The Girl Least Likely

by Katy Loutzenhiser

  “You’re . . . kind of awesome,” I tell her.

  “Thanks,” she says, like she already knew that.

  The more time that passes, the easier it gets. I talk to runners and singers and a few members of the robotics clubs, later reintroducing myself to Natalie’s friends Sasha and Lexi (captains of the swim and debate teams, respectively), who I never really got a chance to talk to at her birthday dinner.

  I also manage to find the one boy from Carlton’s modern dance company. “It’s a good thing I’m honest,” he’s telling me now. “The girls still always forget I’m straight and offer to let me change with them. I thought this was the twenty-first century; that we’d rid ourselves of the stereotypes! But nope. I might as well have gay stamped right across my forehead.”

  Pilsner and Grody flag me down in the stands when I’m just about done, asking to be recorded though I could easily get them later. For a few minutes, I humor them, holding out the phone with my lips pursed as they drone on about football and the true meaning of grit.

  “Very inspirational,” I tell them, sliding the phone away.

  “You ever play a team sport, Gretch?” asks Grody.

  “Nah. I’ve never really done a team anything. I’m kind of a small circles kind of girl.”

  “I guess that explains it,” says Pilsner. “We were just talking about that. Like, where’s Gretchen been hiding all this time?”

  I laugh, sort of, though the comment oddly stings. The boys have already moved on, though, up on their feet, eyes on the ice.

  I spot Ethan below, and hop down to join him. He’s taking a few shots of the game, standing behind glass, just slightly off center from the net. “Get enough?” he asks, glancing over as a Carlton player sweeps by us.

  “I think so,” I say, feeling a sudden swell of relief. That wasn’t so bad. Actually, it was kind of fun. “You?”

  “Yeah, I’m just about done,” he says, snapping a few more.

  I flinch as two guys slam against the glass.

  “This is a close one,” says Ethan, lowering the camera. “No fights this time. That’s disappointing. . . .”

  The intensity in the rink has grown since we arrived, the score tied up, apparently. I listen in as the Carlton side shouts together in rhythm: “Mules are ster-ile!” Clap. Clap. Clap-clap-clap.

  I frown. “Mules?”

  “It’s the Berwin mascot,” says Ethan. “I guess . . . since mules can’t reproduce?”

  “Ah,” I say, straining to hear the calls from the Berwin side, three syllables repeated over and over. “Wait. Did I just hear ugly chicks?”

  “Yeah, that’s . . . one of their chants about us.”

  My jaw drops. “I don’t see why they have to bring us into it. Also, show me one girl on their side as pretty as Natalie.” I shake it off. “I don’t know why I’m dignifying this.”

  A bunch of guys go whizzing by us on the ice before . . . something happens. The Carlton side screams. A player holds his stick up in the air.

  “Wait,” I say, still looking for the puck. “Did we score? How does anyone follow this game?”

  “We scored,” says Ethan with a laugh.

  I pump my fist, do a little dance, and start shouting, “Woo-hoo! Aww yeaaaaah! Fuck you, Berwin! How you like that, huh? You fuckin’ pieces of shit!”

  A few Mule parents look over, returning from the snack bar with cocoas in hand. I freeze and Ethan puts an arm around me, swiftly guiding us away. “Okay, that’s enough. . . .”

  By the time Ethan pulls up to my house, something about my mood has shifted—the last traces of our fun night turning almost bittersweet. We chatted at first, then fell into an easy silence, driving smoothly through the pitch-black night until a daze came over me.

  “Hey,” says Ethan as the engine cuts out. I’m staring straight ahead. “What’s wrong?”

  “I . . . don’t know, exactly,” I say with a weird little laugh. “I guess I was just thinking about some stuff Sam said a while ago. I think he might have been right.”

  “About . . . ?”

  I shrug. “Just . . . how I am sometimes. I always thought I was protecting myself. I mean, it is high school, and there’s a reason that Heathers movie exists.” Ethan laughs under his breath as I strain against the seat belt, turning to him. “But I’ve been wrong about some things. Like . . .” I meet his eyes, almost ashamed to admit this. “I really hated it when Sam started hanging out with the football guys. You were, like, Neanderthals in my mind. But, like, evolved enough Neanderthals to be really arrogant and shitty to girls.”

  “Ouch,” says Ethan.

  “I didn’t actually think that about you,” I amend, truthfully. “I guess since I already knew you from yearbook. To be honest, I always saw you as someone I could probably . . .” He’s looking at me funny.

  “What?” he says.

  “Just . . . be really good friends with.”

  “Right,” he says. “I always thought that too, Gretchen. And I guess I am less intimidating than the average jock.”

  “It’s really true,” I say curiously. “Maybe because you’re only a kicker? . . . Sorry.”

  “No, it’s okay,” he says, laughing a little. “It is a pretty unsung role. And to your other point, it’s not like you were totally wrong. We do have players like that on the team. But then you get guys like Pils and Grody.”

  “Exactly,” I say. “And they’re, like . . . kind of the best. And almost . . . sweet?”

  “Yeah, Grody’s become super big on saying I love you to his friends. It used to make me awkward, but now I just say it back.”

  I clutch my heart. “See? I love that.”

  He grins fondly. “He and Pils both. They’re . . . pretty devoted.”

  “Aw. Like how?”

  He breathes in, thinking a minute. “Well, they definitely stepped up when we were in middle school.” He hesitates, as if making a quick call in his head. “Right after seventh grade, my mom was diagnosed with breast cancer?”

  “Oh. My God.”

  “She’s okay now,” he says quickly. “But during her treatments, I was really scared. My sister had this internship, and my dad was working at the store constantly to keep us afloat. My mom kept saying she wanted us all busy. But I just had to be home. I basically refused to go anywhere all summer.”

  I smile—that’s sweet—and he shakes his head.

  “Anyway, I don’t remember having a big conversation about it, but at some point, Pils and Grody just started showing up at my house—like, every day. They knew I wanted to keep the place quiet enough for my mom to sleep. So we’d just sit around playing video games on mute. I swear, even the food they brought was quiet. No crunchy chips or noisy wrappers. We were still very cool about everything back then, so it’s not like anyone ever asked, ‘How are you feeling, Ethan?’ But in a way, they kind of did.”

  When he looks at me, I realize I have tears in my eyes.

  “Hey,” he says, his face falling. “I told you, my mom’s fine. . . .”

  “I know,” I say, tamping down this completely inappropriate reaction. “That’s just so . . . nice!” To my horror, the word comes out a squeak. “And I almost missed out on them—on Pils and Grody. And you . . . and Natalie . . . and who knows who else . . . Sorry. I didn’t mean to change the subject.”

  “No, no,” he says, his arms sort of flailing now like he isn’t quite sure if he should touch me or not. “I just, uh . . . have this thing where I get super weird around crying girls.”

  I crack up, sniffing back snot. “Sorry. God. I guess I have a lot on my mind right now. Too much artistic introspection, or . . . something.”

  “Well, just . . . don’t cry onstage,” he says, making me laugh again. He reaches around to the backseat. “Hey, you want to see some photos before you go?”

  “Sure,” I say as he returns with his camera, leaning in. Our heads bump together as I watch the images flick by: group after group, people chanting and hollering, arms slu
ng around shoulders. A sea of green and white. For a second, I want to dive straight into the photos—to feel so naturally, effortlessly a part of something.

  “These are beautiful,” I whisper, almost getting choked up again. Ethan’s eyes flit to mine. “Sorry. Don’t worry.” I sniff. “The dam is closed.”

  Seventeen

  The “You Were Lying the Whole Time?” | It was all a ruse, but the feelings were real. It’s really not that bad. Barely even creepy if you think about it.

  “Can we talk?” I say to Jeremy Wednesday night, pulling him from the group before the show starts. He waggles his eyebrows at everyone, following me out to the hall by the exit.

  “What’s up?” he says breezily, hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans.

  I frown up at him. “Are things weird between us now?”

  He takes a step back, and from the curious look on his face, I think maybe he respects my directness. “I hope not. Is this better?” He picks up my hand and quickly kisses it.

  “Jeremy!” I look around, barely suppressing my smile.

  “Oh, they know about us,” he says.

  Know what? I want to say. What we are to each other? Could they maybe explain that to me? But I guess I have no right to demand clarity on the terms of our relationship. Sometimes I actually have to remind myself of this: Jeremy doesn’t even know my name.

  “Listen, sorry to cut this short,” he says, “but Dolores asked me to make a quick run for printer paper. For the ballots. I should be back in time for your set if I go now.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Uh . . . okay.”

  “But, um . . .” He reaches out for a piece of my hair that’s come loose, tucking it behind my ear. “More on this later?”

  “Sure,” I say, blinking strangely as I watch him go.

  He glances back with that megawatt smile and I laugh, rolling my eyes.

  Paula walks up beside me and slowly shakes her head.

  “What?” I say.

  “Oh, nothing,” she says playfully. “Just haven’t seen him make that face in a while. I think somebody’s in looooooove.”

  I scoff at her, then stop short. He’s not, right?

  I’m still thinking about it when Dolores calls me to the stage, but in a blink, I’m putting Jeremy out of my head, warming up the crowd with my plight-of-the-third-child bits, even adding some new flourishes to the learning-to-bike section: “‘I’m okay, Mom and Dad! Survived the shark! But I think I’m gonna bike into this weird guy’s van. . . .’”

  I also bring back that tangent about Hen and Carmen, blathering on about their drama while my hair catches fire. This time, I go so far as to mime blasting myself with a fire extinguisher, slumping forward, heaving for breath. “‘Wow . . . That must have been . . . really hard for you. . . .’”

  To be honest, neither bit feels quite right this time around, now that Mom and Dad have been gingerly probing me about my college aspirations these past few days, and my text chain with Hen and Carmen has come somewhat back to life. It’s not like that history has been wiped away exactly, but I guess the jokes feel too simple now.

  Anyway, the audience doesn’t know the difference, laughing along as I switch to a new bit I wrote late last night when I couldn’t sleep.

  “I went to a birthday party once where they played Sleeping Beauty for all the girls. I was maybe six, and when my mom found out after, she was livid, just bombarding me with questions. Like: ‘So, honey, what was Aurora’s personality like? Hopes, dreams, special skills? Did she have a really exciting arc through the film? No? Do you want to know why? Because she was asleep!’”

  I pace a minute, enjoying the rumble of the crowd.

  “At the time, I was utterly perplexed. But of course I get it now. If I think the messages in my rom-coms can be a little questionable, I mean . . . Sleeping Beauty: asleep, guy falls in love with her. Snow White: asleep, guy falls in love with her. The Little Mermaid: conscious but can’t say a word, guy falls in love with her. Even in Cinderella, the whole basis of their love is one quick spin around the ballroom without any substantive conversation. Do you think if Cinderella had looked up at Prince Charming while they were dancing and made a joke that went over his head, he still would have chased her? Or would he have just started to scan the room like, ‘That one looks pretty quiet. . . .’” I squint out at the audience, still scanning. “‘Oooh, that one’s asleep. . . .’”

  I can’t believe how calm I feel right now, despite the adrenaline pumping through my veins. I get this weird happy shiver, then focus.

  “And what’s with all these stories made for girls where the whole mission is finding love? I mean, so much of the media my brother grew up on was like, One boy must save the world. . . .”

  I listen a beat, pleased that the audience likes my movie trailer voice.

  “And then the stories we got were like, One girl must get a boyfriend. . . .” I can’t help but feel a bit giddy as the crowd laughs again. “I’m obviously not the first person to point this out. My mom has been yelling about this stuff her whole life, one drop in a sea of other yelling women. And while it was helpful growing up with her in my ear, some of these ideas can still really get their clutches in you. Like, I sometimes do still want to be the fairest of them all. I compete with other girls in my mind, for no reason besides my own insecurity. And it’s not my mission, exactly, but getting a boyfriend is still pretty up there on the agenda. It takes up a surprising amount of mental energy. . . .” I flinch as I catch sight of Jeremy, stepping back in from the cold in his beanie and T-shirt.

  I hesitate. Is this weird now? Me venting about my boy drama up onstage? But then I remember what he and I agreed on not too long ago: All’s fair in love and comedy.

  As if reading my mind, Jeremy winks.

  “I’ve actually been torn between two guys,” I tell the crowd with a slight smirk. “My longtime best friend, and a very handsome, occasionally infuriating door guy I met recently.” Jeremy’s grin widens. “In the case of my friend Sam, I’m starting to let it go. If I weren’t worried about preserving some semblance of our friendship, maybe I’d try a creepy Love, Actually sign at his doorstep or something but . . . that would be a disaster. A part of me wants to hold it against him—that he doesn’t see me the same way. All our shared history, the way we can make each other die laughing? That made me no more appealing to him, the way it did the other way around. Though, honestly, I know he isn’t Prince Charming in that ballroom, searching for some airhead girl. He wants the real deal. But for him, that’s just not me. . . .”

  I look out.

  “Sorry,” I say, snapping awake. “I . . . didn’t mean to go so deep there. But you know what? I have some herb jokes I’ve been meaning to test out on you all. . . .”

  “Wait, what about the other guy?” a woman calls from the audience.

  “Oh,” I say, eyes flitting back to Jeremy. “He’s . . . promising. Good kisser. I mean, I think. I’m not all that practiced. And, well . . .” I smile. “He challenges me. Which I like. He’s sort of a question mark in a lot of ways, but I guess I am, too.” We’re staring at each other now, an unfamiliar look in his eyes—oddly humble, and full of warmth, and maybe even a tinge of sadness.

  At once, something clutches in my throat, and I wonder if Paula was right.

  I think maybe I’ve filed Jeremy into the wrong box. Like he was safe to try things out on—someone I assumed I could never hurt.

  Could I hurt Jeremy?

  Have I been reckless with him?

  Oh God.

  What if he wants something real?

  I’m saved by the blinking light, my smile a little weaker as I say, “Well, I’m Sabrina Martin. Thank you, Portland!”

  I think I hear Dolores whisper “’Attagirl” as we trade places onstage, but I’m focused on charging down the steps, swiping my jacket from a stool before quickly heading for the exit. I need air. I need to think.

  But then I stop short, my eyes going wide.
r />   Because there, standing up in back, is my mirror image: all black outfit, two buns, a new pair of glasses. But it’s not a mirror. It’s Sabrina—the real Sabrina, talking to Jeremy and gesturing wildly.

  Dolores announces the next comic as the thoughts race through my head.

  How did she find out?

  Is there any chance this is a coincidence?

  Oh my God, I’m wearing her pants.

  I haven’t actually seen Sabrina since the night we all met at the haunted house—when Sam and I were double Dwight Schrutes, and she and my cousin were still friends. To be honest, I kind of forgot she was a real person, Carmen’s updates notwithstanding.

  She looks upset.

  Really upset.

  “Is this one of your weird little games?” I hear her say as I inch closer. The ideal course of action would be to run away right now, but it’s like my legs won’t listen to me. “Girls around school have been comparing notes. Once we looked you up and found some of your comedy on YouTube, we sort of put it together. The ‘yeppers test’? Really? It’s like you want these things to go badly, so you’ll have something to talk about. Is that why you kissed me in the first place? Is that why you set up . . . whatever this is?” she scoffs, sweeping an arm in my direction. “I don’t even get it. Are you trying to get a reaction out of me? To cause a scene? Because if so, I mean, you’re welcome, I guess.”

  “Sabrina,” Jeremy says bracingly. “I . . .”

  I’m so confused. They know each other?

  She laughs, baffled. “How were you even sure this would get back to me? I only found the headshot because I online-stalked you and found you in a Twitter fight with some guy. And what’s in it for you?” she says to me before doing a double take. “Wait . . . Gretchen?”