Sam and Ilsa's Last Hurrah

by David Levithan

  “Oh shit,” he says. Then, without another word, he bolts to the bathroom.

  “The toilet, not the sink!” I yell out. Then I follow at his heels, in time to see him make it to the porcelain throne. He retches. And retches. Then pukes his guts out.

  “Oh, Jason,” I say gently, kneeling beside him. He doesn’t have any hair to hold back, so I stay there and hand him a wet washcloth when he’s done.

  “I don’t feel too good,” he moans.

  I pat him on the back. Flush. Get him a towel. Let him slump against me.

  “He’s evil,” he mutters.

  “Yeah, I’m sure this is all Johan’s fault. He has a voodoo doll of you and is sticking a needle down its throat right now.”

  “He’s a dicktator!”

  “Understood.”

  “I couldn’t leave without one more party here,” Jason says.

  “I know, I know,” I tell him. “Because this is the last one. This is it. It’s over.”

  It feels strange to say it. And even as I’m saying it, I’m still not sure what it really means.

  “It’s hard to think of you without it.” Jason slumps against the bathroom wall. “It’s hard to imagine you without this fortress.”

  “It’s not a fortress. It’s an apartment.”

  “But the two of you made it a fortress. And neither of you have any plans to leave.”

  I start to protest, but Jason waves me quiet.

  “No, no,” he goes on, “let me speak. You two have always been impen…inpend…”

  “Impenetrable?”

  “Exactly! We all know you should be going to Berklee, right?”

  Not this again. “No,” I say. “Just because you’re going to Tufts and you wanted us to stay together, it doesn’t mean I had to go to school in Boston.”

  “You are SUCH a fuckface, Sam! Will you listen to me? I’m not talking about you and me being together. I’m talking about it being a great fucking school. A great fucking music school. And when it came time to go there, you choked. No. That’s wrong. You didn’t choke. You fucking strangled yourself. Because you didn’t want to leave your fortress. It’s what the two of you have most in common: You can’t find the way out, even when it’s right there in front of you.”

  Jason has never talked to me this way. No one has ever talked to me this way.

  “Fuck!” he moans, then leans over the toilet again. He retches a couple of times, but nothing comes out.

  “False alarm,” he says as he slumps back against the wall. His eyelids are drooping. “Look,” he says, “I’m not talking anymore about you and me being together. I still believe that we should be together, but that’s not what I’m talking about. I’m talking about you getting out. You need to get out. Because if you don’t get out now, you never will. Even your drunk ex-boyfriend can see that.”

  “Well, I’m not going anywhere right now,” I say. His collar’s gotten messed up, and I fix it.

  He smiles. “Appreciated.” Then he closes his eyes.

  “Hey, friend,” I say. “Maybe the bathroom’s not the best place for a nap?”

  “Right right right.”

  I help him up and get him to the bed in my room. He collapses as quickly as a Macy’s balloon filled with sand.

  I think he’s out as soon as he hits the pillow. But as I turn off the light and start to tiptoe away, he says one more thing.

  “It was really great to hear you play again,” he tells me. “It’s so stupid you stopped playing for other people.”

  I thank him. And I allow myself to say that, yes, it was.

  thirteen

  ILSA

  Typical.

  Sam’s always had a secret Spidey sense alerting him when I’m on the warpath, allowing him to dodge my mad mood like the adorable, handsome coward he is. It’s too bad my twin wasn’t another girl. Our menstrual synchrony would put us on the same PMS-bitch-rage schedule and then we could quickly and efficiently have at it like siblings should. Tussle, scream, fight, pull hair, get it out, then done and besties again, until the next time.

  This duck-and-run maneuver of Sam’s is getting old.

  I’m ready to pounce. He sensed it, and escaped to the bedroom with Jason.

  Jason Fucking Goldstein-Chung.

  I’m insulted.

  And anyone thinking I am being too hard on Jason should know this about him:

  1. He’s cheap. One time he took Sam on a “surprise date” to Fire Island, but Sam had to buy his own train ticket, and while Jason did buy their lunch, that lunch was stale sandwiches from the train station because Jason couldn’t spring for a nice restaurant at the lovely ocean where he’d dragged my brother. Jason’s not poor, either. He’s had his own website design company since he was twelve. Hashtag, AnnoyingOverachiever.

  2. He smells weird. Because of the cheap cologne he wears to ward off the smell of his insecurity.

  3. He’s rude to old people. I don’t care if Jason’s rude to me, but being rude to our parents and Czarina is unforgivable. Only I am allowed to do that, and only because I know to profusely apologize afterward. What kind of boyfriend shows up for a family dinner—wreaking of Insécurité pour Homme, I might add—and proceeds to tell the grandmother how she could decorate her apartment better, and then proclaims himself a math genius by explaining to his boyfriend’s parents that they’re really not making enough money to send their kids to college, and they should think about taking on extra jobs? A smelly one, that’s what kind.

  4. He knows every line of every song from Xanadu, the musical.

  5. I take back #4. That’s maybe the one decent quality of Jason’s.

  My boobs feel heavy and my stomach crampy. PMS is definitely contributing to my hostility—but that doesn’t mean the hostility’s not deserved anyway.

  “Throw me a brew,” I call to Parker. He tosses me an unopened beer bottle. I pop it open and take a good long chug, finally ready to be a part of my own party.

  Everybody is tipsy and having a good time. What Sam’s cooking couldn’t accomplish, reliable ol’ alcohol has. Johan fiddles the tune of Prince’s “She’s Always in My Hair” while Parker croons the lyrics, shooting his sexiest smile my way. KK and Freddie are slow dancing, with Caspian snuggled into the crook of KK’s neck. Li is in her happy place: She’s pulled out the knitting bag she always carries and continues work on a stunning teal sweater sleeve.

  Parker sings, “Whenever my hopes and dreams / Are aimed in the wrong direction,” and I don’t know why it took two years to finally hit me, but at last, I hear it. He’s so off-key!

  Parker wiggles his index finger at me, an invitation to join him in the song.

  “Don’t do it, Ilsa!” KK calls over to me. “Do not fall into his Prince-croon trap. Again.”

  It was Parker singing “Purple Rain” during Sam’s and my birthday karaoke party our sophomore year that undid me, and caused me to undo every button holding up my clothing later that night.

  I shrug at Parker’s invitation—nah—and take another sip of beer. “’Kay, KK,” I say.

  If I want to be better than awful, I should start with Parker. Stop resenting him and wanting him and feeling hurt by him as much as I’ve wanted to be back with him. Let it go, Ilsa. (#6: Jason’s love for Frozen sing-alongs. Honestly. Do that in private like everyone else, in the shower, where it belongs.) (Also, Elsa with an I—Ilsa: superior spelling.)

  The song ends. “Want to break into the empty studio apartment across the hall?” I ask the group. They cheer, except for KK, who would never allow herself such common enthusiasm. Enough alcohol, and sneaking into a small unit with a crap view can sound appealing. Again, except to KK.

  “I’m bored,” whines KK.

  Caspian rubs himself against her cheekbone. “Don’t say that,” he whispers.

  “You’re not bored,” I tell her. “You’re in the best threesome of your life tonight.”

  To the rest of the group, I say, “Shall we?”

  Li,
Parker, Johan, KK, Freddie, and Caspian come to the door. “Bring the fiddle,” I tell Johan. “In case you’re inspired.”

  We go into the hallway. Parker asks, “We’re going to Mr. Bergman’s apartment, right?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Did he finally move?” Parker asks. Mr. Bergman was a “confirmed bachelor” who’d lived at the Stanwyck longer than Czarina.

  “If by ‘move,’ you mean to Mount Hebron Cemetery in Flushing, Queens, then yes,” I say. “Mr. Bergman moved.”

  Parker does the sign of the cross over his chest. “Rest in peace, Mr. Bergman. He was a good dude. Used to give me and Sam the free movie passes his family sent him every year at Hanukkah. Said he hated ‘the picture show’ and why didn’t his family give him opera tickets instead.”

  And now I’m mad at Sam for something else. He got grumpy Mr. Bergman’s free movie passes.

  I walk to the front door opposite Czarina’s apartment, and there is no real crime happening here. I simply turn the knob, and the door opens. The building workers only finished clearing out Mr. Bergman’s apartment this morning. I knew they wouldn’t remember to lock the door. I knew they’d want the quiet, secret refuge for themselves until the real estate agents swoop in and Mr. Bergman’s apartment goes up for sale.

  We step inside. I flick on the light switch, but there’s no bulb in the ceiling fixture. Through the light coming from the hallway, Parker spots a small lamp on the floor. He turns it on. I close the door behind us.

  The best part of Sam and Ilsa’s dinner party will be when Sam returns to the living room and finds I’ve stolen his guests away. The good guests, not Jason Goldstein-Chung. Whenever Sam finally emerges, he’ll see we can have a great time without him, just like he showed me.

  I remember trying to peek into this apartment as a kid. I’d be standing at Czarina’s front door waiting for her to let us in, and Mr. Bergman would come outside to go to the elevator. From those brief flashes, I remember the apartment seeming bigger than it does now, in the dim light and with no furnishings. “Depressing view,” says Li, standing at the windows with an air-shaft view of another wing of the Stanwyck building.

  It’s no wonder the guy was not very friendly (except to cute boys).

  “He probably didn’t see much sunlight for the last fifty years,” says Parker, mind-reading me as always.

  “We’re afraid to live ’cause we’re afraid of dyin’,” says Johan.

  “That’s deep,” says Parker.

  “That’s Dolly,” says Johan.

  “I want to see the kitchen,” says Li. She steps inside the alcove kitchen, attached to the main room.

  “I want to see if Mr. Bergman left any beers in the fridge,” says Parker, following Li.

  KK says, “I didn’t know it was possible for an apartment to be this small. It’s smaller than my bedroom. I feel like I’m suffocating.”

  “Let’s go back to Czarina’s,” says Caspian.

  KK bolts out the front door, with Freddie/Caspian in tow. “Air! I need air!”

  I turn to Johan. We’re alone at last. “I want to know your intentions toward my brother,” I say.

  “Lascivious,” says Johan. The guy just keeps making me like him more and more, dropping words like lascivious. Johan could practically be a third member of Flight of the Conchords, he’s so way-below-the-equator odd, and cool, and confused-charmed by the native New Yorkers.

  I point to the corners of my lips, like they’re sore, and I emit a deep cough, hoping Johan will get my meaning: cold sore. “Then…have a talk with Sam first. Because…you know. He’ll dodge you because the subject makes him uncomfortable, but if you bring it up first, he’ll be fine to tell you. Be safe.”

  Johan’s so naturally pale and it’s so dark in the room, I don’t know if I’ve embarrassed him with my comment, but he’s definitely made the connection, from the awkward shifting in his legs. He whispers, “I tried to kiss him earlier, but he backed away at the last second. That must be why.”

  Is it? Okay, sure!

  My work here is done.

  I’m hardly mad at my brother at all anymore. Just needed to let it go with some old-fashioned sibling payback. Fake STD story, real FTW for Ilsa.

  Parker and Li return from the alcove. Parker’s holding a can of Ensure. “No beer,” he says.

  “But lots of protein drinks!” says Li.

  Johan picks up his fiddle. “I was told you two were once competitive ballroom dancers,” he says to me and Parker.

  “Once upon a time,” I say.

  “We could still be champions,” says Parker. “Later tonight, right, Ilsa?”

  “Show us what you’ve got,” says Johan.

  “Perfect dance floor,” says Li, gesturing to the parquet flooring below our feet, unobstructed by furniture.

  Johan starts to play. A tango.

  Parker holds out his arms for me to step into position. I hesitate. I don’t want to be sucked back in.

  Whoa! Seeing Parker resume that familiar position after all this time, I realize: I don’t have to be sucked back in for anything more than a dance.

  Sam has always been the boy-crazy one in our twinship. He never lacks for male admirers, and his life sometimes seems like a constant revolution of flirty messages and cute boys wanting to know him better. It’s never been that way for me. Most boys are scared of me. Parker wasn’t. In turn, I was boy crazy for only Parker. Literally, crazy.

  Finally, I get it. I can dance and be friends with Parker again because I’m over him. I feel love for him, but not in love.

  “I don’t want to go to any dance-off with you later tonight,” I confess to Parker before I can step into his arms.

  “I’ve been sensing that. So let’s dance it out now, then,” says Parker. “One last time.”

  I place my hand in his and feel his arm around my waist. It feels good, and right. Because it never needs to be more again.

  We dance.

  fourteen

  SAM

  I realize I should leave a wastepaper basket by Jason’s head, so I duck back into the room and put it in place. He’s already snoring in a post-drunk oblivion.

  I head back to the hall and am surprised by how quiet it is. I’m even more surprised to find the living room and the kitchen empty.

  The party, it appears, has left me.

  And what I feel is—

  Actually—

  Relief.

  Ilsa has probably led them to the roof. Most of our parties end up on the roof at some point.

  I could follow them.

  I could.

  But I guess I don’t want to.

  Instead, I clean up. First I tend to the stain—it looks like Parker tried to mop it all up, but even if he stopped the bourbonic plague from spreading, it didn’t whisk all the Maker’s away. I find some rug cleaner and do the best I can. Then I gather the bottles, gather the plates, gather the glasses still waiting for the next sip. I turn my mind off this way—if I focus on the dishes, I don’t have to think about anything else. I am in control of this. I can make things better by straightening up. That’s all I have to do.

  The walls aren’t that thick. I can hear life going on, but at a remove.

  I’m tired.

  All the caps are back on the bottles. All the bottles are back in the cabinet. I check the ice bucket—the ice is only half there. I empty it into the sink. I turn on the hot water, to make the remains of the cubes melt faster.

  I don’t know what I’m doing.

  I guess I’m staying inside the fortress.

  Jason’s words are annoying me, and not because they’re off base.

  I wish Johan had stayed behind to keep me company, but I’m not surprised that he didn’t. I wish Parker would pop down to check up on me, but I’m not surprised that he hasn’t. I wish Ilsa had left a note, or some indication of where she was taking the party. Maybe she figured I’d guess. Or maybe the lack of a note is a message in itself.

  I’m su
re I could find them, but I don’t try.

  I hear music from across the hall. I think Mr. Bergman must be having a party. Then I remember—there’s no way Mr. Bergman is having a party. And I don’t think rowdy wakes are a Jewish thing. Which means either his relatives aren’t very observant or Ilsa has commandeered the apartment. A place of her own.

  Fine, I think. Let her have it. Let her have all our guests. Let the party officially be hers.

  Because maybe I’m done.

  I’ve been rinsing off plates without thinking. I’ve been loading the dishwasher without thinking. I’ve been leaving the platters out to dry, knowing that I’ll be the one to dry them. It’s Ilsa’s job to dry, but I’ll do it.

  My hands are busy, but really the thing I’m holding the most is that phrase: I’m done. It’s breakable. I don’t know exactly how to grasp it. I don’t know what to do with it. But it’s mine.

  I brew a new pot of coffee. I put some petit fours on a tray.

  There was always supposed to be one more course for this, our recess from the humdrum. One last course. One last hurrah. Because you always want the guests to leave on a sweet note. Because you always want to make them a little more awake, so they can get home.

  I could go home, too. This apartment is not, technically, my home. But if I’m being honest with myself (and why not be honest with myself?), that other room has only technically been my home. This apartment is where my life has happened. The retreat that became the destination.

  I look around the kitchen. I have been so happy here. I have been so sad here.

  I guess that’s what home is.

  And I—

  I—

  I feel like I’m leaving it.

  Which is different from knowing we’re moving out. That feels like the apartment leaving me. This life, leaving me.

  But now—

  Now it’s me who’s thinking about doing the leaving.

  I have never looked for a way out. All these years, all the sad times—I always felt that it had to be something inside of me that was off, something inside of me that couldn’t appreciate the life I had. Ilsa would taunt me for playing it safe, for being the good kid, for doing the right thing. But, honestly? None of the other options felt present. None of the escape routes. I could see the doors, sure. But I was sure they were locked. And because I was sure they were locked, I never tried the knobs.