The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “Plus, you’d get a regular Saturday slot,” Paula says, gesturing to the empty stage.

  He shrugs. “Yeah, that, too. For however long I stay, at least.” Something in Paula’s expression shifts then, like his words have stung her, ever so slightly. “Come on, Paul. This was always meant to be temporary,” he says gently. “The material I do in Maine is very different from the stuff I do when I’m back home.”

  “I know,” she says quickly. “I’ll just miss you is all.”

  Jeremy and I catch each other’s eye, like maybe we shouldn’t be here for this private moment. But they seem to shake it off.

  “Hey, speaking of Marnie,” says Jeremy, clearing his throat. “I meant to tell you guys. Dolores showed me the latest voting data. Isaiah, you’re still in first place, with Paula barely trailing behind. . . .” He turns to me, an eyebrow lifted. “And then, if you have another night like tonight, it’s looking like we’ll be duking it out for the third slot, Sabrina.”

  I stare, unable to fully process this. If I got into the top three, Marnie would see my set. With her actual eyes. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” I say after a brief but very real blackout. “There are a lot of good comics in this competition.”

  “From where I’m sitting, your biggest threat is Haru,” says Isaiah. “I don’t get it, but the dude knows how to make fish funny.”

  “And don’t sleep on Amber,” says Paula. “For all we know she has a crystal that magically makes you win comedy competitions.” Everyone laughs. “I’m kidding. I actually really like her.”

  “This is starting to feel so official,” I say through a rush of excitement.

  “Right?” says Jeremy. “Oh, I also meant to tell you . . .” He pulls out his phone and starts to scroll. “I helped Dolores write her first-ever tweet on the new Chuckle Parlor account today. We’re all in it. It’s just a little graphic about the show.” His face falls. “Whoa, you guys.” He looks up. “We’re being trolled.”

  “What?” says Paula.

  “Bad Kevin James,” says Jeremy, gaping down at the screen. “Well, his name is Mike, apparently, but this is definitely him. Jesus, he’s, like, losing his mind.”

  Isaiah pulls out his phone to look it up. “Hashtag boycott the Chuckle Parlor?”

  “What did I just hear?” calls a gravelly voice from somewhere. “Boycott what now?”

  Paula pulls the thread up too as Dolores rushes over, Jeremy reading aloud: “‘No one in this show would have survived the glory days. You know, back when stand-up was actually funny? Sorry, snowflakes. Also, Marnie James is your big celebrity? Honestly? No thanks!’”

  Paula scoffs. “He did not just go after Marnie. Like he’s in any position to judge!”

  Isaiah’s eyes go wide. “Look at that . . . a few of us got a private shout-out.”

  Paula scrolls through the thread until she finds it: the show graphic with a circle drawn around the row with Isaiah, me, and Paula in alphabetical order—Lewis next to Martin next to Meiselman. Below our names, he’s scrawled out, Not funny! like some kind of deranged toddler.

  Dolores shakes her head. “What a sad little man . . .”

  “I bet he’s pissed because he caught us making fun of him at that other open mic last week,” says Paula. “What’s that statistic? Men are more afraid of getting laughed at than being murdered? Anyway, I don’t know why he had to drag you into it, Sabrina. Jeremy was our third, not you.”

  “Yeah, well,” says Jeremy, frowning now. “Something tells me he doesn’t go after white guys very often.”

  “That’s probably a fair assessment,” says Isaiah, somehow looking both bothered and completely unsurprised.

  “I’m gonna respond,” says Jeremy.

  “Eh.” Paula shrugs. “Just make a joke about his micropenis and call it a day.”

  “No!” says Dolores. “Don’t stoop to his level. And definitely don’t respond from the club account. What you write as yourself is up to you, but I still say keep it classy.”

  “Fine,” sighs Jeremy, typing now.

  After a minute, he shows us the draft: First of all, Marnie’s achievements speak for themselves. You would be delusional to think you possessed even an ounce of her talent. And as for the rest of us, that’s for the audience to decide. There have been no complaints since you left.

  “There we go,” says Dolores, winking. “Just the right amount of salty.”

  “Still not as fun as Paula’s thing,” says Isaiah, smiling over at her. “But dignified works.”

  “All right,” sighs Dolores. “Let’s not give this another second of our time or energy. Tonight we celebrate Isaiah. And shitty American beer.”

  I wake to a glowing phone on the nightstand. It must be late—still pitch-black out—but I reach for it anyway, yawning, squinting. The messages are from Hen, sent late to the long-abandoned group thread with Carmen.

  I just got so nostalgic you guys. Me and some of the girls on my floor did an old school rom-com double feature.

  First up was The Wedding Planner (All hail J-Lo!)

  Then Hitch

  Do you remember how after the part where Will Smith’s face balloons up from anaphylactic shock, the two of you fell off Carmen’s bed you were laughing so hard?

  P.S. It’s just hitting me now that Eva Mendes may have been responsible for my sexual awakening???

  I also realized while we were watching that Lizzy looks a little like her

  And then I got sad

  But also a little happy because we’ve been texting . . .

  (But I really am standing on my own two feet!)

  Anyway, just wanted to say miss youuuuuu

  I let out a breath of relief when I see Carmen’s response below, sent a while later:

  Bahahahaha I forgot about falling off my bed

  Gretchen, you were definitely crying from laughing too

  I love it when you get in that mood

  It always gets me and then I can’t stop

  I smile and adjust the covers. I guess this means she’s moved on from our little spat the other day—if she’s even aware it occurred. I suppose she’s never been as weird about conflict as I am. She and Hen go at it all the time, just like Mom and Aunt Viv, briefly unleashing their inner feline beasts, only to let it go, harmony restored. I sort of wish I could pull that off. It’s probably a lot healthier than declaring everything fine and then randomly exploding every few years.

  I laugh. Maybe I should put that in a set?

  I’m about to write back when a bubble appears—Carmen typing again, hours after her last text. So tonight was weird . . .

  I got in super late from the studio and Sabrina was waiting up for me

  All of a sudden she wanted to talk about what happened

  Saying how it’s sad we let a guy come between us and blah blah blahhhh

  And then she starts talking about these rumors she’s been hearing about him. As if I’d want to sit around analyzing the guy who had his tongue down both our throats???

  And I was just so exhausted from building my model all day

  So I told her I didn’t feel like talking, and she cried and ran out

  Am I an asshole?

  I know you’re probably both asleep

  A bubble pops up right as I finish reading—Hen this time.

  No I’m up!

  And you’re not an asshole! You were betrayed and she owes you a proper apology!

  Sorry, wait

  Lizzy wants to know if we can Facetime tomorrow

  What should I say???

  Am I an idiot for wanting to try to make this work?

  I jump in with a response then: You’re not an idiot. And Carmen, you’re not an asshole.

  Carmen replies: Well that’s a relief. Hehe. When did life get so complicated?

  Seriously, writes Hen. So much hot goss all the time!

  As I scroll back over our chain, it occurs to me that neither one of them ever really waits to be asked about their li
ves—they just charge right ahead with whatever it is they need to unload. Is it possible this has been an option for me too? Is it really just a matter of piping the hell up?

  I bite my lip, then decide to test my theory.

  Speaking of hot goss . . .

  I have gone the way of Drew Barrymore, girls

  Hen sends a question mark.

  Then Carmen writes, Wait. You’ve been kissed???!

  I respond with a thumbs-up, at which point Hen replies, WHAAAAAAAAT?

  I laugh, typing, Yep! He’s a guy from this—I think a moment—club I’m in.

  Carmen responds with a GIF from the aforementioned film: the long-awaited smooch on the pitcher’s mound between Drew and her hunky high school teacher who just found out she’s not a kid. (Sidebar, still a little weird.)

  Tell us, writes Carmen. Was the kiss of this here caliber?

  I laugh again. Well, maybe not quite so dramatic. But I was pleased.

  Awww, says Hen. Our little Gretchen is all grown up.

  It’s completely stupid, but for a second, I hold the phone to my heart. Then I notice that it’s four in the morning.

  Okay, it’s obscenely late, says Hen, apparently reading my mind from a whole state away. Let’s all get some beauty sleep, shall we? Love you twooooo

  Carmen writes back a string of hearts.

  I send kissy faces.

  And I pass out with the phone still in my hand.

  Sixteen

  The Will-They-Won’t-They | A question that is, if we’re being honest, not usually very difficult to answer. For more of a nail-biter, try a male lead who sucks at communication or is fervently opposed to eye contact.

  “Oh, hey, Sam!” says Natalie, catching him in the hall after school on Tuesday. She just caught me a few seconds ago, wanting to talk about something yearbook related. So now I’m stuck here, in the closest proximity I’ve been to Sam since her big birthday dinner.

  “Hey,” he says, friendly-ish while looking completely ready to bolt.

  “You going to the game tonight?” she asks.

  He hikes up his bag. “Can’t.”

  “Me neither,” she says quickly. “My dad’s short-staffed at the restaurant, so I said I’d help. Now I’m kind of bummed.”

  “Oh. Um.” He shrugs, smiles. “That’s too bad.”

  “Yeah it is,” she says, shooting me a look like, What the heck?

  He glances at her, then right past me. “Well, I should probably . . .”

  “Yeah,” says Natalie. And together, we watch him go. She sighs when he’s out of earshot. “Oh, forget it. College boys, here I come.”

  Out of nowhere, Annika goes bounding past us like a tumbleweed. “Three days, three days, three days . . .” I laugh and make tiny hand claps, waving her off as she slips into a music room.

  “Our New York trip,” I translate when Natalie looks confused.

  “So awesome,” she says. “But what was I going to tell you? Oh, right. I can’t stay today, and Ethan isn’t here either. I asked him to get some shots of the game against Berwin tonight. He just went home to grab his gear.”

  “Oh, okay,” I say, a little disappointed. I’ve been enjoying our afternoons at HQ lately. Pilsner and Grody have even started stopping by to hang. According to Pils, I’m one of the “bros” now.

  “But I was thinking, do you have plans tonight?” she asks. I shake my head no, then wonder if I should have left myself vulnerable like that. “Cool. In that case, why don’t you go with Ethan? Everyone will be there, so you’ll pretty much have the whole school sitting in the stands. I was hoping to get moving on those quotes for the club captions, and this way, you can probably knock most of them out tonight.”

  My shoulders slump. This is why you always have plans. As a rule, any event involving pretty much the whole school is one I’m probably not interested in. Also, while I can’t really follow any sport, in hockey you can’t even see the ball—puck. Whatever.

  Natalie has already moved along, though, her eyes on her phone, fingers flying. “I’m actually texting him now. He says he can pick you up at your house later if you want.”

  “Uh, sure,” I say. Ugh. She got me.

  “Look at that,” she says, glancing up with a satisfied grin. “All my worker bees staying on task. Plus, you’ll have a good time. I wish I could go. People got so into it last year.”

  “Tell me again why we have this Berwin rivalry?”

  “Because it’s Berwin,” says Natalie. “And Carlton hates Berwin. Sports are very simple, Gretchen.” I laugh. “Plus, it’s kind of fun, right? We put on our team colors, scream our heads off with every goal. It’s something we can all belong to—everyone is welcome.”

  “Except anyone from Berwin,” I say.

  “Well, yeah, fuck those guys,” says Natalie.

  A little before six thirty, Ethan texts to say he’s on his way.

  I wait in the foyer at the bottom of the steps, Nacho curled up against my leg—in solidarity, I think. I’m pretty sure he can sense my growing dread about the game tonight. I knew I’d have to face this assignment eventually. But still. Me and school spirit do not mix.

  Nacho perks up with his listening face, and I grin and eavesdrop too.

  In the living room, Mom and my brother are still bickering. He came by a little while ago to drop the twins off for a sleepover, and Mom was not pleased to see Mina in a Disney princess dress.

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” I hear William say now. “I let them each pick one item from the toy store. It’s what she wanted. I’m not going to shame her for being girly, Mom.”

  “I know, I know . . .” She sounds like she’s letting up a little. “Have you at least been reading them those board books I got on Frida Kahlo and Katherine Johnson? They’re good for Gus, too.”

  I smile, filing away a few of my own childhood memories as my phone goes off.

  I brace myself to get up. But actually, it’s Jeremy, with an innocuous Cool cool in response to something I said earlier. All week, it’s been, How are you? and Did you have a good day? But never, Should we meet up and do more of the kissing?

  Now Ethan’s name pops up on the screen. Here.

  With a glum sigh, I stand. “Bye, Nacho . . .” He yips out a pep talk. “Thanks,” I say, before calling, “Bye, Mom! Bye, William!” Outside, I kick a little snow on my walk down the path.

  “What’s with the face?” says Ethan as I slide into the passenger seat.

  “Nothing,” I say, brightening somewhat at the sight of him. He’s dressed head to toe in dark green and white, our school colors, which have always made me think of snow dusted on pine trees. He even has a matching hat and scarf. “You’re looking festive.”

  “Carlton, let’s go!” he says, in a jokey, dog-bark kind of voice.

  “And fuck Berwin?” I say like I’m being tested. I nod myself along. “Yep. Uh-huh. I hope they all have . . . terrible lives!” Ethan laughs as he starts to drive. “Sorry. Still working on my smack talk.”

  The rink smells like an actual armpit.

  But no one seems to care. And Natalie was right: there are so many Carlton kids here. Now I sort of wish I owned something forest green, my plain black leggings and oversize gray sweater sticking out for once.

  “Take this,” says Ethan, draping his scarf around me. How did he do that? Ever since I told him about the Comithon, it’s like he can read me or something. He frowns. “Why are you being weird?”

  “I’m not being weird,” I snap back. He levels me with a look, and I roll my eyes. “It’s just a lot of people-ing, okay? And I never know how to insert myself into group conservations. It’s like . . . playing jump rope or something.”

  He laughs. “Well, maybe try channeling some of that Sabrina edge.”

  “Shhhhhhh, don’t say that so loud.”

  “You got this,” he says, walking backward with his camera. “Godspeed!” I shake my head as he moves into the stands, occasionally tapping someone on the sho
ulder, prompting groups of friends to squeeze together and pose. Talking to people seems to come so naturally to him. Even with the game taking focus, everyone he approaches seems to want to keep him around, chatting away as he checks the LCD screen to make sure he got a good shot.

  I draw a long breath, steadying myself. This shouldn’t be so hard. But the longer I stand here, the more the skin-crawly feeling comes back, phantom eyes on me—though of course, everyone is watching the game.

  Just do it, woman, the little voice in my head commands. I make tight fists at my sides before releasing them, zeroing in on a couple older lax girls nearby. I slide my phone out from my stretchy leggings pocket and open the recording app. Chin up, back straight . . .

  “Hi. I’m Gretchen. I work for the yearbook and I was . . . just wondering if you’d like to be quoted about your time on the lacrosse team?” I extend the phone out.

  “Uhh . . . sure,” says one of them. “The experience has been . . . like having twenty extremely hardworking, aggressive, kick-ass sisters.”

  “Aw,” says her friend before leaning in. “Also? A bunch of us got abs this year. But maybe that’s not important.” I laugh under my breath as I back away and thank them, already scanning for another interview. I guess I’ve found a use for my lurker-girl skills, because I can more or less match the faces to the clubs and activities.

  Next, I approach a guy from the school musical, who seems more than happy to offer a quote: “First off, I have to hand it to our crew, and our director, Mrs. B. Also Doug’s mom for making all the costumes. I mean, they’re the real reason we get to go up there and shine.”

  After that, I find a girl from model UN who’s very ready to dish: “Let’s just say for a bunch of wannabe diplomats we sure did have a lot of conflict. We had a bit of an . . . Ecuador-UK-China love triangle situation on our hands for a while there. The geopolitical implications were nearly catastrophic. . . .”

  Before I know it, Deb, my cafeteria curiosity, is telling me about her time with the Mathletes (sans iguana) tonight: “You think this Berwin rivalry is bitter? We just got beat by a team called Deez Hypote-nuts. When the new season starts, they better believe we’re gonna Deez Hypote-neuter them.” She tilts her head toward the guy next to her, keeping her voice down. “That is, if Josh here doesn’t forget to carry the one.”