Then I fling the phone down into my bag like a hot coal and press my temple to the glass.
“Gretchen. We’re getting close,” whispers Annika.
“Five more minutes,” I murmur. This is the deepest I’ve slept in days.
“Gretchen.”
“Shhhhh.” I peek out through slits. I guess it’s nighttime. “Whoa.”
She laughs. “Sleepy, huh?”
We ate lunch in the Boston food court before boarding this train, at which time we discovered the quiet car and its blessed library-like atmosphere, free from any Candy-Crush-without-headphones-type monster people.
The silence has been glorious—delicious even.
“Gretchen, look,” Annika whispers, lurching me from another half second of sleep. We’re still moving, but the noise of the engine has cut out, overhead lights going off.
I flutter my eyes open in the dark and follow Annika’s gaze to the window. We’re swooping in on the skyline now.
And the whole city is shimmering.
“Well, this place is bananas,” I say when we step outside Penn Station.
“Isn’t it?” says Annika, beaming up at the starless sky.
Out on the street, people scurry around us in weaving patterns, manholes steaming and billboards flashing. I get a waft of trash smell, or maybe urine.
“Come on,” says Annika, eyes trained on Google Maps. Ten minutes later, we’re figuring out how to pay and work the turnstiles, until we’re gripping metal poles with arms outstretched, bags at our feet, Annika’s oboe case swinging from a strap.
When we finally make it up to our hotel room, the stillness is almost jarring, our floor-to-ceiling window looking out serenely from on high. After a long beat, Annika turns to me with a huge, goofy grin, and somehow I’m the one who squeals.
We drop our stuff and kick off shoes, quickly bounding around the room to inspect it. “Do you care which bed?” calls Annika as I paw through tiny toiletries, absently twirling the cord of the hair dryer hooked to the wall.
“Nope!” I say, popping out. “Oooh, big TV.”
“And mini fridge!” she says, trading places with me to check out the bathroom. “Though my dad says to just go to a bodega since it’s such a rip-off.”
I open the closet. “We have robes! Aw. We can lounge around like fancy spa ladies.” There’s an ironing board, too, and a coffee maker that smells vaguely of burnt grounds.
“Feel this towel,” says Annika, coming up to me.
“Mmmm,” I say as I hold it to my cheek. I toss it on a chair and close the closet door. “Holy shit. We’re really here.”
“Yep,” she says. And with that we collapse back onto parallel beds.
“So,” I say a minute later, propping onto my elbow. “What do we do first?”
She turns to face me, hesitating. “Actually . . . don’t hate me, but the admissions lady I’ve been emailing said I could have a practice room tonight, if I want.”
“Annika.” I sit the rest of the way up. “How could there humanly, possibly, be anything left for you to practice?”
“I know. . . .” She winces. “It’s just, if I slack now and then don’t get in, I’m afraid I’ll never forgive myself.”
“But . . .” I frown. “Don’t you at least need to eat?”
“Too nervous,” she says, getting up to grab her purse. She pulls out a few bills for me. “Here. My dad said to cover a couple meals anyway, his treat.”
“No, no. I don’t need—”
“Please just take it so I don’t feel guilty?” She gives the cash a shake. “I promise, I’ll be more fun tomorrow when all I have left is my tour. And you can still have a fun night. Eat some good food, see the sights. . . . I’ll be back in two hours. Three, max.” When I shove the money away, she charges over to my bag and triumphantly fishes out my wallet as I my roll eyes. She frowns. “Who’s Sabrina Martin?”
I blink for a moment as she studies the fake ID. A few days ago, this might have presented a serious dilemma. Now I just laugh. “My alias.”
“Huh,” she says curiously as she slips the ID back into my wallet, along with the money. “Well, definitely more on that later . . .” She picks up her coat and oboe. “Text me where you end up, okay? And do not just stay in the room. We’re in New York, Gretchen!” When I meet her smile, it hits me how right she is. This is not a time for moping. And actually, I know exactly what I want to do tonight.
When she goes, I unpack a few things with the TV on, changing outfits and brushing teeth as ambulances whine softly in the distance. I wash my face, moisturize, and quickly run a brush through my hair. Then I flop down onto the bed and google “New York comedy clubs.” There are lineups listed on different websites, and I actually recognize a lot of the names: up-and-comers known for shows like Full Frontal with Samantha Bee or Late Night with Seth Meyers. Some of the clubs have big headliners listed, too—big enough that I kind of can’t believe the ticket prices.
One club has a show in an hour. I scroll down for the info, breath hitching.
Marnie.
Smack in the middle of the lineup.
I’m grinning now. If I can get myself to the Village in the next—I check—fifty-five minutes, I could see her act tonight. In person. In New York. I glance at my wallet, feeling sheepishly relieved that it’s now filled with enough cash for a cab and a cover charge. The website did say twenty-one plus, but I still have Sabrina’s ID. I wish I’d thought to pack the glasses, or some Angry Graphic Designer clothes. But hair and makeup should do the trick.
Time is tight, though, so I work fast—eyeliner, lipstick, buns, good enough! I stamp my feet into sneakers, swiping the room key and the rest of my things. And soon I’m pressing the elevator button, over and over, until I burst out into the lobby and onto the street.
“Shit!” A delivery guy on a scooter nearly takes off my foot when I step down from the curb. I clutch my chest, heart pounding. Nacho, we are not in Maine anymore. . . .
It takes four tries before I manage to hail a cab, sliding into a back seat that smells overwhelmingly of old leather and air freshener. I crack a window and press my face to the glass, peering out as we wind through evening traffic, past hundreds of shops and restaurants, smoky meat carts, and the blinding lights of Times Square.
After a while, the streets get cuter, quainter, more like the New York you see in rom-coms, where—as Mom often points out—the heroine always lives, even if she has no money.
When the driver slows, I pay and thank him, slamming the door shut and running across the street. I’ve cut it down to the minute, the last person to file in.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly to the bouncer. “Did I make it?”
“Just barely,” he says, surprisingly sweet-faced despite his imposing stature. I hand him my ID with relief. Then he starts to laugh.
“What?” I ask as he shakes his head, still cracking up.
“You realize this thing is fake as shit, right?” he says. “And that you look nothing like the girl in the picture?”
“Oh,” I say, cheeks flaming hot now. I suddenly feel extremely stupid. Because that’s right. The ID never should have worked—not with anyone but Jeremy. In a way, I almost owe him for that.
Almost.
“Are you even eighteen?” asks the man.
I wince. “I will be in October . . . ?”
“Look. I have kids your age,” he says, clearly amused, “so I’m not going to get you in trouble. But I am going to hold on to this.”
I feel something quake inside me as the ID disappears into his back pocket—just like that. “Wait!” I blurt out. “I swear, I don’t even drink. I just wanted to see Marnie James.”
“And I sincerely wish I could let you in,” he says, gentle but firm. “After your birthday, you’re welcome to come back with a parent.”
I look to the sky, grumbling, “Great.” And then, feeling I should still be polite, I add, “Well . . . have a good evening.”
“You to
o, kid,” I hear behind me as he chuckles again.
I walk a few blocks before I remember to take my hair down, passing couples with linked arms, and dogs on leashes. Greenwich Village is still plenty chaotic, with all its shops and restaurants jammed up next to one another, but there’s a calmness here too, all the people seemingly more content to wander.
Finding a napkin in my bag, I wipe off my lipstick, my footsteps slowing with the finality of it: Sabrina really is gone now.
And Gretchen has been left with the mess.
For a moment, I squeeze my eyes shut, as if that will somehow keep out everything waiting for me back home. Still—maybe, just for a little while, I can stay in the moment, steeped in the rhythm of this place and all its thrumming energy. At the very least, I should be appreciating the fact that it’s well above freezing here—downright balmy tonight, which could explain all the stylish outerwear I’ve been seeing. I’m actually getting hot in my puffy coat, and so I take it off, hooking it under my arm.
After a long while, I slow my pace.
It seems I have walked in a loop, ending right back at the comedy club, a line already forming behind a velvet rope for the next show. My stomach begins to rumble and the pizza place across the street abruptly calls to me, a beacon of fluorescent light.
Inside, I order a couple slices and soon, I’m sliding onto one of two stools along the cramped counter in the window. “Mmmm,” I say, hot cheese oozing across double paper plates. I pick up my first slice, then freeze.
Across the street, Marnie James has just slipped out from the club. I lower my slice back down onto the plate, vaguely shocked to confirm that she’s an actual, human person. She glances left and right, looking too springy for this time of year in her plain white Keds and jean jacket, her messy hair pulled up in a ponytail. She’s prettier in person, I think. Or rather, she has some kind of magnetism you don’t quite get on-screen. She’s crossing the street now, hurrying before a car comes.
She’s getting closer. And closer . . .
Until she’s right on the other side of the glass, reaching for the door. I turn, eyes wide as she grazes past me. “Hey, Gino! Can I get two pepperoni?” The two of them chitchat for a moment, and I listen in, trying not to gawk as she pays, tips, and thanks him. “Have a good one!”
When she passes me again, I think I briefly black out. But when I come to, it would seem I am speaking. “I’m really happy for you!”
“Huh?” says Marnie-fucking-James. I look up at her where she’s paused there, right beside me, her hand still on the door.
“. . . You know,” I say, gesturing to the pizza box she’s holding. “Like . . . from your comedy special?”
“Oh!” She smiles, a curious quirk to her brow. “Thank you for that. I’m not sure anyone’s ever quoted me back to me before.” She looks over my shoulder then, and I hear it—the soft pitter-patter of rain, then a crack of thunder, announcing a downpour. “Aw, crap,” she grumbles, eyeing her shoes, her clothes, her dinner.
Through the window, we watch as people scramble in every direction, jackets and magazines held feebly overhead. Thunder rumbles again—the counter window like the inside of a car-wash now.
When I look back at Marnie, she’s fixed her stare on the second stool beside me, which I’ve thoughtlessly covered with my jacket.
“Oh, sorry!” I say, quickly moving it. “Full disclosure, I’m a pretty big fan. But I’ll try my best to be normal.”
“Hmm . . .” Marnie James looks out the window again, then back at me. “I mean, you’re not planning on making a skin suit out of me or anything, are you?”
“Nah,” I say. “I don’t look good in beige.”
She laughs—loud—and I think my life might be complete now. “What’s your name?” she asks, settling in and opening her pizza box.
“Uh . . .” I stumble, as if not sure I’ll get the answer right. I don’t mean this in a romantic way, but wow, do I have a crush on her. “Gretchen,” I say finally. Nailed it.
“Well, nice to meet you, Gretchen. I’m Marnie.” She takes a bite, catching a bit of grease with a napkin. “But I guess you knew that.”
“Uh . . . yeah,” I say with an odd little chuckle. I gaze down at my own pizza, still too nervous to eat in front of her. “I tried to see your show tonight, but I got turned away. I’m only in high school. I actually go to your high school. I’m just here for the weekend.”
“Oh, no way,” she says, gooey cheese stretching sumptuously into a long line, which she breaks with her fingers. Oh, screw it, I’m eating too. “Portland kid, huh?”
“Yep,” I say, finally taking a bite—and oh my God, yes, New York pizza should be everyone’s love language. I swallow. “And, um. Well, you know the Chuckle Parlor? How they’re having that whole competition to open for you?”
Marnie takes a swig from her soda. “Yeah?”
“Well, I’m in it. Or—was. My alter ego was. Anyway, I’m just really glad I still got to meet you.” I shove some more pizza in my mouth, mostly to stop myself from rambling any more.
“Huh,” she says. “I’m not gonna lie to you. I think I lost the thread here.”
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Basically, I’ve been performing as this girl, Sabrina Martin? I know it’s not cool to steal someone’s identity, but she did make out with my cousin’s boyfriend. Actually, I did that, too, but not knowingly. The point is, karmically speaking, it was sort of a gray area.”
Marnie looks thoroughly confused now.
I take a breath, slowing down. “I was doing comedy as someone else, basically.”
“Ah,” she says. “Huh. That’s kind of interesting. So was the girl you were playing sort of like a character? Like Dolly Parton or something?”
“Um . . .” I consider this. “Not really. I mean, my hair and clothes were different. But I pretty much talked like myself up there. And I definitely pulled from my own experiences. Like, too much. Like, might-have-just-blown-up-my-life too much . . .”
“Oooh,” she says, cringing. “Sorry. Although, also: been there.”
I laugh, taking solace in that. Marnie seems like she’s doing fine. “Anyway, I’m sure it sounds really weird, but . . . when I was Sabrina, it was almost like I had this force field around me. Like, without anyone expecting Gretchen up on that stage, I could just be . . . whoever I wanted.”
“Well, maybe that girl was Gretchen,” says Marnie.
“What?” I say, turning to her.
“I mean, I’ve known you for all of five minutes, so take this with a grain of salt. But I’m not convinced we have just one authentic self. I’m pretty sure I’ve already been, like, ten different people. I mean, I’m always me, but . . . you know. We try stuff on, and that’s cool.”
“Huh,” I say, nodding, grinning. I freaking knew Marnie James would be wise.
She looks vaguely alarmed now. “I want to make sure you understand, I’m, like, barely an adult, so you probably shouldn’t be taking advice from me. I just got an accountant for the first time and I still don’t know what a Roth is. Do you know?”
“Um . . . no,” I say.
She laughs, finishing her second slice and tossing the crust down in the box. “I’ll be honest. I’m not sure I could have done comedy at your age, with all the things I worried about back then. I started in a brand-new city. I think I needed that . . . space, to find my voice, you know? Not to discourage you,” she adds quickly. “That was just me. And there’s no . . . right or wrong time to start with stand-up.”
“Well, I won’t be going back to the Chuckle Parlor any time soon. My whole double life thing kind of . . . recently unraveled.”
“Bummer,” she says.
And then I feel it: a lull. The rain has started to slow, our pizza gone now. I wish I could keep her here—not in a skin-suit kind of way. “Well, anyway,” I say, giving her an out. “I think it’s really cool you’re doing this for the club. Everyone is so excited.”
She shrugs. “It was a fav
or to my uncle. He and the owner grew up together. I’m pretty sure he’s in love with her.”
“Really,” I say. “You know, I’d like to see ol’ Dolores settled.”
She smiles, then nods to my balled-up jacket on the counter. “Hey, I think your phone’s going off.”
“Oh, shoot.” I find it in my pocket and open up a string of texts from Annika.
I’m back in the room and you’re not here
Are you alive???
Actually considering alerting your parents if you don’t write back
Oh God they’re going to kill me.
Tell me you didn’t get on the subway this late
Gretchen. Oh my gooooodddd. We didn’t even think to pack pepper spray
Answer me biotch!
(If you’re actually hurt, sorry for calling you biotch)
I write back, Sorry sorry! Alive! and look up to see Marnie James tossing her trash into a bin. Something about this momentary return to my actual life is making the reality of this situation click in for me. Did that seriously just happen?
“Later for real this time, Gino!” she calls out.
“Bye, Marnie!”
Meeting my gaze again, Marnie James seems nearly as puzzled as I am by this brief aberration. “Okay then . . . Sorry. I . . . have no parting wisdom for you.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” I say. “But, um . . .” I clear my throat. “Thanks for eating pizza with me.”
“Anytime,” she says, only to frown, as if hearing herself.
“Well, no. Probably not anytime,” I say, filling in the obvious.
“Yeah, no,” she says. “I mean, never say never, but—”
“But probably never,” I say, making her laugh. She goes for the door, and I stay where I am, so as to avoid the awkward possibility of walking out the same way.
She winces, doubling back. “But . . . it was nice to meet you, Gretchen. And for what it’s worth, whoever this girl is,” she says, gesturing in my direction, “she seems pretty funny to me.”
Twenty
One Day in New York | An augmented unit of time that allows soul mates to meet and rapidly get to know each other. Unfortunately does not apply to delaying one’s imminent doom.
The Girl Least Likely Page 20
