I clear my throat. “You guys?”
“You know what really pisses me off?” says Carmen. “Sabrina told me she didn’t mean to. How could you not mean to kiss someone?”
“Guys,” I say, more adamant now. I need them to be talking about my thing. Why is it never about my thing?
“Oh God,” says Hen. “Do you think Lizzy’s going to kiss someone else?”
“You guys!” My voice rings out, and I freeze.
“Whoa,” says Hen, as she and Carmen stare at me. The room has gone quiet, apart from my own heavy breaths. I feel abruptly sheepish. They’re just chattering like they always do. But it’s somehow more irritating today.
“So . . .” says Carmen. “What crawled up your butt?”
I laugh, though the question kind of makes me mad. For the record, so many things have crawled up both these girls’ butts for basically our entire lives.
Hen sniffs and dabs her tears with a tissue, before making a face like, well? I open my mouth, unsure of where to start. It’s funny. I thought I hadn’t told them about the Sam stuff because I didn’t feel like getting into it. Now I wonder if it’s more that they never asked. Anyway, the energy is weird all of a sudden.
I breathe out, letting it go. “Shouldn’t we get over to the house? You know. Start the festivities?”
“Oh,” says Carmen. “Actually, we were thinking of going out.”
Hen looks herself over. “The only problem is I’m all sloppy.”
“So?” says Carmen. “Go raid my dresser.”
“Wait,” I say, as Hen gets up and starts pawing through Carmen’s drawers. “What do you mean, out? What about our movie night? Rice Krispies treats? It’s New Year’s Eve-Eve tradition.”
“Everything is a tradition with you,” sighs Carmen.
I feel stung. “I thought we liked this tradition.”
“Of course we do,” says Hen diplomatically as she considers a corduroy skirt.
“But in light of recent heartbreaks and betrayals,” says Carmen, walking over to her makeup bag, “we thought we could mix it up. Maybe go find a bar or something.”
“A bar,” I say. That literally could not sound any worse, even if it weren’t illegal. “Carmen. We’re underage.”
“Yeah, about that,” she says, dabbing on lip gloss. “We’ve actually both had fake IDs since Thanksgiving.”
I gape at Hen. “You don’t even drink!”
“Conformity seemed like the best practice for making friends in college,” she says. “Slap on a toga, maybe play some flip cup . . .” She holds up a sparkly shirt to measure against herself. “I think I was tired of being known around school as the chick who cried in the bathroom.”
“Well, did it work?” I ask, feeling strangely uneasy. “Did conformity solve your problems?”
“Kind of,” says Hen. “Though now I mostly just cry in the toga party bathrooms.”
I laugh, still at a loss. “All right . . . I guess you can go without me.”
“Please,” says Carmen. “I obviously have a plan.” She tosses something onto the bed beside me. It’s an ID. “Sabrina forgot to take hers home, I guess. We got ours done at the same time. We’ll use it to get you in.”
I hold up the phony license. “Yeah . . . I am very clearly not this person.”
“Details,” says Carmen, walking off again.
I study the girl in the corner of the ID, her dark brown hair pinned up into two messy little buns like mouse ears. Aside from being brunettes, Sabrina and I look nothing alike. She’s wearing a hostile expression, with red-framed glasses, fierce makeup, and black clothing. “This is quite a photo,” I say. “She looks like some kind of . . . angry graphic designer.”
Carmen sighs. “She wants to come off all tough, but really she’s the kind of person who, like, rewatches Friends every year and drinks pumpkin spice lattes.”
“What’s wrong with pumpkin spice lattes?” asks Hen, still testing outfits.
“They’re just so basic,” says Carmen, back to rummaging through Sabrina’s stuff. “Though I’ll admit, they are kind of delicious. But you don’t want to be that person.”
“That person who likes things other people like?” I say, eliciting a smirk from Hen. “What’s your drink order? Borscht flavored? Dill pickle?”
“Aha!” cries Carmen. “These might help.” She tosses me a pair of red-framed glasses. “They’re fake because she’s like that. But at least they won’t hurt your eyes.”
I climb off the bed and go to the full-length mirror, studying myself with the stylish glasses on. “You’re right,” I say. “This is foolproof. I am utterly transformed.”
“Oh, come on,” says Carmen. “Don’t you think some of us could use a little fun?” She tilts her head toward Hen, who’s now twisting back to admire her own butt in a pair of acid-washed mom jeans. She does seem to have brightened at the idea of going out.
I glance at the ID again. “According to this, Sabrina Martin is five six.”
“So you’ll wear heels.” Carmen bites her lip, her eyes darting around the room. “Just . . . give me twenty minutes.”
Three
Makeover(!) | The process after which the whole world goes, “Aw man, she could have looked like that the whole time!”
As kids, Hen, Carmen, and I went through a Grease phase. We probably saw it a hundred times. And every time, Mom or Aunt Viv would pop in with side commentary to ensure we didn’t wind up brainwashed by the story and all its patriarchal nonsense.
Mom: “Please don’t go reinventing yourselves for anyone, okay, girls?”
Aunt Viv: “And, girls? Reformed bad boys are not a thing. Repeat after me: once a dirtbag, always a dirtbag.”
Mom: “Also, girls? Leather pants are not a personality trait. They’re just not!”
Standing before the mirror now, though, I have to admit the effects of Sabrina’s leather pants aren’t lost on me. By some sorcery of pencils, brushes, and gels, Carmen has seriously transformed my features—eyes smoldering behind glasses, lips almost seductive from a bright red stain. The two buns in my hair look sleek but loose, and Sabrina’s sleeveless black top is hugging my figure nicely. Carmen even snagged a pair of the girl’s high-heeled black booties from the closet, along with a cropped suede black jacket. It all miraculously fits.
“I don’t know,” I say, feeling a nip of pride at how weirdly attractive I feel. This is a real-life Sandra Dee, Cinderella, Mia Thermopolis situation—just with a dash of I will cut you. “This stuff looks expensive. What if I mess something up?”
“You could incinerate the whole outfit and she wouldn’t notice,” says Carmen. “She’s at her vacation home in Aspen right now. And her dad owns, like, all the windmills in Virginia or . . . something.”
I twist from side to side, checking myself out. “Are you sure about this?”
“You look hot,” says Carmen, holding up the ID to compare. “And pretty convincing.”
Hen grins. “I’d be afraid of you if I hired you to make my website.”
The suede jacket is useless against the cold. We park and head for the booming music of a bar, snow coming down in sheets. My teeth are still chattering by the time we find a table, Hen and Carmen hurrying off and returning with tequila shots. If I’m being honest, I feel a little skeeved out as they shoot the liquid back, sucking on limes and smacking the table. It’s like they held a board meeting without me, and decided our childhood was over.
After another round of limes and squealing, a pop song I vaguely recognize comes on—something about love and forever. And suddenly, Hen’s eyes fill with tears.
“Come on, boo-boo!” Carmen calls over the music. “You were supposed to be getting your mind off Lizzy.”
“She’s right!” I shout. “If I have to be out, in pants this tight, I at least want to see you having fun. Remember fun? I want to see you laugh!”
Carmen looks inspired now. “Gretchen, you’re a goddamn genius.”
“What?”
I say as she hands me my coat.
“Come on,” she says, linking arms with us to pull us toward the door. “Let’s go.”
In a way, I guess it was me who landed us here—Carmen latching onto my words with the overzealous determination unique to the heavily inebriated. Over the years, driving by, this comedy club has always been a mild curiosity of ours—brick, with very few windows, a crooked blinking sign that reads The Chuckle Parlor.
Carmen was certain as she shepherded us back to my car: with a name like that, this place had to be the antidote.
I puff warm air into my hands, switching my weight from foot to foot, these absurd lady-stilts spiked dangerously into ice and sidewalk salt. “You got this, lil’ cuz,” hiccups Carmen, patting me affectionately as we take a step forward in the slow-moving line.
“Toootally,” says Hen. I think they can tell I’m nervous. The last place only carded if you ordered. Here, it happens at the door. Oh God. I never should have agreed to this. I’m no miscreant. I get stressed when people lie in movies, let alone when it’s me.
“Hey, what’s your sign?” asks Carmen, elbowing me.
“My what?”
“Know your astrology,” she snaps. “You’re a Libra. Mellow, thoughtful. Ultimately driven by the desire to be loved.”
“Well, that’s easy. I actually am a Libra. But doesn’t everyone want that?”
“Such a Libra thing to say,” she sighs. “Thinkin’ you have all the answers . . .”
Henrietta starts humming a happy little tune to herself, and the group ahead of us glances back, looking charmed. My sister tends to have that effect. Carmen too. I think there’s something about me and shiny people. Like it’s my preordained position in life: shiny-person adjacent.
Carmen sways and I have to steady her, then Hen, who keeps drifting off to look up at the stars. I feel like a babysitter. A very cold babysitter. I picture myself from above for a second. What would Sam think if he could see me now? In these clothes? Packing a fake ID?
The thought comes down like a hammer: He’s moving. And then I remember: He put his hand on my cheek. I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling a strange sort of dissonance, these competing facts like clashing cords clomped down on a piano.
Enough, I tell myself. For now, just put Samuel out of your—
“Hi there.”
I’ve reached the entrance, where a door guy is waiting on a stool. I swallow hard and thrust the ID out, my arm unnaturally straight. “How we doing tonight?” he asks, grinning in a gray beanie, no jacket on. Just a T-shirt. Like it’s not effing freezing out here. He’s pretty cute, though, and the voice inside my head says, Well, aren’t you a dashing cold-resistant fella?
The boy gives me a strange look, and I freeze, mentally rewinding the tape to ensure I didn’t somehow say that aloud. “Uh . . . good,” I say. “And you?”
For a moment, he frowns. “Sabrina, huh?”
And now I’m crumpling. The ID is clearly fake. But I hold my head up. “Yep. My friends call me—” God, what’s a nickname for Sabrina? “Well, they just call me Sabrina.”
He chuckles, glancing over to where Hen and Carmen have wandered off. It’s messy, but it looks like they’re trying for a two-woman conga line. “Sorry about them,” I say, already calling it. We should leave before we get in trouble.
“You know what? It’s fine,” he says, clearing his throat. “All three of you can head in.” I stare at him, surprised to have gotten off so easily. “Maybe go easy on the drinks,” he adds.
I nod, grateful, and hurry over to round them up. “Hey!” I hiss at my disobedient charges. The boy smirks when I turn to steal one last glance. Then he ducks down to check a new ID as Hen and Carmen dance on in.
The club is mostly full, with tables and chairs set up in tight clusters. “There’s space toward the front,” the hostess whispers, coming over to us. Onstage under a spotlight, a woman is talking into a microphone. “We don’t do table service on weeknights, so just grab drinks from the bar.”
“Okay, thanks,” I say.
She nods to the stage. “Any of you here for the Comithon? It’s the first night. Comics can sign up with the bartender.”
I shake my head. “Nope, not the people you’re looking for.”
We find seats, and Carmen makes a drink run before I can stop her, Hen already absorbed by the redhead in the spotlight. I think she said she was a preschool teacher. She’s pretty with a kind look about her, full-figured and rosy-cheeked.
“You know what kind of children parents never expect?” asks the woman.
A pause.
“Pervert kids.” The audience lets out a burst of laughter, and the woman brightens, a contained, satisfied look on her face. “I think there must be a window where it comes innately to them, like how newborns can swim if you toss them in water. Every day during story time, it’s just a sea of three-year-olds humping the carpet. To be clear, they’re still very invested in what’s happening with the Berenstain Bears. . . .” She gestures to a man up front. “Don’t give me that look, sir. Do you know how many Barbie doll sex scenes I’ve walked in on in my lifetime? One minute, Lucy and Antonio are playing nicely at the toy kitchen. Next thing, I look over and they’ve got Ken stripped down, tea-bagging Ms. Piggy.”
Carmen returns with drinks as another big laugh tears through the room. Hen blinks up at the stage. “Tea-bagging?” Carmen grins and whispers in her ear. Hen’s face falls. “I’m so glad I like girls,” she says, shuddering.
Carmen holds up her glass. “Wanna try it?”
“Fine,” I say, taking a quick sip. My throat immediately catches fire. “Holy shit, what is this?”
“Long Island iced tea?” she says with a shrug. Her laugh is an actual tee-hee as she nudges Hen. “Speaking of tea . . .”
I sigh. “I’m getting us water.”
I’m learning a lot tonight. Like, here’s what I’ve learned about Long Island iced tea: don’t drink it. It’s not even tea. Just some gross, semilethal agent of destruction. Also confidence.
A few minutes ago, Carmen set down her empty glass and announced she was signing up for an open mic slot. Hen and I looked at each other, stunned, as she weaved her way toward the cute young bartender I got our waters from earlier. The guy nodded as she spoke, writing something on a clipboard. And then, in a leap from A to B I couldn’t possibly explain, they started making out across the bar.
They’re still going at it now. This has to be a health code violation.
Onstage, the club owner, who introduced herself as Dolores, is bringing up a new comic. I feel a flurry of excitement as he takes the mic. Even the bad sets have been good tonight, in a please kill me this is awkward sort of way. It’s something about this show of bravery—all these people who don’t seem entirely ready just . . . going for it anyway.
It’s sort of charming how shabby it is in here. Behind the microphone, a faded velvet curtain hangs crooked against a brick wall. The tables are chipped and wobbly, bits of foam exposed on every chair. It’s a far cry from the flashy theaters I’m used to seeing my favorite comedians tape their specials in. But those gold-leafed playhouses must be the end result. This place feels like a beginning.
I check on Carmen and the bartender—still going at it. And from the way she’s mussing up his hair, you’d think he was a sailor shipping off to sea. I have to hand it to her, though. If she wants something, she goes for it. There’s no way, in my shoes, she would have left so much unsaid with Sam today.
I feel another pang at the thought. What the hell am I going to do?
Beside me, Hen laughs breathlessly at a joke I missed. I’ve been distracted, but I heard pieces of the latest comic’s opening, all about life as a Black guy in Maine. He seemed to be having fun with this mostly white audience, stoking a bit of discomfort before deftly dispelling it.
Now he’s talking about Tinder.
“So after this amazing date, she comes back to my place for a drink and asks to use the bathroom.” He
paces the stage in his bomber jacket and jeans. “I fix us some cocktails, a few minutes go by. A few more minutes . . . After a while, I’m like . . .” He mimes knocking gently. “‘Hey . . . you okay?’ Finally, I creak open the door, and—” He lets out a shrill scream, lurching back from the imaginary horror. “The girl is gone,” he says, dropping his voice low. “She must have snuck out the open window. And . . .” He sighs. “There’s a poop.” The audience starts to laugh. “Floating in my toilet. I try the handle: nothing. I see my plunger: wet. I check her Tinder profile: blocked. And suddenly, it’s like I’m the detective cracking the case, the whole sequence of the crime finally coming together. Me and this girl had a connection. We could have built a life together. But then the bobble thing in my toilet broke and she decided it was easier to just never see me again.”
A few older women in front of us are crying from laughter, and I make a mental note that sex and poop remain foolproof comedy gold among all demographics. Meanwhile Hen keeps literally slapping her knee. She’s still hammered, but it seems once she crosses the weepy drunk threshold, she enters some cartoon dimension, emerging like a cheerful Disney princess talking to all the squirrels.
“All right!” rasps Dolores when she takes the stage again. “Isaiah Lewis, everybody! I knew there was a reason I didn’t use that Tindah. Coming up we have a first-timer. Always exciting . . .” She looks down her glasses at the clipboard on her hip. “Let’s put our hands together for Carmen Aquino!” Henrietta claps excitedly, bugging her eyes at me. I crane to look behind us, but Carmen and the bartender have vanished.
“Where’d she go?” hiccups Hen, right as the hostess from earlier rushes to the side of the stage, hissing, “Dolores!” The audience goes quiet as the two women share a hushed conversation, then hurry off together.
“We should go find her,” I say, getting to my feet. The audience begins to clap and I frown, looking around at everyone. “Oh. Ha! No, I’m not . . .”
Hen jumps up. “I’ll get her,” she says, leaving me standing there.
People in the audience are still cheering, nodding and whistling their encouragement. “Look, you’re all very nice, but . . .” I can barely hear myself over the noise. “I’m not . . .” I don’t like that Carmen’s left these people waiting. I feel weirdly responsible for their good time. I weave through tables and step onto the squat stage, tapping the microphone. “Yeah, hi.” I squint away the spotlight. “Sorry for the mix-up. I’m not Carmen Aquino.” My voice sounds funny amplified like this. Sharp and fizzy somehow. “I’m . . .”
The Girl Least Likely Page 2
