The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “Oh,” I say, frowning on a delay. “. . . Why?”

  She shrugs. “Got people off my butt, basically. Plus, it’s nice to have something to sip on if you’re having a weird moment. Or feeling kind of . . . out of place?”

  I flinch a little, somehow both appreciative and embarrassed that she’s read me so easily. “Well, I’m not sure a plastic cup is any match for my awkwardness.”

  She looks me over. “I really don’t think you’re that awkward, Gretchen. Or if you are, it’s like . . . a good awkward?”

  “I’m going to take that as a compliment,” I say, making her laugh. For a moment, we look out at the boisterous room in silence, and just by our proximity, I feel a lot less like a houseplant.

  “Ethan!” she calls, waving to him as he scans the crowd. She leans into me as he walks our way. “If you can stand to stick it out a little longer, I highly recommend this side of Ethan. He gets pretty chatty when he’s had a couple. And he’s got some pretty sweet dance moves.”

  I turn to her, nodding heartily. “I’d actually really like to see that.”

  I didn’t think this night could get much weirder.

  But, as the internet once said, hold my beer.

  Actually, Ethan is holding my beer—a whole sequence of beers—which he’s been pounding on my behalf whenever Pilsner or Grody slosh a Ping-Pong ball into a cup on our end. Sidebar, wow, this game is unhygienic.

  “Look alive, Gretchen!” Natalie calls from her perch atop the couch, like she’s out on a bleacher somewhere instead of three feet away from us.

  There’s only one cup left at the other side of the table, and I’m staring straight ahead with the ball clutched between my fingers. Ethan steps closer and speaks into my ear. “Come on, Gretch. . . . You can do this. You were born to this. Your great-grandmother was born so that you could do this.”

  I glance back at him, holding in a laugh. Then I aim, and—plunk.

  “Yessssss!” Ethan erupts, pumping his fists victoriously to a mix of cheers and groans.

  I look over, wide-eyed, as Pilsner shakes his head at his teammate. “You seriously let her do you like that?”

  “What? She made the shot,” says Grody. “We left it all on the field, man.”

  “Whoa,” I say, blinking around at everyone. “Does this mean I’m athletic? This has never happened to me before.”

  Sam stirs below on the couch, poking his head up and meeting my eyes with confusion. It might be my new favorite thing, surprising Sam like this.

  “You doing okay there?” Natalie calls down to him, reaching out to give his nose a playful boop! “You just missed Gretchen schooling Pils and Grody at beer pong. It was epic.”

  “Weird,” he says, frowning a minute. But then he flops down to resume his nap.

  Grody walks around the table to shake my hand, swishing the blond hair from his eyes like a gnarly surfer. “It was an honor, Gretchen.” Pilsner follows suit, his bulldog-like face a bit more sullen than I’ve seen it before.

  “You know, boys,” I hear myself say. “It’s not whether you get knocked down. It’s whether you get back up again.” They laugh, and I do too, because seriously, Who am I right now? When I turn to Ethan, he looks proud . . . also wobbly. He did just drink all that beer for me.

  “Uh-oh,” he says, touching the back of his ear as a Britney Spears song comes up on Natalie’s old-school playlist. He drifts out to an open patch of space, head bobbing.

  “You like this?” he calls to Pilsner and Grody, who roll their eyes at him. “This is a victory dance. That’s right. I did it again. Oops! . . . Wait, sorry, Gretchen. We did it again.”

  “Thanks. It is nice to be recognized!” I call over to him as I lean into the couch next to Natalie. “Is he okay?”

  “I think so,” she says. We watch as he swishes his hips and does a few chest pops. She glances sidelong at me. “He doesn’t look as terrible doing that as he should, huh?”

  “It’s true,” I say, a bit mesmerized honestly. It’s something about all that goofy confidence, and the fact that he’s so clearly enjoying himself—long limbs jerking around, the Not-Mullet going everywhere.

  “It helps that he’s totally adorable,” she says with a laugh. It’s a funny word for such a sturdy, good-looking guy, but I get what she means. “You’re welcome, by the way. I knew this song would get him going. He’s convinced he and Britney are related.”

  “We totally are!” he says to us, apparently in earshot. “I’ve got the Spears family rhythm running through my veins!”

  “That among other things,” I say under my breath.

  Just then, Ethan freezes, frowns. He starts to sway a little. “Okay, let’s get him a snack,” says Natalie, hopping off the couch. “I’ve seen enough barf for one day.”

  In the kitchen, she pours him a big glass of water while I dig out cold cuts from Sam’s fridge, producing a quick sandwich and wrapping it in a paper towel.

  The beers have definitely gone to Ethan’s head. “Gretchen is so mysterious,” he’s saying to Natalie now as we make our way through the crowd. “Isn’t she so mysterious?”

  “Just eat your sandwich,” I tell him as we claim an open patch of space in the hallway by Sam’s room. Natalie darts off to find the bathroom, and we slide down the wall to sit.

  “You paid me in advance,” he says around a mouthful.

  “What?”

  “The sandwich. For your photo tomorrow. You paid me in advance.”

  “Oh, no, no,” I say seriously. “I have every intention of getting you a much fancier sandwich than this, Ethan. Something with, like . . . capers on it. Or Gouda.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever had Gouda before,” he says dreamily. “Is it Gouda?” I snort. “Sorry.” He forces his eyes open. “I always get a little silly on these nights, but I am not used to drinking for two.”

  I smile at him. “Thanks for that, by the way.”

  He nods, then frowns. “So. Why do you need this photo tomorrow?”

  “Oh . . .” I look over my shoulder, unsure of how to put this. “We’re becoming friends, right, Ethan?”

  “Yes, yes, definitely friends,” he says, back to eating.

  “Okay, great. So . . .” I clear my throat. “I believe that the sign of a really good friendship is when one person is willing to do a kind of weird favor for the other person without asking too many questions . . . ?”

  “This!” he says. “This is what I’m talking about. So mysterious!”

  “Shhhh,” I say, as Natalie walks back to us.

  She pauses to examine a photo on the wall, grinning immediately. It’s of Sam and me in his backyard—age seven or so, the two of us showing off matching tie-dye T-shirts and hockey player smiles. It’s wild to think those tiny people were us. “You two are pretty close, huh?” she says, lowering down to sit. When I shrug, Ethan flashes me a knowing look, and I bug my eyes like, You better keep your mouth shut, drunky! He chuckles like he heard me loud and clear. “So, can I ask . . .” Natalie begins tentatively as she glances toward the living room. “What’s Sam’s deal? Like with girls and stuff?”

  For a minute, I just blink. I don’t know where this is going, but I don’t think I like it. “Well, we’re not . . . big on talking about our love lives.”

  She shakes her head as if talking herself down from something. “I probably shouldn’t even be thinking this way right before graduation. But there’s something about Sam. . . . Even if he did dash my puzzle dreams tonight.” I laugh lightly, glimpsing down the hall to the couch, where he’s still snoring through his own party. “He has this sweet side that’s such a nice surprise.” When I look back at her, her smile is growing. “I mean, right now we’re just friends, but I feel like when we talk, he really sees me, you know? Like, all of me. And I can just . . . relax. Does that make sense?”

  “Uh . . .” My eyes flit to Ethan, then back to her before I remember to nod my head.

  “Anyway.” She breathes out, appearing gi
ddy despite herself. “If I were to complicate my life right now, I’d want to be sure it was for somebody worthwhile. And I figured, you would know, Gretchen. I mean . . .” She holds my gaze meaningfully. “Sam’s a good guy, right?”

  Ethan catches my gaze again and gives a sympathetic smile.

  “Yeah,” I sigh, looking back at her. “Yeah, Sam’s a great guy.”

  Eleven

  The Other Girl | A temporary obstacle. Obviously the worst. Under no circumstances do we like her. Be gone, woman!

  “I’ll be right out!” I call to Ethan Sunday afternoon inside Willard Beach Coffee. Duffel bag on my shoulder, I stuff myself into the tight bathroom, quickly putting on makeup and doing my best to snap out of my mood.

  I spent the morning sheepishly scrolling through Natalie’s Instagram, hoping to find something hateable to latch on to.

  But alas, nada. Which is impressive, honestly. Most people are at least a little hateable on Instagram.

  Anyway, I feel like a hypocrite—or, I don’t know. Greedy? It’s been, what, fifteen hours since I was drinking in the blue of Jeremy’s eyes inside the Chuckle Parlor? And here I am wanting Sam for myself, too, at least while I figure this out. I suppose what I want is irrelevant. It’s not like I can put a hold on either of them. They’re not library books.

  “Okay, let’s do this,” I sigh, stepping out into the empty café in my Sabrina getup. From the way Ethan is gaping at me, I realize I probably should have eased him into this moment a bit more. “Friends do weird favors!” I remind him as his gaze darts between the glasses, the little buns, the gleam of my skintight pants—which are clean now, by the way. I finally got around to that.

  “Wow,” says Ethan. I guess it was naive to hope he wouldn’t have any questions for me today. But actually, he recovers quite quickly. “Okay then . . .” He smacks his lips, hooking a strap around his neck before he attaches a lens. “Let’s try having you against the brick wall.” He drags a table out of the way. “The light here is pretty decent, from the windows and the skylight. . . .”

  I strike a pose, hoping to project some Sabrina badassery, and Ethan starts, only to lower the camera to his chest, brows knitted together. “Just tell me this isn’t for some weird sex thing.”

  I straighten up. “What?!”

  “I don’t know. All the leather? I’m just saying, be safe out there.”

  “Ethan.” I level him with a look. “This is not for a weird sex thing. I haven’t even done not-weird sex things yet.” As the words fly from my mouth, I feel my cheeks heat up. Immediately, I start looking around for my duffel bag. “All right, well. Mind if we pick this up later? I think I need to go die now.”

  His lips twitch, amused. “It’s nothing to be embarrassed about. I mean, I haven’t . . . well, I guess I’ve done sex-ish stuff, but . . .”

  “Sex-ish?” For some reason, this makes my cheeks heat up even more. “Oh God. What does that mean?”

  “I . . . don’t know,” he says, going a little pink himself. “I’m regretting everything I’m saying as I’m saying it.”

  I let out an odd laugh, meeting his eyes. Then we both clear our throats at the same time.

  “Okay then,” I say.

  He nods. “Back to taking pictures?”

  “Yep,” I say, returning to my spot against the wall. I try a hand on my hip, angling my face one way or another as he clicks and clicks. But then I frown. “I’m sort of surprised by that, honestly. That it’s only been . . . ish.” I’m not sure sure why I’ve led us down this road again. “I just mean . . . A friendly, popular athlete like you. I feel like you’d have had plenty of opportunities.”

  “Yeah, I guess,” he says, adjusting the lens with one eye closed. “I’ve had a couple girlfriends who were really nice and cool, but . . . I don’t know. Can I tell you something kind of weird?”

  I smile. “Always.”

  “I think one of my big deterrents has been that I’d have to tell my parents.”

  I snort. “Seriously?”

  “What? We’re a very communicative family! And so far, it just . . . hasn’t felt worth that level of supreme awkwardness. I think it’s going to take someone special.” He notices my face then. “Gretchen, are you laughing at me? I thought this was a safe space!”

  I bite back a grin. “I’m laughing with you. Definitely with. And it’s not like I’d have a leg to stand on. I’ve never even been on a date.”

  “Really,” he says.

  I shrug. “It’s what happens when you’re not outgoing, I guess. And I don’t think I make a very good first impression. I have worse than resting bitch face. I have, like . . . resting bitch whole personality.”

  “You do not,” he says.

  “No, I think I do! But it’s only because I feel weird.”

  “Well, for what it’s worth, I don’t remember thinking that when we started at yearbook together.”

  “Thanks,” I say, feeling almost squirmy now. It’s oddly disarming how unironically nice Ethan can be sometimes. “Anyway, it’s just . . . hard to date people when you never really meet people. Unless you want to date your existing friends, which . . . well, we both know how that’s going for me.”

  “Yeah,” he says, frowning. “That whole Natalie conversation last night must have kinda sucked, huh?”

  “Yeah it did,” I sigh. “I also find it weirdly unnerving to feel competitive with another girl. Like it goes against my feminist training or something.”

  “Huh,” he says.

  “I’m hoping I can at least partially blame the patriarchy? Like, whatever I’m feeling now probably traces back to a long legacy of beauty pageants and, like, televised sexy Jell-O wrestling or whatever.”

  He laughs. “Your brain never stops going, does it?”

  “Guess not,” I say with a shrug.

  “Well, at the risk of employing my male gaze here, I think I got some good shots of you. Well, you, or . . . whatever this is,” he says, gesturing vaguely at my whole deal.

  I ignore the comment, leaning in to look. “Oooh, these are great, Ethan. We definitely got it. Done and done. Thank you.” I pick up my bag. “I’m going to go change.”

  “Oh? You don’t want to go out like that?” he calls after me.

  “Can’t risk running into Sam!” I close the bathroom door. “He, unlike you, would not relent with the questions.”

  “So, what, I’m some kind of wimp?”

  “Not a wimp. Zen!” I wriggle out of the pants and slide on leggings, trading the jacket for a frumpy sweater. “It’s why I can trust you with all the secret details of my sordid love triangle.”

  “Huh?” I hear him say. “Oh, right. Your gnome-carver guy.”

  Leaning into the sink, I wipe off my lipstick before chucking the glasses into the duffel bag and freeing my hair. “Yeah, he’s been really flirty lately, which is fun. It’s hard to know how I feel sometimes, but we have a lot in common. Since we’re both so into”—I frown—“gnome carving. Anyway, it’s harmless.”

  When I step out, Ethan is back at the espresso machine. “Pumpkin spice latte for the road?”

  “Wow. You read my mind, Ethan.”

  He hands me the cup and I sip happily. “Mmmmmm, basic.”

  “Hey . . .” He grabs his camera again. “Do you mind if I try one more?”

  “Oh . . .” I blink down at myself.

  “In case you want it someday. Just real quick.”

  I feel silly, but I humor him, wiping the foam off my upper lip as I walk back to the wall. I look into the lens, stiffer now, and he takes a few shots. They aren’t going to be good at all. I can feel it.

  “Try letting out a big breath,” he says as he checks the last few frames with a wince, confirming my suspicions.

  I do as I’m told, then force a smile—which I guess does the trick.

  He bobs his head. “Okay, great.”

  “Cool,” I say, glancing at the clock. Mom and Dad should be home from their trip soon. I should go
. “Well, thanks for doing this. And just so you know, weird unexplained friend favors go both ways.”

  “Excellent,” he says. “I’ll have to start thinking some up.”

  “Hey, sky’s the limit,” I tell him. “We’re in this together now.”

  “The this being the thing you refuse to explain to me,” he says, peering through the viewfinder again.

  “Yes,” I say, seriously.

  I laugh, and the shutter clicks.

  Twelve

  Big, Fat, Snowballing Lies | One leads to another leads to another. But it’s all very quirky and understandable. What could possibly go wrong?

  “What’s that?” Mom asks as we’re cleaning up dinner. I pause from slotting plates into the dishwasher. I’ve been practicing tonight’s set all day—in the shower, at school, and apparently right now.

  Whoops.

  “I figured it out, by the way,” she says to my back.

  I freeze, slowly turning around. “Figured out what?”

  “The theme for Nacho’s birthday party. I’m thinking: Gatsby!” She traces a hand across the sky like a Broadway star, and I laugh with relief. “Can’t you picture it?”

  “Oh definitely,” I say, making a mental note that she and Nacho should probably make their way into my act.

  My act—listen to me.

  I get a flutter in my stomach just thinking about it.

  The last few days have been hectic—writing jokes and texting with Jeremy. I picked out my official headshot from Ethan, had it printed, then hand-delivered it to Dolores last night, which meant another round of car changing, before and after. I don’t know how Clark Kent managed with just a phone booth. And then of course there has still been the utter inconvenience that is school, plus all the time spent at yearbook. Natalie has been fishing for more Sam info the past few days, in a series of conversations vaguely akin to medieval torture. Ethan’s been in my corner, at least, smoothly changing the subject whenever Sam comes up.

  All that is to say, you wouldn’t think I’d feel this good right now. But the truth is, I am bursting.