The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “Just toast for me,” says Annika to the waiter, her meager request the exact opposite of my double order: two eggs and blueberry pancakes—savory and sweet. As we hand off our menus, we yawn in unison, then smile. I feel a little bad about staying up so late, but Annika claims she wouldn’t have slept anyway.

  When I got back to the room last night, she was waiting up for me with a tube of green face mask and a cucumber she bought from the bodega downstairs, our hotel robes laid out on the bed. “Spa ladies on a budget,” she said, making me laugh as she sawed at the cucumber with a plastic serrated knife. “This will get me into a good headspace for tomorrow.”

  We found a relaxing playlist online—the kind of thing that evokes images of majestically swimming whales, and for a while, we breathed in silence, spread out on our parallel beds like green-faced Vitruvian men.

  Then Annika said, “You were supposed to explain that alias thing to me.” And so I did, feeling a little like I was telling a bedtime story. She was remarkably cool about it, her questions all matter-of-fact. Afterward, I felt better, though still just as miserable at the thought of returning home.

  Now Annika is looking crisp and clean as she continues to yawn, in her nice black slacks and a white button-down, a fancy tan peacoat stuffed into the corner of the booth. She spent the first twenty minutes of the morning sweeping the top half of her hair into an elaborate braided crown, which I was pleased to see—it looks like her.

  “So . . .” I say, noticing the time. “How you feeling?”

  She flinches as a man comes by to fill our waters. “Sorry,” she says to him, before turning to me. “Let’s . . . talk about something else. I’ve been thinking more about your predicament.”

  “My boy problems?”

  “Oh, that you’ll figure out,” she says dismissively. “I meant your art.”

  “My art,” I say, raising an eyebrow.

  “Yes. The comedy,” she says seriously. “I know you say you can’t go back to the Chuckle Parlor, but there must be a similar place somewhere nearby. Maybe a . . . Giggle Lounge, or a Chortle Bar?” I hold back a laugh, but she doesn’t falter. “For my own distraction’s sake, Gretchen, I’m simply asking that we consider your next steps. Which begs the question: What is your life plan?”

  “I . . . don’t think I have one of those.”

  “Well, I have a rough concept I could run by you.”

  I sigh. “Of course you do.”

  She straightens up. “So picture this. You move to New York, hit the club scene for a while, slowly build a name for yourself. On the side, maybe you’re writing, or auditioning for bit parts here and there. We’d be roommates, of course. Both working nights, and puttering around the apartment during the day. It’s kind of the dream, if you think about it. We’d be like . . . twentysomethings in a TV show.” She hesitates, as if sensing the pang of sadness coming over me. “After college, I mean. This plan can wait . . . five years.”

  “Oh,” I say, shaking my head. “No, it’s not that. Actually, my parents have been asking where I’d want to go if money weren’t an object. Which is sweet, but . . . money is an object. And they’re right: I don’t want to be a doctor or a lawyer.” I wrinkle my nose. “I just also don’t know if comedy is realistically in my future.”

  “Oh.” She looks a bit deflated by this. “But . . . last night a famous person called you funny.”

  “I know,” I say. “Trust me, I’m still pinching myself. But when I try to really visualize cracking jokes on a stage, with people in the audience knowing who I actually am?” I shrug. “It’s like my brain glitches out or something. It still feels impossible. And I already have all these people to come clean to. If I were to keep going, as me? I mean, how would that even be sustainable?”

  “What, telling the truth?”

  “Yeah, kinda,” I say. “Not enough truth can be a problem. But . . . so can too much.” She nods, as if conceding this point. “Plus, the whole thing is so out of character. I’ve never dreamed of my name in lights. I almost wish I could do the work without . . . being the vessel.”

  “You’re telling me in real life, as Gretchen, you don’t like it when people laugh at your jokes?”

  “So maybe I like being the vessel a little,” I say, rolling my eyes. “But still. Maybe this was only meant to be a moment. The stars aligned just right so I could . . . gain some perspective, and at least briefly switch out the script of my life. Like in movies where people trade bodies. They always go back, right?”

  “But . . .” She seems flustered now. “That was your body.”

  “Okay, it’s not a perfect analogy,” I concede. “Anyway, I think I would like to do something creative with my life. In which case, staying local would probably be good, seeing as I’m unlikely to make any money and therefore won’t want a mountain of debt.”

  “Okay,” she says. “So . . . get your degree, and then have your adventure. Or transfer midway through, once you know what you want. I still think comedy could lead you somewhere, even if it’s not your white whale. Maybe you’ll go to . . . film school, or a performing arts program. Or maybe you’ll just be, like, a dentist who does open mics on the side.”

  I choke on my water, finding this completely hilarious for some reason. “I’m not going to be a dentist, Annika.”

  “I don’t know! I’m just saying. It sounds like our paths will be different. Mine is . . . nauseatingly narrow. If I want to be in the New York Philharmonic, there are, like, three schools I can go to. Ideally Juilliard. And if that doesn’t work out, then I guess I have to get a new dream. Which is why we’re not talking about that!” She takes a calming breath, right as her toast and my two breakfasts arrive. We nod our thanks, unwrapping silverware from napkins. She frowns. “What was I saying?”

  “Our paths.”

  “That’s right,” she says, buttering her first triangle of toast. “For you, maybe it will be more . . . winding. I bet you could go all different ways and still end up in the right spot. And if you do choose to go back to comedy . . .” She shrugs. “Isn’t the main thing to go out and live life? So you have something to talk about?”

  I smile. “That was wise, Annika. You might even be wiser than Marnie. Oh, that reminds me. Do you know what a Roth is?”

  She thinks. “No . . .”

  “Well, apparently whenever we find out, that’s when we’re real adults.”

  “Huh,” she says, taking a bite. “Maybe we can cheat the system and just never look it up. Also, listen to you, all casually using a celebrity’s first name. You know. Just my friend, Marnie.”

  “Oh, let me have my moment. I’m never going to feel this cool again.”

  “I don’t think that’s true,” she says, chewing thoughtfully. “In fact, I think your coolness is on a straight upward trajectory, Gretchen.”

  “Thanks,” I say through a mouthful of pancake. “Yours too. I mean, you’re already cool. But throw a little Juilliard in there? Woof!”

  “Don’t!” she says. “For the rest of breakfast. No more saying the J word.”

  When the time comes, I feel a bit like a parent on the first day of kindergarten, adjusting the collar of Annika’s peacoat and tucking a wisp of blond hair back into her pretty little crown. She hikes her music case up her shoulder, shivering though it’s not particularly cold outside. Must be nerves.

  “If I get in, you’ll come visit, right?”

  “When you get in,” I say. “And duh. Now go!”

  As she walks in through the main doors, she turns back with a look of such sheer purpose I could cry. She disappears, and I pick a direction at random—north, I think—passing bookstores, coffee shops, and markets. Soon, I reach Central Park, where I wind my way under huge, bare trees, passing joggers and skaters and old ladies doing tai chi.

  I send a thumbs-up to Mom and Dad’s most recent Are you alive? text, then slip the phone away. I tried not to look, but it was near impossible to glaze over all those mounting red bubbles—signifying
missed calls and unchecked messages from Hen and Carmen. Jeremy. Sam.

  This whole freaking city is a giant reminder of him. Soon, this will be his home. But there’s plenty to distract me, too. I’ve decided New York is . . . a lot. Since I’ve been here, it’s like my senses have been in overdrive—all layered and competing. I imagine myself a sommelier of smells: I’m detecting notes of roasted nuts and horse manure, and maybe wet cement? And then there are the sounds, even here in the tranquility of the park—far-off honks and helicopters, and children laughing as they scooter past. The sheer volume of people is shocking. And everyone gets so close to you, moving fast and grazing by. The grouchy Mainer in me could actually use some breathing room.

  I get out my phone again to text Ethan.

  You’ll never believe it, but I actually sort of miss Maine right now.

  He writes back almost immediately. It’s our super attractive population, right?

  Oh yeah, I respond. I mean, this city full of actors and models? Yecch. Someone get these people an L.L.Bean catalog.

  He writes back a string of crying-laughing emojis and I add, It is pretty awesome, though. This trip is taking my mind off things. Sort of.

  I see a bubble, then a pause, until he writes back, I’m glad.

  For a second, I’m tempted to ask him if he’s heard from Sam. But then I remember—he doesn’t want to be in the middle.

  Suddenly, I’m miserable again, wondering how it will feel to walk into school on Monday. Will Sam and I spend the rest of the year pretending to be strangers? Or will he find some quiet corner, where he’ll pull me aside to gently let me down? I can’t tell which sounds worse. And now I won’t even have the club to get me through it. I don’t think it’s fully hit me how much I’m going to miss that place, and the people there.

  I didn’t even get to say goodbye.

  An ache starts spreading from my chest, a doleful sort of panic, and I begin to walk, until I’m out of the park, heading straight for the hotel.

  Up in the room, I block out the sun, kicking off shoes and climbing into bed. I pull the blanket to my chin and breathe in and out, willing my heartbeat to slow. Until I feel myself start to sink, a heavy black veil blotting out thoughts of Sam, the club, all of it . . .

  I hear a click, sounds of rustling, the scrape of curtains drawing open.

  “Hello?” I lift my head, vision blurred. It could have been two seconds or two hours. I kind of forgot I was here.

  Annika is standing over me, her jacket off, the oboe resting on the desk behind her. “Oh my God,” I say, alert now. “How’d it go?”

  “I . . .” She shakes her head, somber, then grins. “. . . was a motherfucking genius up there.” I breathe with relief. “I made that oboe my bitch, Gretchen,” she says, hopping up onto the bed. “Those judges looked at each other and were all like, ‘My God. We’ve never heard an oboe sound like that before!’” She shrugs. “I mean, they said it with their eyes. But they totally said it.”

  I chuckle through a yawn, sitting up.

  “Anyway, chop-chop,” she says. “I’m finally not nervous. Let’s go eat everything in New York.”

  It’s a big task, but we do our best: tacos in Chelsea Market, and soup dumplings in Chinatown. We even split a Reuben at that deli where Meg Ryan had her famous orgasm. Well, actually, at first, my order was: “I’ll have what she’s having.”

  “Wow,” the waitress said dryly. “Never heard that one before.”

  Annika’s excitement has helped buoy my mood. We’ve taken to seeking out photo-worthy stops—like the shop that sells nothing but pink soap, or the ice cream place that tops off all their soft serve with unicorn horns.

  As we pass under the arch at Washington Square, we stop to watch a street performer singing her heart out. She’s good enough to be the real deal and Annika is clearly moved. I can tell she will fit right in here in New York, surrounded by all these people and their big, dumb dreams. Maybe someday I’ll have that kind of certainty. I hope so.

  Time does bend, but not the way I want it to.

  In a blink, it’s Sunday morning, and after Annika’s early school tour and a quick bagel run, we’re back at Penn Station. On the train, I twist in my window seat, watching as the city shrinks away. Annika has already passed out beside me, practically from the moment we found seats, her head lolling onto my shoulder.

  I’m really going to miss her next year.

  Somewhere near Connecticut, I feel a switch flick, the dread harder to ward off. The stop in Boston is short, and as we zip up the coast on the next train, it starts looking more and more like home outside—the trees, the space, even the snow. I’m not ready for what’s coming. Not at all. And yet somehow, it’s a relief to see Mom, Dad, and Nacho, all waiting for me at the station.

  “Well, good to have you back, kiddo,” Dad says as we step inside the house. I smile up at him, only to freeze as I hear laughter coming from the second floor. It’s Hen’s and Carmen’s, unmistakably.

  “We were going to let them surprise you, but I guess they went upstairs,” says Mom. “Hen’s back for a few days.” The way she says it, so visibly content, confirms for me that she and Dad still have no clue what went down last week.

  “Awesome,” I say, immediately queasy as my gaze flits toward the sound. I guess I might as well get the verbal smackdown over with now. Leaving my bag, I pad up to Hen’s room, knocking on the door left slightly ajar. “Hey.”

  She and Carmen glance up from her bed, two phones and a magazine out. I walk straight to the futon in the window nook, sit cross-legged, and wait for them to let me have it. I even close my eyes for a second, but when I open them, both Hen and Carmen seem to be at a loss for words, which is . . . rare for them. I almost want to make a joke about it. But no. Probably not the time.

  “Does this mean you’re ready to talk to us?” says Carmen, obviously annoyed. “We tried calling you. Like, a lot.”

  “I know,” I say, wincing. This all feels too abrupt. I knew I’d have to face them eventually, but I thought I’d have more time. “I guess you saw the video?” They nod. “And, Carmen, did you . . . talk to Sabrina?”

  “Yep,” she says. “We’re on speaking terms again.”

  “That’s good,” I say.

  “And between the two of us, we pretty much pieced it together. . . .”

  “So . . . you know about me and Jeremy?”

  Carmen puts a hand up. “I really don’t need to . . .”

  “I didn’t know he was . . .”

  “No, I got that,” she says. “And I didn’t think you would . . .”

  “Cool,” I say, peering down at my lap. This is by far the most strained conversation we’ve ever had, and I don’t like it. “Listen . . .” I take a breath. “The stuff I said in the video—about you two? I didn’t mean that.”

  Hen laughs. “I mean, I think you meant it a little.”

  “Rude, Gretch,” says Carmen with a hint of a smile. “But . . . kind of funny.”

  “So . . .” I say, frowning. “You’re not mad?”

  Hen teeters a moment. “Oh, I was definitely mad at first,” she says, looking at Carmen. “Well, actually, no. First, I was confused. Then I was mad. But then I went back to confused?”

  “This must not come as a surprise,” says Carmen, “but we have many questions.”

  “Also,” says Hen. “Are you mad?”

  “Why would I be mad?”

  “You said we wouldn’t notice if your hair caught on fire,” says Carmen. “That sounds kind of mad.”

  “Oh. Uh . . .” Now it’s awkward again. “Well, I was obviously joking. But, in the spirit of honesty, I might occasionally feel sort of . . . overlooked?”

  “You could have told us that,” says Carmen. “I will admit, we can be dramatic sometimes. Hen definitely is.”

  “Hey!” says Hen.

  Carmen laughs. “I’m just saying. I’m sorry if we’ve been a little wrapped up in ourselves lately. But we’re also not mind
readers.”

  “I know,” I say. “And I understand, honestly. Now that I’ve had some drama of my own . . . It can get pretty all-consuming.”

  “Speaking of drama,” says Hen, her face lighting up. “You like Sam?”

  I cringe.

  “I assume you’ve been ignoring his calls, too?” says Carmen.

  “Oh, for fucking sure,” I say. “It’s worse than that, actually. He showed up at the train station on Friday and I just . . . ran away! He was literally chasing me for like five minutes.”

  “He chased you?” says Hen. “Oh my God, that’s so romantic!”

  “Eh,” I say. “I think it was more of a . . . friend chase?”

  “That’s not a thing,” says Carmen.

  I groan, lowering down onto the futon to assume the fetal position. “I don’t know how I’m going to face him tomorrow. I thought maybe time would help. But no. Still horrifying.”

  When I look up, Hen and Carmen are on the move, descending upon me now. They wordlessly rearrange us, until my head is in Hen’s lap, legs outstretched across Carmen’s. “Okay, spill it,” says Hen.

  Carmen peeks down with a smile. “And start at the very beginning.”

  I give them a longer version than I did Annika. Every detail, in fact.

  They gasp in unison when I tell them about the almost kiss with Sam, cracking up when I recount the night I went back to the club and bombed before straight-up snort-laughing through the part where I hid under the table at Natalie’s birthday dinner. To their credit, no one interrupts, though Carmen does spit out, “Shut the fuck up,” when I tell them about meeting Marnie.

  “So much is clicking now,” says Hen, when I’m finally done. “Like, this weekend when we were calling you, I noticed how weird your voice mail message was, but I didn’t actually put it together.”

  “Leading a double life is hard,” I say, honestly tired just from explaining it all.

  Carmen grins. “You know. I like stand-up for you. It weirdly makes sense.”

  “Right?” says Hen. “You’re totally that person who notices everything. And you’re always making us laugh.”