Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah

by David Levithan

  It shouldn’t matter to me that Johan isn’t a complete stranger. If anything, it should make me feel better, that we have something in common, even if it’s #Stantastic. But instead, it’s like he’s ruining the story of us, the story of this great random meeting on the subway. It’s still random, but it no longer feels serendipitously random.

  I’m realizing it’s pretty quiet in the living room—which could mean either that things have settled down or that the chaos has turned into a black hole.

  I can’t help it: I wonder if anything in there has been broken. Or is in the process of being broken. Or is about to be broken unless I intercede.

  “We should probably see what they’re up to,” I tell Johan.

  He looks disappointed. Or confused. Or annoyed.

  I guess the point is that I can’t tell which.

  I guess the point is that I can’t adjust.

  I guess the point is that, yes, I am always the one to respond. But that’s no guarantee that the response will be the right one.

  All I’m good at, it seems, is showing up. And even that’s a challenge—like when Johan and I get back to the living room and find a strangely silent disarray. Frederyk and KK are uncomfortably sharing a love seat. Li has her eyes closed and is breathing deeply. Parker looks amused. Jason looks unamused. And Ilsa looks—

  Ilsa looks—

  Ilsa looks—

  Blank. The lights are on, but she’s still in the blackout.

  Failure to adjust.

  I can hear the rain outside, insisting we pay attention. I can smell the liquor on the room’s breath.

  “What’s going on?” I ask.

  This brings Ilsa back—but only partly.

  It’s Parker who responds. “Lights went out, and KK got all freaky with Sesame Street over here.”

  KK stands up and smooths her French maid outfit. “It was dark. I needed male attention. I was curious if this would be two for the price of one—and, let me tell you, it was.”

  Frederyk looks a little dashed on the rocks by this explanation. Caspian remains impassive.

  “I think the window’s leaking,” Li says.

  She points at a juncture where the windowpane isn’t quite slipping into the frame. A thin stream of water is running down the wall onto the floor.

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?!” I cry, then run into the kitchen for some paper towels. When I return, I go into full-on sop mode. Li has to step aside for me to do it.

  “Do you need help?” Johan offers.

  “No! I’m fine!” I say, even as I wonder if the paint is going to have a water stain. Or maybe the whole frame will warp.…

  “You are not fine,” Ilsa says. I look back at her and notice she hasn’t moved since I walked back in with Johan.

  “This isn’t a problem,” I tell her. I’m plugging the gap between the window and the frame with paper towels. I can get duct tape and seal it properly in a second.

  “I’m not saying that’s a problem,” Ilsa replies, pointing at the window. “I’m saying this is a problem.” She gestures around the room.

  “Thanks a lot,” Parker says.

  “I am not experiencing a problem,” KK rebuffs.

  Jason releases something halfway between a laugh and a huff.

  “What are you saying?” I ask. Because for once, I genuinely don’t know.

  “I’m saying, why the fuck are we throwing this party? Why are all of these people here? Why do we bother doing all of this, if it’s only going to turn to shit? This was supposed to be a recess from the humdrum, but I feel it’s just another version of the humdrum. Dress it up however you want—we’re still stuck, and I’m tired of it, Sam. I’m tired of you fussing and making nice. I’m tired of KK doing whatever she wants, whenever she wants. I’m tired of trying to figure out if Parker is a red state or a blue state when it comes to my election. I’m tired of Jason taking on the role of inquisitor, when he knows me about as well as Caspian here knows what it’s like to have legs or Johan knows how to return your flirtation. For that matter, I’m tired of Frederyk not being what I wanted him to be. He was supposed to shake up your world, Sam—not make a mess of mine.”

  “Poor Ilsa,” Jason mock sobs. I note the bottle in his hand.

  “What has Sam’s lasagna done to you?” KK asks. “I knew it was trouble.”

  I leave the paper towels in the gap and walk over to my sister. “Look,” I say, “it’s been a lot. Do you want to go lie down? We can start dessert without you.…”

  She swats me away, even though I haven’t tried to touch her.

  “I don’t want to lie down! You’re not my parent, Sam—you’re my brother. This was such a bad idea—I need to go. No, seriously, that’s it. I need to go.”

  I know what she’s just stated, but still I find myself saying, “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes. Sorry.”

  Then, without stopping to get her keys or her purse or her coat, she walks out of the room, out of the hall, out of the apartment. We all hear the door open and then close behind her.

  “I’ll go get her,” Parker says.

  “No,” I tell him. “I’ll do it.”

  “Oh, let her have her tantrum,” KK advises. “She’ll be back. It’s not like she has anywhere else to go.”

  “You’re such a good friend!” Jason comments. “You’re so lucky to have her! I mean, she’s so lucky to have you.”

  Parker starts to head out. But Li body-blocks him.

  “No,” she says. “I’ll go.”

  Parker starts to argue, but Li cuts him off.

  “I was the only one not mentioned in her roll call of gripes. I’ve got this. I don’t expect you or Sam to understand, but it has to be me.”

  “What about me?” KK asks.

  Li gives her a once-over. “Why don’t you stay here and ask yourself that while I go find my friend?”

  With that, she leaves us. We all hear the door open and then hear it close.

  “Anyone else want a drink?” Jason offers.

  Caspian pats the empty space on the love seat, and KK returns to it.

  I turn to Parker.

  “Don’t look at me!” he says. “I didn’t do anything!”

  I turn to Johan.

  He smiles and asks, “Time for dessert?”

  eleven

  ILSA

  “What happened?” Li asks me as I open the door to the roof deck. “Did the lightning suddenly strike you with bitchheart?”

  I laugh as we walk through the entryway. I go to the outdoor storage shed, take a thick blanket from it, and then place it over the wet wood bench that sits under the canopy trellis, whose leaves are soaked and dripping. The storm has passed, leaving behind a breathtakingly clear view of the city skyline, and fresh, damp air that does nothing to appease the evil thoughts lurking within my wicked brain.

  We sit down on the (mostly) dry blanket. I say, “It was pretty random, actually. My brother came back to the living room, and he gave me that look he has, like nothing’s wrong, when in fact everything is wrong, and then all of a sudden I hated Sam with a fiery passion. I couldn’t stand the sight of his stupid sweet face any longer.”

  “Does that happen to you a lot with him?”

  “No. But when it does, it’s fierce.” Li always brings the nicest chocolates. I can’t do her the dishonor of letting her think I’m better than I am. I admit, “I wasn’t suddenly struck with bitchheart. It always lurks within me.”

  “I don’t believe that. Bitchface, maybe. Not bitchheart.” She must know that other deadly sin lurking within my heart—greed—because she opens her purse, retrieves the box of chocolates she must have grabbed on her way out, and opens it. I pick the one that I hope is mocha-flavored, and if it’s something gross, like one with lemon filling (who would do that to the inside of a chocolate?), out of respect for Li Zhang and her uncommon goodness, I’m not going to return it half-eaten to the box.

  I take a bite. Mocha! I further admit, “You’re
wrong. I was born with bitchheart. Sam got all the good DNA.”

  “Maybe bitchheart isn’t so terrible? It will make you a survivor.”

  “That’s what I’m afraid of. I don’t want to be a survivor. When the apocalypse finally hits, I want to die first.”

  “I don’t believe that, either,” says Li. “When the Atlantic Ocean finally pushes past Brooklyn and takes over Manhattan, the Ilsa I know will be standing on top of the Empire State Building, flirting with sailors and throwing everyone life rafts.”

  “Doubt it. I’m scared of heights.” We’re on the nineteenth floor of the Stanwyck, although technically it’s the eighteenth floor, since most older Manhattan buildings don’t have a thirteenth floor. Those previous generations sure knew how to build superstition directly into the souls of building residents. Eighteen or nineteen—it’s still many floors beyond my comfort level. Running toward my fears but never overcoming them: That’s how I like it. “I always sit under this trellis because it’s in the center of the roof deck. I feel nauseous if I walk near the edge.”

  “Me too!” says Li. “So what are we doing up here, anyway?”

  “I like to come up here because access is forbidden to Czarina’s apartment unit. When the Stanwyck went condo years ago, the holdouts who didn’t give up their rent-controlled apartments were denied access to the rooftop.”

  “That’s so mean.”

  “That’s real estate. Says Czarina.”

  “But you have the key to open the door to the rooftop deck. I just saw you use it.”

  “Czarina had a fling with the landscaper. He had a copy of the key made for her.”

  “Your grandma seems like a real problem solver.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “This muumuu. It’s so comfortable, I can’t stand it. I hope I’m not being vain, but I feel like it looks as good on me as it feels.”

  “It does. Czarina does wonders with fabrics. She can make any cloth look fashionable and amazing.”

  “How come she never went into business for herself? She’s so talented.”

  “She did. Years ago. A clothing store with her brother. The business failed. Whatever happened between them was pretty bad. Czarina hasn’t talked to her brother since before Sam and I were born.”

  “Ouch.” The silence that follows is Li’s acknowledgment of my fear—of what could happen to me and Sam. That we could become like Czarina and the brother whose name she won’t even speak aloud. Siblings. Partners. Then dead to each other.

  Their falling-out wasn’t just over the failed business. It was over who got the rent-controlled Stanwyck apartment that had originally been leased to their grandparents. Czarina won that battle. The price was never seeing or speaking to her brother again.

  I say, “Sam and I are nothing alike. I don’t know how we’re siblings, much less twins. I can’t believe I ever shared a womb with him. Even in there, he was probably the one banging around the least, giving Mom the least trouble. I retroactively hate him for that, too.”

  The storm left behind wind. It’s chilly up here. The Mary Poppins who is wearing Czarina’s purple muumuu pulls a long shawl out of her purse, hands me one end, and we place it across our shoulders so we’re almost in a huddle. “Why are you so mad at him, Ilsa?”

  “I don’t know!” I’m not yelling, but I’m close. My skin is cold but my blood is boiling.

  I do kind of know.

  I’m mad that he invited Parker. He knows how the sight of Parker hurts me. He knows that Parker moved on, but I didn’t. I hate to accept that in the custody battle for Parker’s friendship, Sam will always win. I hate that Sam should win that custody. I hate that every time I feel like I’ve moved on from my feelings for Parker, I have some reminder of him from Sam—I see a text on Sam’s phone, or hear Sam laughing in another room when they’re hanging out and don’t think I’m around, or Sam bloody invites him to our last dinner party at Czarina’s. It would be so much easier to let go if I didn’t have those constant reminders—and brutal for Sam if he was ever forced to choose between us. Nobody wins. I want to blame Sam, even if I know how unreasonable that is.

  I’m mad that Czarina and Mom and Dad love us both the same, but they like him more.

  I’m mad that I always have to share a birthday with him.

  I’m mad that Sam got piano lessons and I got dance lessons. He’s good enough to get into a world-class music school like Berklee, and I fell flat on my face and gave up. I would never be good enough to pursue my art in a renowned school. Sam could—and chooses not to.

  I’m mad that we came from the same womb, but he will always get to live with white male privilege with no real consequences if he fucks up, and I will be the bitchheart just for being honest and real with my feelings.

  I’m mad that he hurts and keeps it all in. I trust him with my problems. Why can’t he trust me with his?

  I’m mad for no good reason other than I’m scared and everything’s changing, and probably not for the better.

  “I think you know,” says Li.

  “You’re right, as always. I’m mad that when anything goes wrong, Sam goes with the flow. I storm out for no good reason, while he stays reliably calm, even when I know for a fact it’s not how he really feels. It’s insane-making.”

  “What do you care if he’s calm? Isn’t that a good quality?”

  “Because the calmer he is, the more I look like a bitch.”

  “Then don’t act like one. It’s maybe that simple.”

  “It’s not. I just feel this anxiety all the time. Acting out is how I express it. At least, according to my therapist.”

  “There’s medication for that, you know. I take it. Helps a lot.” She laughs. “Except when there’s bad thunderstorms—for me, at least.”

  Quietly, I say, “I’m scared.”

  “Of a pill?”

  “That it will change me somehow. Filter the world through a duller palette.”

  “Doesn’t feel that way to me. I still have my freak-outs, but overall I feel like I handle the anxiety better since I started medication. It used to cripple me. Now at least I try to deal. The medication doesn’t change any situation. It just gives you kind of an extra floor to catch you if you fall.” Li softly nudges her arm against mine; she’s very comforting. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  I’m still sore, and I still hate Sam’s ex-boyfriend. I hate how easy it is for Sam to have a harem of cute boy crushes while I’m still stuck on Parker. Sometimes I’m not even sure if I’m still stuck on Parker or, if I’m being truthful, just stuck on the hurt that Parker dumped me. “Jason Goldstein-Chung said I’m awful. Sam didn’t even try to defend me.”

  “Jason said KK is awful. She is.”

  “Is it horrible that’s what I like about her?”

  “It’s not horrible. It’s frustrating.”

  I let out a little laugh. That was the last explanation I expected. “Why frustrating?” I ask Li.

  “Cuz I would like to hang out with you more. KK monopolizes you.”

  “I don’t know about this proposition.” I feel a smile coming across my mouth, despite my best efforts to tamp it down. “Could you try to be more awful?”

  “Oh hell yes, I could. Let’s go back downstairs, and I’m going to, like, crush some Dollys, and put Caspian into a shoe, where he belongs, and straight-up tell Sam, That lasagna sucked.”

  “You’re a beast, Li. I had no idea.”

  “We should hang out more.”

  “We should. Why do you have to live in Queens?”

  “There are trains that go to Queens.”

  “But…so far.”

  “I’ve successfully made it from Queens to Manhattan for four years of high school. Trust me, it can be done.”

  “I hear the Indian food is good where you live.”

  “It is.”

  My blood feels less boily. My heart rate has slowed down. I say, “Maybe I don’t need anxiety medication. Maybe I just need you around w
hen I need to calm the fuck down.”

  “Weirdly, helping other people calm down helps me calm down. Totally distracts my own anxiety.”

  “So this wasn’t a selfless mission to spaz down the bitchheart?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Well, thanks anyway.” Thanks for the chocolates and the shawl and the warmth. “It’s nice to be up here, in the quiet.”

  We’re looking at each other now, face to face, and we’re leaning into each other, and out of nowhere, Li’s lips land on mine. It’s the sweetest and most unexpected kiss I’ve ever had. It definitely warms me up. It definitely makes me wonder if there could be more. Her breath smells like she just ate the peppermint-flavored chocolate.

  She pulls back. “I’m sorry! Was that…okay?”

  “It was a surprise. But a nice one.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” I have to figure out my brother before I can figure out Li Zhang and how she’s a way hotter mess than I ever realized. I subtly turn my face so she’ll know I’m not planning more lip connection—but not so far away that she’ll think the future potential isn’t there. It is. “Sam doesn’t know it, but I’m going to become Maddy Hogue’s new nanny and live in Czarina’s apartment once the Hogues take possession of it.”

  “Is that what this is about? That you haven’t told him yet? I don’t think he’ll be mad. He’ll be happy for you to get to live here.”

  “That’s the problem. I want him to be mad. I want him to feel. To rage.”

  “Then have it out with him. Tell him that.”

  “I don’t want us to become like Czarina and her brother.”

  Li looks me intently in the eyes. She asks, “You know what happens after a seismic event in your life?”

  “Everything changes.”

  “Maybe. But you don’t. You’ll still be the same person you were before it happened, and so will Sam. Your character and heart don’t have to change even if circumstances do. It’s how you deal with the event that determines whether you can handle the fallout.”

  That makes both no sense and total sense. “I want to be better than awful,” I admit.

  Li takes my hand in hers. It’s more than a friend’s touch, less than a lover’s. A tender in-between of possibility. “Let’s go face your fears,” she says. We stand up. The shawl falls from our shoulders. I never noticed before how silky black her hair is or how sexy her curves are, even under a muumuu. She’s checking me out, too. She points at one of the cats on my dress and says, “Caspian’s right! Geraldine might really have a lazy eye.”