Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah

by David Levithan

  Sam will survive the Paris news. What better place to visit a grandmother? What’s really going to finally push Sam out of his comfort zone is when he finds out I am moving into his bedroom at Czarina’s, with the new owners, who have invited me to be their family’s nanny after Czarina moves out. Sam has too much talent and potential to be stuck in the same old place; I’m fine there.

  Tonight is our chance to celebrate our last twin dinner party here. Lasagna, booze, chocolates, with our friends and some strangers. Tonight we can swing from the chandeliers like we’re Liberace.

  Tomorrow we can deal with the heartbreak and the humdrum.

  two

  SAM

  Dinner parties always seem like a good idea until you have an hour until the guests arrive and you realize you have about four hours’ worth of things left to do. Life becomes a whirl of counter-space choreography, stovetop stress, and table-setting trauma. I want everything to be perfect, and I also know this is an impossible and even cruel thing to want. Still, there’s something deep inside me that won’t let go. If things are imperfect, it won’t—can’t—be my fault.

  Ilsa, bless her, is trying to aid me. Unfortunately, her aid is coming in the form of sartorial suggestion.

  “Why aren’t you wearing your black velvet? They’ll be here any moment. You’re still in jeans.”

  I am not wearing my black velvet because the lemon tart requires a dusting of confectioners’ sugar in about two minutes. It will take about two minutes to explain this to Ilsa, so I try to shoo her from the kitchen instead, telling her that she should make sure the dinner party playlist is to her liking. My mood is all Glass, and if she wants to add swing to the thing, it’s better for her to do it now than to make a scratch mid-song.

  My stress gets more level when I am alone in the kitchen. I like being alone in the kitchen. My thoughts fit well into the sound of bubbling, boiling, and refrigeration. I can be the conductor of this minor orchestra.

  It’s only when other people get involved that the conducting becomes unwieldy, and arrangements get messy.

  I don’t know who Ilsa’s invited, although I suspect that, despite her denial, KK will soon besmirk our doorway with her usual gusts of privilege. Ilsa can’t resist KK—she’s the fashion plate my sister eats off of, her droll model. I personally can’t fathom how a girl so rich can also be so rich with complaint. But she’s never wanted me or anyone else to like her. I guess there’s some power that comes from that. Only I’m not really sure what you can use that power for.

  My guest list is, I hope, a little more amenable to amiability.

  First, there’s my best friend, Parker, since even though Ilsa placed him on the Banished Guest List, I am not having this last dinner party without him. Ilsa claims he broke her heart, but she needs to get over it. Mostly because the breakup was totally her fault, and nearly ended my friendship with him, which wasn’t fair.

  Next up is Jason. I figured if I was inviting one of Ilsa’s exes, I should balance it out with one of mine. Although it’s not really the same, since Jason and I managed to stay friends. He’d had this whole I’m-going-to-Tufts-and-you’re-going-to-Berklee! plan, and when I decided to stay in Manhattan, it was like I’d slapped his future, which in turn said oh-no-you-didn’t and stormed out the door. This left the present standing in the middle of the room, slight and awkward. Jason withdrew his application for soul mate, and we went from there. Still looking for true love, but not with each other.

  Which maybe leads me to my wild card: Subway Boy. I’ve been seeing him on the 1 train for the past few months. And around the city, especially around Lincoln Center. Sometimes he’s carrying a violin case. I have mapped more fantasies out onto Subway Boy than I care to admit. And after a while, I saw that he was recognizing me as much as I was recognizing him.

  Still, I didn’t want to ruin it by talking to him. Until, last week, he was right there when I got on board the train, and it was like the party invitation in my pocket began to vibrate. Before I could tell myself to halt, halt, halt, I was handing it to him and telling him he should come.

  “There’s no RSVP,” he said when he finished reading it.

  He didn’t look at me like I was bad crazy. He looked at me like I was good crazy. Bold crazy. Romantic crazy.

  “Regrets only,” I told him.

  “Well,” he said with a smile, “I can’t say I have any regrets.”

  As we hit his stop, I ventured a “See you later?”

  “Absolutely,” he replied.

  And that, it seemed, was that. I haven’t seen him since. I’m not even sure he’ll show up. I’m afraid that, if he does, Ilsa will ask me his name.

  I have no idea what his name is.

  Nor, for that matter, do I know if he’s vegan. Or only eats meat. Or is lactose intolerant. Gluten agnostic. Kale monogamous. So I’m making a little of everything, which adds up to way too much.

  “You do realize we’re only having six guests?” Ilsa, back in the kitchen, asks as I bedevil an egg. The flapper dress she has on would make even Clara Bow fall silent in respect. “And none of them, at least on my list, eats this much.”

  I can never keep my sister out of the kitchen for that long, not when we’re the only two people home. It’s not that she likes watching me cook. And it’s certainly not that she likes assisting. She just hates being in a room by herself.

  “I’ve invited Rudolph Tate,” I say. “He requires at least six servings.”

  This is mean. Rudolph Tate eats like a bird and looks like a bird and flew the coop after two chirpy dates with me. Ilsa had set us up, and since it was only the latest in a mess of maladroit matches, I asked her to never, ever set me up again. It was getting to be that when a male at Ilsa’s school came out of the closet, the first thing he found was my sister standing by the closet door, saying she had someone he should really, really meet.

  “If you’d invited Rudy, I would have heard about it,” Ilsa says, her faith in gossip unwavering. “He’s the apple of #Stantastic’s rebounding eye now. And #Stantastic tweets anything that makes him jealous.”

  My date with #Stantastic had been even worse than my date with Rudolph. As we were talking over dinner, he kept typing it all down on his phone. I tried not to give him any material, and as a result ended up being called #sleepyandhollow when he gave everyone his side of the story. Amazingly, he didn’t understand why I passed on a second date. I know this because he told his (fifty-six) followers he was #Stantagonized by the fact that I hadn’t been #Stantalized.

  I study Ilsa’s face, to see if she’s invited Rudolph or #Stantastic. It’s looking like a no. I’m relieved…and still a little worried about who else that leaves.

  I check the oven, and at least everything there seems to be going according to plan. Satisfied by the tick of the timer, I sugar the tart and give the Waldorf salad an extra toss, making sure the lemon-juiced apples haven’t defied me and started to brown. I know it’s time for me to take off my apron and get into host mode…but I want to linger in the kitchen a little bit longer. It’s so much safer here.

  “This is it,” I tell Ilsa. “Our last dinner party of high school.”

  This is the beginning of all the goodbyes. I’ve been preparing for them, in my own way. I’m ready for graduation. But I’m not ready for life to change so much, so soon.

  I can’t say any of this to Ilsa because it’s too depressing. And my sister does not like to be depressed. I may be the gay one, but she’s the one who lives by gaiety. Carefree and careless, the life of the party trying to make a party out of her life—that’s my unidentical twin, with her unidentity.

  “It all looks so grand,” she says, trying on the last word like a little girl tries on her mother’s shoes.

  Or her grandmother’s shoes. I guess we’re both wearing our grandmother’s shoes. Look at me, with all of my culinary creations—I want to dazzle. Look at Ilsa, in her shimmering flapper dress—she wants to be dazzling.

  “The humdru
m won’t know what hit it,” I promise her.

  “It won’t dare set foot in this apartment, not while we’re around.”

  “It shall be a night to remember.”

  She nods. “For the ages.”

  I make one last check that everything is boiling, brewing, and baking as it should. With ten minutes left, I retreat to my room to change. My clothes hang ready on the closet door. Black suit. White shirt. Dark blue tie. I always wear this outfit because I don’t think I look as good in anything else. And I want to look good tonight.

  Despite myself, I have hopes.

  I’m far from certain that he’s going to show up. This boy whose name I don’t even know.

  I told Parker about it, of course. I’m sure one of the reasons I did was because I knew it would make him think I had the potential to be at least momentarily brave. After months of him telling me to talk to Subway Boy, of him threatening to go up to Subway Boy and say, “Hey, my friend here likes you,” I finally made the move.

  And now, the waiting.

  You’re good, Parker tells me. I need to borrow his voice sometimes, when I don’t trust my own.

  Eight minutes. I button my buttons.

  Six minutes. I tie my tie.

  Five minutes. I—

  I—

  I can’t go out there. I can’t do this. I can’t. I really can’t. I’m going to tell Ilsa I’m feeling sick. I can’t let any of this happen. Whatever’s going to happen, I don’t want it to happen. This was such a mistake. I am such a fraud. I want to stay in the kitchen. I don’t want anyone else to come in. I don’t want to have to talk to anybody. My body knows this. My body is shutting down, saying, That’s enough for you, Sam. I tried to believe I could. I tried to trick myself. But the only thing I’m smart at is knowing when I’m going to fail. There’s no way to disguise that. I am going to fail.

  Four minutes.

  I can’t fool anybody.

  Three minutes.

  Ilsa is calling my name. I am trying to do all the things the doctor told me to do. Slow down. Deep breaths. Affirm. I can do this. Whether or not he comes. Whether or not this is the end of our dinner parties. Whether or not Ilsa appreciates it.

  Two minutes. I consult my mirror.

  I do look better than I usually do.

  I remember that at some point in the night, I’ll be taking the jacket off. So I’m careful. Very careful.

  I make sure my sleeves are rolled down and buttoned, covering any lingering trace of my damage.

  One minute. The buzzer buzzes.

  The first guest has arrived.

  three

  ILSA

  I open the door and immediately I know.

  This must be Wild Card Boy.

  I know because he has the shy, sweet look of so many of Sam’s city crushes. Starbucks Boy. AMC Theatre Boy. Pret a Manger Boy. Terminal 5 Boy. Trader Joe’s Boy.

  Whoever this guy standing here is, he’s exactly why I’ve invited Freddie. Our dinner party absolutely needs a Smoking Hot, Seemed Uncomplicated on the B-ball Court but Could Be Deeply Disturbed Eastern European Guy to break Sam’s infatuation mold of Nice, Safe Boys.

  Wild Card Boy is long and skinny, just like the others, and he’s wearing black jeans (not garish at all—did he even read the invitation?), just like the others. Wild Card’s major improvement is his white T-shirt picturing a hipster black cat standing on its hind legs, playing a fiddle with its front legs. The shirt says I PAWS FOR BLUEGRASS. Wild Card Boy is pale-skinned like he’s a shut-in, with shaggy ginger hair and a scruffy ginger beard and deep green eyes. With his red-orange hair and black skinny jeans, Wild Card Boy looks like an upside-down pumpkin. But Wild Card Boy is highly cute, and has a big, warm smile that I try not to find suspicious. He holds a violin case.

  “Hi,” I say. “Welcome. I’m Ilsa. And you are…?”

  “Johan!” he says jovially. “Delighted to be here, but disappointed that Czarina won’t be here! With a name like that—”

  I interrupt. “You have a funny accent. Are you Australian?”

  “South African.”

  “Isn’t that like the same?”

  “In no way whatsoever.”

  “You’re a long way from home, Johan. What brought you to New York?”

  “Juilliard. I play the violin.”

  “Classical?”

  “At school, yes. But American bluegrass is where my heart is.”

  I hear Sam’s voice. “Stop with the interrogation, Ilsa! Let the poor guy in already. He’s not a vampire.” He stands behind me and loudly whispers in my ear, “Is he?”

  I turn around and see Sam wearing his favorite suit, with his regrettably red-cheeked blush revealing his every feeling. Hope! Anticipation! The kid’s never going to be a poker champion.

  “I think this one’s mortal,” I tell Sam. But just to be sure, I ask Johan, “You’re not a vampire, are you?”

  “No,” says Johan, “despite how tempting your neck is looking.” He winks at me, then at Sam. “His neck, too.”

  What. A. Pro. My favorite guest of the night, already.

  “Come in, please,” I say, holding the door open for him to step through.

  Johan carries in his violin case but nothing else so far as I can see. You can tell a lot about a person by the type of gift they bring for their host (Pret a Manger Boy—leftover cookies; Terminal 5 Boy—flowers; Starbucks Boy—gingerbread syrup), or if they don’t (Trader Joe’s Boy—the worst). I suppose Johan is in the Don’t category. Maybe they don’t bring gifts in South Africa. Not like I throw a party just to get the gifts. (But please bring those amazing chocolates, Li Zhang.)

  “This is your granny’s actual apartment?” Johan asks as we lead him through the foyer and into the living room, which is at the building’s corner and offers views of the Empire State Building and midtown Manhattan to the south and the Hudson River to the west. “Everyone I know lives in dirty dorms or crowded shares in Bushwick.”

  “The apartment’s been in the family for three generations. Before everything got so crazy expensive around here,” says Sam, sounding like he’s apologizing for Czarina not living up to starving-artist, bohemian standards.

  “Rent controlled,” I add, so Johan will know we’re only surrounded by lucky moneybags folk. We’re not them.

  Sam hates hates hates when I bring up the rent-control subject—especially so soon—to total strangers, but I’ve found it’s a good way to appraise their character right away. Either they’re happy for you or they literally hate your guts for having such luck in your family. It’s better to know right away. What’s it matter, anyway? The luck’s all ending.

  Johan says, “This is what rent controlled means? I’ve heard about it, but I thought it had to be an urban myth.”

  “It’s a rarity, but not a myth. And it’s all going bye-bye,” I say, pointing to the movers’ boxes against the far corner of the living room wall. “This whole apartment cost our grandmother significantly less every month than you probably pay for a tiny dorm room you share with a snoring roommate, or mice, or both.”

  “I have both!” Johan says.

  “May I get you a drink?” Sam asks Johan, trying to change the subject. “We have sparkling water, pomegranate juice, ginger ale.…”

  “Beer?” Johan asks. With his accent, the word sounds like beeyrah?

  “Sorry,” says Sam the Saint. “I promised our grandmother we wouldn’t serve alcohol.”

  “I’ll get you one,” I say. “Sam Adams or Sierra Nevada?” Sam and I have a tacit understanding: He repeats the party line about Czarina’s rules, then looks the other way when I disobey them.

  “You choose,” says Johan. “Thanks, mate.”

  I leave for the kitchen, to give Sam some time alone with Johan. New guests—especially if they’re not from the city—always want a tour of the grand, chipping-away old apartment. I hope Johan appreciates my party-decorating efforts. I pinned decorations across the living room walls, picturing Liber
ace in his many years of spectacularly garish fashions. I dangled small, mirrored disco balls from the chandelier over the dining room table. I stocked the bathrooms with Czarina’s best hand towels from Ireland, and stocked the bathroom vanity drawers with Advil (for guests who can’t handle the booze), Pepto-Bismol (can’t handle Sam’s cooking), and a colorful array of condoms (want to get handled).

  The house phone in the kitchen that connects our apartment to the building lobby rings, like it’s still 1956 and people don’t have cell phones.

  “Hello?” I answer.

  “Announcing…,” the doorman starts to say.

  “Please don’t announce, Bert. Please just send them up. Thank you!”

  I hang up the phone and pull out a Sam Adams from the fridge for me and one for Johan, taking a count of the beers in there so I know how many I’ll have to replace with swiped stock from KK’s parents before Czarina gets home. They never notice the beer missing any more than they notice that KK practically subsists exclusively on sushi and frozen Jell-O pops.

  As I head to the front door, I hear Sam playing the piano in the study, Duke Ellington’s “Prelude to a Kiss.” Bold move, brother, so early in the night! Such a sweet, hopeful melody. I’m encouraged. This is going to be our best dinner party ever. I can feel it.

  I wait for the doorbell to ring, as I always do, resisting the urge to open the front door and look down the hallway to see our guests disembarking from the elevator onto the eighth floor. A good hostess welcomes her guests but doesn’t seem desperate for them. I look at myself in the mirror in the foyer, blotting my matte burgundy lips, de-smudging the black kohl lined beneath my eyes, and smoothing down the black bangs of my newly cut, razor-sharp twenties showgirl bob, whose ends come to points on either side of my chin.

  I wish upon the next guest: Please be Wilson Salazar, please be Wilson Salazar. Johan, one of Sam’s three mystery guests, has been accounted for, and I can already tell Johan is awesome. Sam will obviously invite Jason Goldstein-Chung, because Jason is Sam’s habitual safe choice. Jason is like the comfort food of ex-boyfriends. That leaves one more guest on Sam’s list, and I salivate with hope that Sam finally extended an invitation to Wilson Salazar, the most talented and hottest actor in the senior class at LaGuardia. Wilson killed as Macbeth last fall. He broke my heart in West Side Story this spring.