The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “I like this one,” says Ethan, leaning in.

  I smile, turning up to him. “Could you send it to me?”

  Twenty-Two

  The Grand Gesture | Cheesy and completely over-the-top? Absolutely. But sometimes nothing less will do.

  “Tape,” I say to Hen Wednesday night as she and Carmen sweep the area like a security detail. We waited in the parking lot until Ted finished taking IDs and packed it in. Now the street is empty, and my heart is racing.

  In the display case by the main door, my Sabrina headshot is still up with the others. I guess Dolores forgot to take it down. As anticipated, the case is locked, but that doesn’t stop me from sticking my new picture to the glass, right over the old one.

  “There,” I say, stepping back. When I brought the photo to the print shop kiosk earlier, I chose a big, bold font for the name at the bottom: Gretchen Wilder. I actually get a little shiver seeing it now, looking almost official under the Comithon banner.

  “I hope it doesn’t snow,” says Hen, peering up at the sky as the edges of the glossy paper flap around in the open air. “Your face will get all streaky.”

  “The idea seemed cooler in my head,” says Carmen, frowning. “This actually just looks kind of janky.”

  I roll my eyes and add more tape. “I’m being symbolic, okay?”

  The epiphany came on Monday—somewhere in the time between sharing that beanbag chair with Ethan and going to bed later that night. I guess epiphany is a strong word. There was no lightning bolt. No sudden aha moment. It was a fuzzy, slow burn of a thought: I can be whoever the hell I want to be. But also? I am what I am.

  As Sam and I once discussed over Vietnamese soup, sometimes it’s about holding opposing truths in our minds at once.

  Maybe I can be bold, and new, and also exactly me. Maybe Real Gretchen is a moving target. Always in motion, evolving, a patchwork of contradictions. I don’t really know exactly.

  I just know I need to be here tonight.

  The fact that I enjoy telling jokes to strangers may never cease to surprise me. I’m not brassy or sassy, and I wouldn’t say I’m someone who gives no fucks. I actually give a lot of fucks. And if my heart rate is telling me anything, I’m still a nervous mess. But I’m starting to think bravery isn’t some miraculous energy force I can hope will arrive one day. It might just be a decision, honestly. A matter of saying, Fuck it. Or Why not? And then simply doing the thing.

  I take a moment to imagine it: charging up the steps to that stage tonight with no armor to protect me. I’m pretty sure I’m going to love it. But also? Some part of me will probably want to barf.

  “Smile!” says Hen, snapping a photo on her phone—of me next to the taped-on headshot. “We’ll want this someday. For when Carmen and I are just the little people you met along the way . . .”

  “It’s one night,” I say, biting my nail as I check my texts.

  “She’s nervous,” Carmen says to Hen.

  “We’ll distract you,” Hen says to me.

  “Oooh, I’ve got it,” says Carmen. “This was supposed to be a surprise, but I bought us Rice Krispies ingredients for later, to celebrate.” I smile at her, touched but still no less jumpy.

  “I know it’s a weeknight, but could we watch a movie anyway?” asks Hen. “Maybe something old-school. Have we seen Sixteen Candles?”

  “Yeah,” I say vaguely, still watching my phone. “But I think we were little so a lot of it went over our heads. I don’t know how that one got past the moms. . . .”

  “I want to say it was playing on TV?” says Carmen. “But you’re right. Their brains would have exploded.”

  “Oh yeah . . .” says Hen. “That’s the one with Long Duk Dong in it.”

  “And a pretty egregious Me Too situation,” I say, frowning up at them. “I feel like that was even bad for the eighties. . . .”

  “Sucks because I love Molly Ringwald,” says Carmen. “She’s totally one of my style icons. Well, except for that boxy dress she wears at the end of Pretty in Pink. They seriously built us up for that potato sack?”

  “Awful,” says Hen with a shudder.

  I nod along, laughing under my breath. “Actually, I’m probably going to be pretty wiped tonight. Maybe we should pick something that . . . doesn’t elicit TV yelling?”

  “To All the Boys I’ve Loved Before?” says Hen, her face lighting up.

  “Oooh, or Love, Simon,” says Carmen.

  We all swoon.

  My phone buzzes and I jolt. A new message from Amber has appeared: Show’s starting, and I am in position!

  “That her?” says Hen.

  I nod and draw a long breath as the two of them link arms with me.

  We round the corner to the alley, and after a moment, the door swings open.

  “Hi,” Amber whispers, fixing her eyes on Hen and Carmen. She frowns, leaning out into the alley. “Wait a minute . . . I remember you two. No getting sloppy, okay?”

  “We’ll be on our best behavior,” Hen promises. “We just want to see Gretchen.”

  “And maybe yell at Jeremy a little,” says Carmen happily.

  Amber laughs and braces the door, letting the three of us slip past her, until it gently clicks shut, blocking out the streetlight. My eyes adjust to the dark, and I’m hit with what I realize is now my favorite smell: cheap bathroom soap and sticky floor beer. “Okay, well, hang tight,” whispers Amber. “I’ll keep watch up front. Also, don’t forget to announce me when you’re done. I’m slightly afraid Dolores won’t tap me back in if she’s mad about this.”

  “You think she’ll be mad?” I say, suddenly alarmed.

  She shrugs. “I just know she was pissed when she found out Jeremy let you in with a fake ID. There was a whole speech about how this place needs to start running like an ‘actual fuckin’ bar’ with ‘actual fuckin’ rules.’ But whatever. I couldn’t let you miss the last night of the Comithon.”

  “Thanks,” I say, my resolve waning slightly. “But I don’t want to get you in trouble. You could still win this thing.”

  “I don’t think so,” she says. “This crowd doesn’t get me. I’m too esoteric.”

  I smile as she moves toward the other end of the hall—her guard post, I guess. I can hear Dolores greeting the crowd now.

  “We’re gonna go find seats,” whispers Carmen.

  “You’ve got this,” says Hen as the two of them pull me in for a final squeeze.

  I watch them tiptoe off into the audience, and then I pace. I’ve practiced and practiced these past couple days, but to be thorough, I should go over the beats again in my head.

  The audience applauds for the first comic of the night.

  “So I’m a preschool teacher. . . .”

  I pause to listen, and in a blink, I’m completely lost in Paula’s set. Soon, it’s Isaiah’s—and yep, same thing. “Everyone thinks they have a bad Tinder story,” he says, making me smile. “Then they hear mine. . . .”

  I don’t even bother trying to focus by the time Haru goes up: “Here’s what most people don’t know about halibut. . . .”

  Somewhere along the way, I slide down the wall to sit, fully giving up on the idea of preparing.

  Lenny reveals his plans to propose to his girlfriend with an ethically mined opal later this month. He hopes the gesture won’t be received as overly patriarchal. Next Lakshmi talks about the many, many drugs she intends to take during childbirth now that she’s officially allowed to tell the world she’s pregnant. And then Bill admits to using a Mary Berry voice whenever he bakes at home, switching off his Maine accent to say the word layers in a single syllable. The crowd can’t get enough.

  I get so swept up, eyes closed, feeling completely at home, that I’m not even all that nervous anymore—just listening contentedly as Dolores’s gravelly voice winds up to the next act. But then she calls out, “Jeremy Griffin!” and my eyes shoot open, goose bumps forming under my sweater. And it hits me: I’ve never actually seen him do stand-up before.
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  I know I shouldn’t care how he does tonight. I’ve kept him firmly banished from my mind this week. But curiosity wins out, I guess, because I’m getting up now, moving down the hall to catch a glimpse.

  “How’s everyone doing tonight?” he asks, prompting a raucous cheer as he grips the mic. I think he’s already won half these people over with his looks alone, the stage lights working nicely for him, drawing into focus his height, the good hair, and the muscles under his T-shirt.

  A few feet ahead, Amber turns back with an eye roll. I glower out at the stage, willing Jeremy to stumble again, like I’m told he did last week. I want him to suck. I want a train wreck. Although, I don’t know. That might just be awkward for everyone.

  As he flashes that gum-commercial smile out at the still-cheering crowd, a new thought turns my stomach: What if all that ego of his was justified? What if he wins this whole competition, and walks off completely unscathed? Guys like him win all the time. I’m sure someday, I’ll make seventy cents to his dollar.

  Maybe he’ll even be my idiot boss.

  “So I recently broke up with—” Jeremy freezes, his face falling suddenly. My view is partially blocked by someone’s head in the audience, but I think he’s looking at Carmen. And if I’m right, I’d bet good money she’s smiling up at him in a way that is truly terrifying. “Oh wow,” he says, taking a step back. “I . . . just remembered, I meant to open with something else tonight.”

  Under the lights, you can see his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. And he seems to be searching the room.

  I retreat into the shadows. Because I think he’s looking for me.

  After another long beat, there’s a puff of air against the microphone. “Okay, new plan. I need to come clean about some stuff. I have an . . . old flame in the audience. Possibly more than one. So this night is going great for me so far.”

  A few people laugh.

  “Sorry,” he says after a pause. “I’m just . . . kind of going through the joke Rolodex in my head. . . . I’m actually struggling to find any stories that won’t make me look like a dick in this context. Maybe not a great sign.”

  There’s another small murmur, but it’s totally tense in here.

  “Okay . . .” he says, sounding a bit miserable, actually. “The truth is, I . . . suck at love. And for a long time, I’m not sure I even believed it existed. I told myself to lean into that. It was better for my work anyway. You have to admit, relationships are sort of the kiss of death if you want to lead an interesting life. And I’ve never wanted to be one of those people who, when you ask what they’re up to, they’re like, ‘Oh, you know. Sylvia and I are rewatching Breaking Bad. We’re training for a 5K. . . .’”

  The audience really does laugh at that. And actually, I kind of do too.

  “Anyway, I hope it’s not too late for me. I don’t want to be this cynical. And as someone very special once said, while I may not believe in the fairy tale, I might believe in the rom-com. . . . Maybe with a few added tweaks for plausibility.”

  I let out a breath of surprise, hearing my own words quoted back to me after all these weeks. It would almost be sweet if my blood relative who he also made out with weren’t currently in the audience.

  “Anyway. Enough with the sappy stuff,” he says, abruptly shifting gears. “I recently found out the internet is like forty percent porn?” The audience laughs. “I guess the remaining sixty percent is mostly, like, streaming services and social media. And then this one teeny-tiny sliver is, I don’t know . . . knowledge? Sort of puts my own shortcomings into perspective, honestly. People are gross.”

  I’m big enough to admit that Jeremy does get a few more laughs out of me. And yet, when he finally says good night, I’m relieved. It’s clear he neither sucks nor is a rock star. He’s somewhere in the middle. Just like the rest of us.

  “All right, all right,” says Dolores, snapping me out of my head. “Let’s keep it moving, shall we? Up next, she’s everyone’s favorite yogi-slash-comedienne. Put your hands together for Amber Bernhardt!”

  I flinch as Amber looks back at me. We share a quick nod and I wait for her to take the stage before following, feeling a little odd making this walk in my plain fleece leggings, frumpy sweater, and black Converse.

  “Sooo, slight change,” says Amber as I hurry up the steps. She grins at me from her place behind the mic. “I’m going to let this young lady here cut in front of me and then I’ll be right back. Let’s give it up for Gretchen Wilder!”

  Her clapping is painfully audible over the murmuring of the crowd. There’s a rhythm to this show, and we’ve clearly disrupted it. As we lock eyes, Amber gives a helpless shrug and darts off, leaving me there, alone under the spotlight.

  Ted looks over as he dries a glass behind the bar. Dolores and the hostess pause a hushed conversation. In back, Lenny, Haru, Bill, and Lakshmi all peer out at me curiously. I spot Jeremy, too, but skip over him, my eyes landing instead on Paula and Isaiah at a table in the middle row.

  Their faces are so inscrutable as I squint out at them, devoid of their usual warmth.

  It hurts to know that I did that.

  I lied and messed everything up.

  “Hi,” I say, straining to reach the mic. Without Sabrina’s high-heeled booties, I’m much shorter than usual up here. As I adjust the stand, I wonder if this was mistake. Maybe I should have simply called Dolores and asked for a second chance, for a real place on the lineup, complete with a proper introduction.

  But I think I needed the element of surprise tonight. I couldn’t risk her turning me away. Not without proving to myself I could do this.

  Not without saying what I need to say.

  Standing tall, I brush my hair away from my face, letting it fall loosely around my shoulders. I feel my feet, flat on the ground, my roomy sweater like a warm hug, thankfully hiding all my perspiration. This part—the being me part—actually feels okay. And as my eyes adjust, I realize I’m not at all daunted by the strangers watching me. It’s the familiar faces that make my stomach flip. I don’t think they’re angry exactly. But definitely . . . wary.

  “For those of you who don’t know me, I’m Gretchen,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m in this competition. Or . . . my alter ego was.”

  I smile weakly, eyes sweeping this place I adore so much.

  “I know I haven’t been honest about myself with a lot of you. But tonight, I come before you as I really am: a high school junior who, a couple months ago, never could have imagined herself standing up here, ready to bare her soul while sweating balls.” That gets a meager laugh. “I thought I was a certain kind of person. With a predetermined role to play. I thought I could only do this if I became someone else. If I . . . lied to you.”

  The room has gone completely still—so quiet I can hear my own breath.

  “I guess I should quickly add, for anyone new to the Chuckle Parlor: sorry this is turning into a night of big speeches. This isn’t, like, a thing we do. Actually, the guy before me kind of stole my thunder.” I look at Jeremy, standing off to the side, and catch a trace of a smile. “Anyway, I just had to tell you all how much I love this crappy club, with its random crooked curtain that leads nowhere. . . .”

  I point behind me to the brick wall and the audience murmurs another laugh.

  “I had to tell you . . . how much I love the people here.” I briefly glance at Jeremy again. “Okay, most of the people here.” I let out a big breath, my heartbeat picking up as I look around the room. “I love that pretty much from day one, even though most of us had just met, and we were supposed to be competing, we all supported each other—became invested in each other. We shared our truths and our quirks, our joys and our pain. I’ve come to care so much about you all, and I just . . .” I swallow, getting strangely choked up all of a sudden. “I really want to win you back.”

  When I finally let myself peek, Paula and Isaiah both have oddly excited looks on their faces, like they’re expecting something big to happen. My hea
rt sinks. Because of course. For all my talk of rom-coms up on this stage, I should have known: you don’t say you’re going to win someone back. You win them back! And I’m honestly so overcome right now, I really do wish I had a Creepy John Cusack boombox to hold over my head, or a marching band waiting to back me up, 10 Things I Hate About You–style.

  “Uh . . .” I bite my lip, thinking a moment. I could sing. . . .

  The song pops into my head, and I don’t hesitate—just close my eyes and let it out: “You’re just too good to be true. Can’t take my eyes off of you. . . .”

  Wait. This might have been a weird choice.

  “You’d be like heaven to . . . touch.” Oh God.

  “This really isn’t necessary!” Dolores calls from the back. I open my eyes, breathing out a laugh. “Think you could maybe tell some jokes now?”

  “Um, okay,” I say with a happy sniff. “But just know I’d sing my heart out for you, Dolores. And Paula and Isaiah.” They grin up at me as I continue to scan the room. “And Haru, and Amber. Lenny, Lakshmi, Bill . . . You too, Ted . . . Not you, Jeremy.”

  He smiles, and somehow, I do too.

  When I land on Dolores again, she’s pointing at her watch.

  “Sorry,” I say. “But real quick. I actually did practice this. . . .” I clear my throat, gazing out beyond the lights at her. “I’m just a girl. Standing in front of a . . . sort of grouchy club owner. Asking her to . . . let me come back here sometime.”

  “We’ll talk,” Dolores says gruffly.

  I sigh, happy. “Talking would be great.”

  For my remaining minutes, I test out some new bits about home, first getting into my recent trip to New York and how those beautiful people have nothing on us: “Not one person had a hat that looked like a beaver. . . .”