The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

Jeremy has a pained look in his eyes, and when I turn to her, I’m so lost I forget to be embarrassed. “Uh . . .”

  Her face falls. “Are those my pants?!” Her gaze darts between the shoes, the jacket, the glasses. “Oh my God. Is Carmen in on this, too?” She exhales, eyes wide. “With all this stuff missing I thought I was going crazy. But wait, no . . .” She clutches her forehead, whipping around to Jeremy. “Why would Carmen help you? Last I checked, you were also on her shit list. And I don’t think she’d want you anywhere near her cousin.”

  I literally cannot keep up with everything I’m hearing right now, my eyes just ping-ponging between Sabrina and Jeremy.

  “You’re such an ass, you know that?” She comes closer to his face, up on tiptoe, as he stands there, taking it. “And you’re so weird.” She shakes her head, stepping back. “Like, who would even believe this if I tried explaining it? I literally just sat in the audience and live-streamed the whole thing so you couldn’t somehow gaslight me into thinking I’d made it all up.”

  “Sorry, what?” I say, feeling a rip of panic.

  But she shushes me, eyes still on Jeremy. “I realize I had a part in this, too, but I just want you to understand that if you hadn’t pulled all your . . . flirty . . . Jedi mind tricks shit on me, I would still have a roommate who spoke to me.” When I look close, I realize she has tears in her eyes. They’re spilling over now, and I feel a sudden bolt of shock.

  It’s like the camera lens has twisted just right, blurred shapes snapping sharply into focus.

  “You’ve known exactly who I was the whole time,” I mutter softly, staring out at nothing in particular. A tiny laugh escapes me, and in my periphery, I see Jeremy’s head drop, one hand rubbing the back of his neck.

  After a beat he says, “I mean, I didn’t know exactly who you were. . . .” He meets my eyes, wincing slightly. “I just knew you weren’t Sabrina Martin.”

  I stand there blinking, rewinding and replaying. That first night, when he worked the front door, I was the only one he carded from our group of three. But it didn’t strike me as weird at the time, the way he ducked Carmen like that, keeping his head down as she and Henrietta drunkenly danced on in.

  I knew Sabrina’s ID shouldn’t have worked. Even if it weren’t so poorly made, when you look close, I’m so obviously not her.

  But I guess Jeremy knew that—he knew it instantly, in fact.

  And then he got curious.

  I hear myself laugh—loudly, weirdly. Jeremy is a student of the universe, right? If he sees a weird situation, he does what he can to make it weirder. Like letting a high school junior playing dress-up have a little fun for the night—before turning her into research, a potential bit. To him, I was nothing but a joke.

  I realize Sabrina is watching us now. “You two aren’t together, are you?”

  “Oh, definitely not,” I say, staring at him through wide eyes.

  “All’s fair in love and comedy, right?” he says with a helpless shrug.

  “So you were fucking with me,” I say. “Is that why you kissed me?”

  Sabrina swats him across the chest. “You kissed her?!”

  “Ow!” he says, lowering his voice as a few people in the audience look over. “Hey. Technically, you kissed me.”

  “Okay, but do you honestly think I would have done that if I’d known you were Carmen’s ex-boyfriend?” I scoff.

  “Well, technically I did do that,” says Sabrina, her indignation briefly dwindling.

  Jeremy holds my stare. “Look. Boyfriend is a big word. Carmen and I didn’t even hang out for very long, which is probably why you knew nothing about me. And sure, maybe this started off in a weird way. But I swear.” He dips his head down, eyes pleading. “Whenever I tried to write about you, it just felt . . . wrong. And before you get on your high horse, don’t forget, you lied to me, too. And to everyone else here for that matter.”

  “Not to manipulate anyone,” I say, though my face is starting to flush. That part is true, and I have no good excuse. Then again, while I was busy floundering around, he knew. He let me flounder. He might have even enjoyed it. “At least I never meant to hurt anyone.”

  “Neither did I!” he snaps back.

  Lenny looks over from strumming his ukulele onstage but keeps talking through the commotion. I’m feeling almost woozy.

  “Look,” says Jeremy, lowering his voice again. “What I’m trying to say is, it doesn’t matter. The way I feel now . . .”

  I realize the ukulele has stopped.

  And everyone is staring at us.

  “Oh fuck you, Jeremy,” says Sabrina, turning for the door and calling out behind her. “Get help. Both of you. And stop using my name, Gretchen! And I want my shit back!”

  The door closes behind her—too slowly. It feels like it should be a slam.

  After a long, painful beat, Lenny says, “Okie dokie . . .” and starts the ukulele up again, people in the audience reluctantly turning back around.

  I notice Paula and Isaiah whispering at the bar, sharing quick confused glances as Dolores comes over to them. She’s frowning as they talk, like maybe she somehow missed all the fuss.

  My insides begin to twist. I think I might throw up. . . .

  “Gretchen?” says Jeremy. It’s freaky to hear my real name on his lips. “Gretchen, please just hear me out.”

  “Don’t,” I say, shaking my head. “Not another word, Jeremy. And don’t fucking follow me.”

  I push past him and slip out the door, walking, then jogging, then sprinting toward my car. I’m moving too fast for these high-heeled boots, but I make it to the parking lot, only to feel my foot slip out from under me. “God dammit!” I shout as my tailbone hits the icy asphalt, a sharp pain searing through me. I yank off the offending boot and chuck it into a pile of gray snow several feet away.

  After a few deep breaths, I get up, hobbling unevenly across the lot to retrieve it. Real Sabrina will be wanting that back.

  Behind the wheel, I slip both of my feet into sneakers, head spinning. It’s too much to process at once, but I try to stay calm—to arrange the facts more slowly in my head: Who saw us talking . . . Who heard what . . . But then I hear it—an echo of Sabrina’s rant back there. I literally just sat in the audience and live-streamed the whole thing. . . .

  “Oh God,” I say, fumbling around for my phone. “Oh no no no no no no no . . .”

  Hands shaky, I pull up Instagram and find the video, now saved to Sabrina’s profile, with the caption What the hell??? Just from that first frame, despite the makeup and glasses—you can tell it’s me.

  I brace myself, then hit play.

  It starts in the middle, me talking about the third-child plight. “Then, when parents have a third kid, they’re like, ‘Wait, we have another one of these?’”

  My stomach twists, and I skip ahead to the bit about Hen and Carmen.

  “I feel like my hair could be on fire, and they’d be like, ‘Okay, we’ll get to that, but first, let’s talk about my thing.’”

  Skip, skip, skip.

  “. . . In the case of my friend Sam, I’m starting to let it go . . . A part of me wants to hold it against him—that he doesn’t see me the same way.”

  And that’s when I gag, pushing open the door to hang out over the asphalt, heaves coming up empty. After a minute, I straighten back up, trapping in the heat again.

  I hear buzzing—a phone call from Carmen.

  Ignore.

  Time passes.

  Hen’s name flashes across the screen.

  “Make it stopppp,” I whine, ignoring again.

  I lower my head onto the steering wheel with a whimper and the phone goes off again. I go to silence it, then I pause: Sam.

  “No . . .” I say as the buzzing goes on. “Uh-uh. No . . .”

  It did cross my mind, but I didn’t let myself think it. Sam only hung out with Sabrina that one night—at the haunted house, then out for milkshakes and later at that awful party. Knowing him, he probably
does follow her online. But what are the chances he would have seen this already?

  “I’m sure he’s calling about something else,” I say, like my own barely reassuring imaginary friend. I think being left to wonder might actually be worse, so I answer, slowly lifting the phone to my ear. “. . . Hello?”

  I can hear him breathing. My chest rises and falls. One second passes. Then another. Until his voice comes out baffled, and small: “You like me?”

  I can’t seem to speak now—or think, or move. It’s possible I really will puke this time—or cry, or both. “Um,” I say finally. But that’s all I’ve got.

  So I hang up, hold down the button, and wait for the screen to go black.

  Eighteen

  The Everything-Is-Ruined-Now Montage | Also known as fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

  I turn to a new page in my notebook, fresh tears somehow spilling over. I seem to have an endless supply today.

  After last night’s fiasco, I doubt I have much comedy in my future. No club to return to. No stand-up sets to write. Still, it’s a comfort to hold the pages in my hands as I sit here in bed—trying to wring out any possible levity, like water from a barely damp rag. I swipe at my cheeks, then scrawl out:

  GRETCHEN’S 10-STEP GUIDE TO UTTER FUCKING MISERY

  I choke out a weird sort of sob-chuckle, thinking back on my day.

  Cry in shower.

  Hide under blankets.

  Hide from phone for fear of verbal smackdown from Hen and Carmen. (While also clinging to the hope that they probably won’t show that video to Mom and Dad?)

  Fake an affliction that is severe enough to warrant skipping school but temporary enough not to interfere with tomorrow’s New York trip. (The answer is cramps. Always cramps.)

  Miss Sam.

  Hate Jeremy.

  Sneak out of the house when Dad leaves to run errands, in order to—

  Drive to the Holy Donut to purchase one glazed, one cinnamon, before—

  Also picking up a mashed potato pizza from OTTO, only to—

  Pull over on the side of the road to eat/cry in the car while it rains.

  In retrospect, those last few items probably looked a lot like the Portland girl’s equivalent of a good old-fashioned Ice Cream Sob. Also, I’m not ashamed to admit it: I totally looked up the song “All By Myself” and whimpered it under my breath for the drive home.

  At least the house is warm for once, and I’m swaddled in my favorite plaid pj’s. And, if we’re really scraping for silver linings, I think my face is as puffy as it’s going to get.

  I glance at my phone, charging but still turned off on the bedside table. Some part of me really does want to power it back up again, the same way I might want to touch wet paint despite a sign, or flick my finger through a flame.

  Nothing good is waiting for me there. I know that.

  I flinch at the sound of a knock.

  “Gretchen? It’s Ethan. Your dad let me in. I hope that’s okay? I . . . tried texting.”

  “Oh!” I say. “Yeah, yeah, come in.”

  He steps tentatively into the room, closing the door behind him. “I heard you were sick,” he says, holding up a takeout bag, alarm flashing in his eyes. I must look awful. And he does get weird around crying girls. “Uh . . . well, this is soup. From that Vietnamese place you and Sam like.” I wince at the name, and his face falls. “What?”

  “He seriously didn’t tell you about last night?”

  “Uhh . . .” Ethan sets the food on my dresser, before lowering stiffly onto the foot of my bed. “Sorry,” he says. “Is it okay if I sit here?”

  “What? Oh, please, it’s fine,” I say quickly. For a minute, I just frown at him. “I guess it was classy of Sam not to tell anyone. I just thought, since you two are friends . . .”

  Ethan hesitates. “I mean, I’m not sure he’d necessarily think to talk to me in particular. To be honest, I sort of avoid that subject with him. . . .”

  “What subject?” I say. “Me?”

  “Yeah,” says Ethan with a shrug. “I . . . thought it would be better if I didn’t get involved.”

  “Oh,” I say, though I’m not sure I follow. Maybe I’ve been asking too much, or putting him in a weird spot. He didn’t sign up to be my go-between with Sam. But he doesn’t look annoyed with me. He just kind of looks . . . off.

  Not that I know the first thing about reading people, apparently.

  I flop back onto my pillows, pulling the covers to my chin. “Well, I’ll give you the short version. Sam knows. About the crush, and my double life, and the comedy. All of it. And I’m so fucking mortified, Ethan.” I cover my face with the crook of my elbow, only to fling my arm away as I sit back up again. “Oh! And it turns out my gnome carver is an ass. Like, full-blown manipulative freak. I’m annoyed we kissed now. Not exactly a story I can tell my grandchildren.”

  “Well, I’m not sure your grandchildren will want to know any of your hookup stories,” he says. “If that helps.”

  I laugh, the weepy feeling coming back. “Maybe I should be a nun. I could pick up the whole religion thing. Because apparently, I’m only ever remotely attracted to jerks and guys who have no interest in me.” Ethan gets a weird look for a second. “What?” I say.

  “Nothing.” He meets my eyes kindly, patting my knee through the blanket. “Hey, I gotta go. But eat your soup. And don’t forget to have fun in New York. Last I checked, you were pretty excited about that.”

  “Yeah,” I sigh. “It’ll be good to get a break for a couple days.”

  “Anyway.” He smiles, bobbing his head as he stands. “I know these things hurt, but . . . trust me. You get over them.”

  Nineteen

  The Transportation-Hub Chase Scene | One person hands an attendant a boarding pass. The other zigzags desperately through throngs of travelers, cutting lines, even buying one-way tickets. In theory, both of them should not be running.

  “Can we please just talk about this?” I hear from behind me.

  “Nope!” I call back.

  This is ridiculous.

  My parents said goodbye from the Amtrak parking lot, having stepped out briefly to let Nacho take a tinkle. The second they rolled away, I spotted him, leaning against his car in his nice wool coat and stupid preppy scarf. It was the eyes that did me in: no glint, no trace of that old Sam-and-Gretch humor.

  And so I turned, and ran.

  I’m still running, is the thing, my duffel bag bouncing awkwardly along the backs of my thighs. I peel through the automatic doors. “I’ve been humiliated enough for one week, thank you. I can’t take any more right now!”

  “Why weren’t you at school yesterday?” he says, still on my tail. I should have known Sam would be stubborn about this. “I’ve been trying to call you.”

  “Sorry! Turned off my phone!”

  This train station really isn’t all that big, so I’m forced to make figure eights as I search for the least obstructed route out to the track.

  “This is so . . . stupid!” pants Sam, sidestepping a row of waiting-area chairs between us like a shifty defenseman.

  “How . . . did you even know . . . I was here?” I say, just as—yes!—a man with a massive cart of suitcases blocks Sam’s way around, buying me a few seconds. “And shouldn’t you be in school?”

  “Your mom . . . told my mom . . . about your trip. So I skipped class. God dammit, Gretchen, just talk to me!”

  I realize he’s catching up, so I fake him out, cutting one way, then another, before making a fast break for the platform outside. When I reach the front of the train, I flash my e-ticket at a conductor and jump inside the car, tucking myself out of view in the tight metal vestibule. I feel victorious for about five seconds as I catch my breath.

  Then I cry again.

  “Oh God oh God oh God . . .” I shake my head, pulling it together. So what if I can never face him again? All good things come to an end, right? Maybe we just got there a bit quicker. I dab my eyes with my sleeve, letting out a big breat
h.

  “There you are.” Annika pops her head into the train. “I thought we were meeting outside. Also. Was that Sam on the platform?”

  “Uh . . . yeah,” I say. “Long story.” I straighten up, taking in the sight of her. She’s her same old eclectic self this morning: bell-bottoms, fuzzy earmuffs, and a coat that would seem like fur if it weren’t traffic-cone orange. And yet, she looks entirely different right now, like she’s lighting up from the inside. I’m actually really glad this weekend will be all about her. I’m good at focusing on other people’s lives. Maybe I should go back to that.

  “Let’s find seats,” she says with an excited squeal. I laugh. Annika doesn’t squeal.

  We pick a booth in the café car, piling bags and her oboe up overhead before plopping down across from each other—just as the train begins to move.

  “Oh, there he is again,” says Annika, pointing out the window.

  I turn to meet Sam’s waiting stare, and weirdly, I just hold it. And keep holding it. All of a sudden, it’s like we can’t bring ourselves to break apart. Maybe because we both know that any second now, the train will do it for us.

  My breath grows shallow as we pick up speed, and then I’m craning my neck back to hold his gaze a little longer. A lump grows thick in my throat, and before a wall of trees knocks him out of view, he smiles, just barely, and waves goodbye.

  Another hour into the trip, the trees are still whirring past, lidded coffee cups shaking on the table. Across from me, Annika is humming into her sheet music, which I find strangely comforting. It’s like we’ve put our caf routine on wheels.

  I take a few deep breaths before powering up my phone. I wish I could stay dark all weekend, but I promised Mom and Dad I’d send regular updates, and that I’d answer any time they called.

  When my screen lights up, I cringe at all the unchecked messages. I don’t need to open them to get the general idea: a whole lot of Holy shit and What did I just see? and What the hell, Gretchen? Pick up!

  A new text comes in now, and I flinch.

  But it’s only Mom: a Boomerang of her waving Nacho’s paw, with the words Bon voyage! I text back LOL—my first check-in complete.