan it,” I say. “One night my sister and cousin dressed me up to match this fake ID they had. . . . We all went out, ended up at a comedy club. And basically, I got onstage and weirdly liked it. The next thing I knew, I was going back every week to compete.”
He nods, thoughtful, then takes a seat against the row of lockers across from me. “So, you’re also competing to open for Marnie James?”
“Yep. Pretty nuts, right? The three top-rated comics get their clips sent to her. Then she’ll watch and take her pick for the big night.”
“Huh,” he says. “Well then, I guess you better win.”
“Uh, I have no delusions here,” I say, rolling my eyes. “It’s just been fun to try this out—while being shielded from any major humiliation. The whole alias thing is pretty perfect in that way. The girl I am up there . . .” I shrug. “She’s freakin’ cool, man. And it’s, like, one night a week, I’m not stuck being . . .” I gesture to myself. “This.”
Ethan frowns, but seems to let go of whatever it is he’s thinking. I wince at him across the empty corridor. “So . . . what do you say? Can you keep one more weird friend secret for me?”
“Yeah, put it on my tab,” he says with a wave. He laughs lightly, leaning his head back and hiking up one knee. “I can see it, you know.”
“What?”
“You on a stage. It makes sense. You’re funny. I’ve always thought that.”
“Oh.” I don’t know why this makes me blush. “Thank you.” I shrug it off. “I was really just venting at first. It’s sort of ridiculous, but I think this whole thing only started because I needed someone to listen to me.”
He chuckles. “I would have listened.”
“Yeah, well, I didn’t know that then. You could have saved me a lot of trouble, Ethan. And discomfort. Those leather pants are tight.”
“I remember,” he says wryly.
“Anyway, it’s definitely not just about venting anymore,” I say, still a bit baffled by this. “I really like stand-up. I mean, when I’m about to go on, it feels completely insane, like I’ve just signed myself up to go skydiving or something. But then you get up there and everything slows down. . . . When it works, it’s like you’re floating in time or something. Happens when I’m writing too.”
“It’s the best feeling, right?” he says. “Sometimes, I’ll get a shot lined up and completely lose myself. Time jumps, and suddenly, here’s this cool thing I apparently did. It’s like . . .”
“Magic,” we say together, only to laugh.
“That feeling has actually gotten me in trouble before,” he says. “I’ll take my camera up on a hike, and get obsessed with, like, a tree or something, only to realize way too late that the sun is already going down.”
“Yeesh, that’s my nightmare,” I say with a shudder. “I’m not an outdoorsy girl. Defective Mainer here.”
“Oh, come on, that can’t be true,” he says. “Maine’s the best.”
I sigh. “I don’t know what to tell you. I was born this way.”
He frowns, dubious. “Well, do you at least like skiing?”
“Nope.”
“Snowboarding?”
“I’m gonna stop you right there,” I say. “It’s a no to anything that could lead to frostbite or a potential tailbone injury.”
“Okay . . . Well, what about Maine summers?” He smiles enticingly. “The beach? Fried clams?”
“That’s probably where I exhibit the most regional pride,” I say, conceding. “Give me rocky coastlines and your goopiest fried things any time.”
“Question,” he says, serious now. “What’s your stance on bacon in clam chowder?”
“Oh, it’s an abomination.”
“Okay then,” he says, laughing. “Strong seafood stances. That sounds like a Mainer to me. Thoughts on wall antlers?”
I suck my teeth. “Yeah, not big on severed heads as decoration . . .”
“Fair,” he says. “What about plaid shirts?”
“I have no objection to them,” I say, noting the green one he has on over his white tee. “Are you fishing for compliments, Ethan? Actually, I’ll admit it. The shirt does bring out the olive tone in your eyes.”
“Stop it,” he says, pretending to be bashful. I frown and he looks up. “What?”
“Oh, I was just wondering if I should put some Maine jokes in my next set. The severed head thing was kinda good. I wish I’d recorded that.”
I glance down the hall, jolting suddenly. Natalie has crept up on us. “What are you two whispering about out here?” I quickly press myself up off the locker, wondering how much she heard. “Is this about my birthday?”
I laugh with relief, just as Ethan gets up and says, “Yessss?”
Judging from her barely suppressed glee, it’s obvious that was the right answer. “Well, no gifts necessary,” she says, tamping down her smile. “Just bring your wonderful selves. And don’t be late! I want to make sure you get to taste all my dad’s food before Pils and Grody gobble everything up. Those guys are like garbage disposals.”
My heart sinks as I put it together: she’s hosting her birthday at her dad’s restaurant—as in Haru’s place of work. When Ethan sees the look on my face, I think he must make the connection. “Oh, uh . . . Gretchen, didn’t you . . . say you had that thing, Saturday night?”
My nod is a silent, You are a goddamn angel, Ethan.
“Oh no no,” says Natalie, linking her arm through mine and leading us back to HQ. “I reserved you well in advance. Plus, I need a Sam buffer, because I think he’s still coming and it’s probably going to be weird now. Ethan, back me up. You want her there too, right? Can’t you move your plans, Gretchen? Say yes.”
I look helplessly at Ethan. Natalie is a very difficult person to say no to.
“Please?”
“Okay,” I say, laughing. “I’ll . . . see what I can do.”
“Gretchen, did you remember the tortilla chips?”
“Yep!” I yell to Mom from the dining room. I’ve been tasked with setting out chili toppings tonight. At a table set for three, I line up ramekins of scallions and sour cream, cheese, avocado slices, and chips. Also cilantro, which I still feel just okay about.
With Mom and Dad still clanking around in the kitchen, I pull out my phone and speak softly into the recording app: “Is my cilantro bit too niche? I guess I just like the idea of a polarizing herb. Also, maybe I should play around with other things you’re only supposed to love or hate? Like camping, or . . . Taylor Swift . . .”
My phone buz
zes in my hand then.
It’s a text from Jeremy: At another open mic in town and guess who turned up! I look closer at the photo he’s attached: Bad Kevin James, speaking into a microphone.
“I got that sparkling lemonade you like!” calls Mom from the kitchen. “Do you want some?”
“Sure!” I say.
“I really upped the meat-to-bean ratio,” Dad announces, carrying out the whole Crock-Pot to the table.
“Just how I like it,” I say.
He points. “That’s m’girl.”
Mom walks in then, holding a beer for Dad and the tall glass bottle of fizzy pink lemonade for the two us. “Amazing,” she says, admiring our bounty.
As Mom and Dad pull out chairs, I think of last night’s set, a surprising pang of guilt swooping in. All glaring intersibling discrepancies aside, I was only joking around. They’re obviously good parents.
“Everything okay?” asks Mom. She’s looking at my phone, I realize, now buzzing away. I swipe to open more texts from Jeremy.
He’s even worse tonight.
Hellllppp!!!
Oh shit I think he recognizes us.
Yep, he looks mad . . .
“Sorry,” I say, quickly crafting a response. Are you cheating on the Chuckle Parlor?!
He writes back immediately. Hey, we were never exclusive. Also, Isaiah and Paula are here so I guess they’re cheating too. Sorry, I guess I should have invited you. It was kind of last-minute . . .
Oh that’s okay. But I have to go now.
Okay, see you Saturday?
Yep! I bite my lip, setting the phone on the table, screen-side down.
“What are you smiling about?” asks Mom as she ladles.
“Nothing,” I say, abruptly shivering. Dad has the thermostat set to full-on Siberia today, but I suppose some warm meat mush will do the trick. I take my bowl and start adding toppings. Then the buzzing starts up again.
“Popular today,” says Dad.
“I’ll silence this,” I say with a wince, taking one quick peek. But then I smile. The messages are from Annika.
Ahhhhhhhh!
Gretchen!!!!
I proposed the buddy system idea to my dad and he went for it, as long your parents are cool with it too.
Have you asked yet?
My dreams are hanging in the balance here, but you know, no biggie!
Please tell them we’ll be safe.
And that I am very good with maps and will be able to deftly navigate their daughter through the city.
And that I will hook them up with all the hot oboe concert tix their hearts could desire if I get into Juilliard.
Are you asking???
“What is it?” says Mom.
I laugh, looking up at them. “It’s my friend Annika. . . .” I guess now’s as good a time as any. In one long breath, I explain the situation, delivering promises of hot oboe tix as instructed. I really didn’t think this would be a hard sell, but as I continue to talk, and their expressions continue to harden, I fear I may have given Annika false hope.
“We would be so safe,” I add when they’ve yet to offer up a clear, resounding yes. “And I’d update you constantly. Plus, I’d be helping my friend achieve her dreams, and women are supposed to help other women. Isn’t that what you always say, Mom?”
“Well, sure, honey, but . . .” Mom looks at Dad, who still appears to be mulling it over as he sips his beer.
“I’ll walk Nacho for a month!” I say, scrambling now. “And . . . I’ll even get professional glamour shots taken with him like you’ve always wanted.” Dad chuckles into his glass. “I bet I could even convince Hen and William to go along with it.”
For a suspended moment, Mom grows very still, and I can tell I’ve struck a chord with the vision of an all-four-sibling photo shoot, Nacho posing windswept like a fashion model. I’m encouraged by the appreciative smirk on Dad’s face. He’s always taken pride in his children’s negotiation skills. But then Mom shakes it off, as if coming to her senses. “I don’t know, Gretch. . . .”
“Please?” I say. “This is a huge deal for Annika. But it’s a cool opportunity for me, too. I’ve never been to New York—or really anywhere. And we all just sort of decided that I’m stuck here for college. Which, whatever, that’s fine. But I would like to leave the state at some point before I die.”
“Hey,” says Mom, frowning now. “You’ve left Maine. Remember that trip we all took to Canada?”
“I was like three, Mom. That doesn’t count. And don’t say we sometimes go to New Hampshire because that’s basically just Maine with more Harley-Davidsons.”
Dad laughs. “What?” he says when Mom stops him with a look. “That was funny.”
“Anyway, what do you mean you’re stuck here?” says Mom, returning her gaze to me. “I thought you were excited about staying local. It’s free, Gretchen. Do you realize how life-changing that could be for you? Do you know how many kids can barely get their lives off the ground because they’re so saddled with debt?”
In retrospect, I should not have brought up the college thing. I’ve completely derailed the conversation, and am quite possibly being a brat. Still, I can’t seem to quell the sour feelings rising up. “You weren’t worried about that with Hen or William,” I say. “They both went out of state. To some of the most prestigious schools in the country.”
“True, but I wasn’t tenured back then. Free wasn’t on the table for them. And anyway, your siblings were always more . . .”
“Worth it?” I say, the words flying out.
Mom looks stricken. “Gretchen!”
I realize Dad has gone all quiet and serious. The shades of emotion are always hard to distinguish behind the mustache, but I think I’m seeing worry.
Now I feel bad.
“Hon,” says Mom after a beat. “Hey . . . you know that’s not . . .” She shakes her head. “Hen and William were just totally different kids. They literally wanted to be doctors and lawyers, so we didn’t feel like bad parents letting them take out all those loans. But you . . .” She shrugs. “Who knows where you’re headed? You’ve always been so independent, and creative, and observant. When you were little, you and Sam just wanted to be left alone to play. We’d hear you two laughing, making up whole worlds together. You never took to the kind of structure your brother and sister liked, and that was fine by us. We knew you’d forge your own path.” She looks at Dad, then back at me. “We don’t want you to be stuck. We want you to be free.”
I nod through the quiet, something tight in my chest going slack now.
“Did you really think that, Gretch?” Dad asks after a moment. “That we thought you were less—”
“No,” I say, too forcefully. To my horror, tears have sprung to my eyes but I try to laugh it off. “I’m sorry. I think I’m just tired.”
When I get up the nerve to peek at their faces again, I can tell Mom and Dad are having one of their silent parent conversations.
“You really want this New York trip, huh?” says Mom finally.
“I really do.”
“And you promise us you’ll be careful,” says Dad. “No dark alleyways. No subways late at night. Updates every few hours.”
“Yes, yes, all of it,” I say, sniffing, smiling.
“And we’ll want to talk to Annika’s dad,” says Mom. “Just to make sure we’re really on the same page.”
“Sure. Anything you want.”
“When is it again?” asks Dad.
“Not for a couple weeks. I’d have to miss school that Friday but I’d make up all my work, and we’d be back before dinner that Sunday.”
They share one last glance; then Mom says, “Okay.”
“Oh, thank you thank you thank you!” I jump up to give them each a hug, Mom stroking my hair and Dad giving my back a few hearty pats. For a moment, I feel warm and snug, if a bit silly for getting so emotional.
We start to eat, a silence coming over us. Mom sighs contentedly, then abruptly frowns. She rea
ches across the table, covering Dad’s hand in hers. “Harold, I love you. But it’s fucking freezing in here.”
Fourteen
The Rom-Com Kiss | A smooch worthy of orbiting cameras, a swell of music, maybe a fountain going off somewhere. Rain is preferred. Mouths stay extremely open. Oh, and no breathing breaks. This is serious business, people.
The rain is a nice change from the snow today. I watch from the kitchen window, eating Cheerios standing up, still in my cozy plaid pajamas. I spent the late hours of the morning hovering between stages of consciousness, enjoying the pitter-patter on my windowsill. By the time I got up, I’d decided. It’s time I got kissed already.
Even the weather seems to agree.
This afternoon, I will be “writing” with Jeremy in his dorm. The implications of the meeting place are obvious. And he’s been finding little ways to stay in touch all week.
Now, I’m thinking logistically. I have mints in the car. And maybe I’ll go easy on the lipstick. Mom and Dad are out running errands at the moment, but I think they’ll likely be home before I go. Maybe I could wear a more casual black outfit, to avoid the car change?
“It is the weekend,” I say to Nacho at my feet. “Who wears skin-tight leather pants on a Saturday afternoon?” He tilts his head, like he’s really considering this. “Also, it’ll be daylight. And I’d rather not flash anyone.”
A loud thump from the basement almost makes me spill my cereal, and Nacho starts jumping and yipping hysterically. “Hello?” I call, just as the door from downstairs swings open. “. . . Carmen?” My cousin whizzes past me with an armful of two-by-fours, cut down to about her height.
“Hi,” she grunts as she heads for the front of the house.
I leave my bowl on the counter to follow as she adds her lumber to the pile in the foyer I somehow didn’t notice earlier. “I can’t believe you’re here,” I say, smiling as she turns around. God, I’ve missed her.
“Only briefly,” she says as she reaches for her raincoat on the hook. She looks a bit haggard but still stylish this morning, in her ripped jeans and dirty white tee, neon pink hoops dangling from her earlobes. “There was a long waiting list for the table saw in our woodshop. Your dad said I could cut a few pieces here. I’m the genius who elected to do a quarter-scale model for my project because I thought I could keep it as a fun clubhouse after. There’s a chance I won’t sleep for five straight days.”
The Girl Least Likely Page 14